I am slowly trying to fully assimilate and comprehend these facts:
Yesterday, my son took part in a junior tennis tournament. As I watched the competitive matches in progress, there was a lot of fist pumping, grunts, muttered expletives, muted swearing, loud groans and self flagellation. And that was just the parents. Most of the kids were just enjoying the tennis.
I often wonder how many of these parents were living out their dreams through their offspring. Both of my children have already achieved more in competitive sport than I ever did so I am immensely proud of them and just try to support them in everything they do - win, lose or draw.
I adjourned to the clubhouse for a coffee and took a moment to enjoy the hilarious, self-important, officious proclamations on the noticeboard:
'Members are reminded that predominantly white tops or T-shirts must be worn at all times.'
'All members are reminded that, during the club tournament, sporting logos on attire must not exceed 3 inches in size.'
'Shoe tags must be worn by members.'
'The Club shall be called the Mincing Old Boys Lawn Tennis Club.'
'A mandatory ball fee will be levied on all participants on club nights and mornings.'
As I emerged again with my coffee, I noticed another parent quietly watching his son from the sidelines. However, this gentleman probably wasn't living his dreams through his child. It was Pat Cash.
Apologies for the brief radio silence.
I was shocked and alarmed by this news on Wednesday so I have been busy purging my blog of all contentious, provocative, controversial articles and erasing every last trace of my true identity (which is Norman Brightside, 23 Baker Street, London) to an amusing pseudonym that can never, ever be traced (even by clever people from Essex). I have also taken the sensible precaution of moving house and going X-directory.
I was living in fear of a madman or worse, a Manchester City fan, arriving on my doorstep brandishing a machete after taking offence to this blog. I must admit the teenager selling dusters looked a little startled when I opened the door armed with a shotgun.
Now my identity is once again safe, normal service will now be resumed.
The best bit about the whole story - the culprit bragged about the attack back in the original chat room. The stupidity of some people never ceases to amaze me.
There is nothing worse than a blog entry titled Dear Diary - hence the title - but this is my humble submission for One Day in History so please forgive me. Of course, I could author this piece directly on the site but that would mean checking I am within the 650 word limit which is far too much work (unless I use Microsoft Word).
Get up at 7am and unload dishwasher. My one and only household chore but one I perform very well. Breakfast of cereal, tea and orange juice.
Quick scan of work email to see if anything needs my attention. Today I am going to be onsite with a customer and unlikely to have access to email.
Quick scan of Netvibes. The only thing to interest me is the recent update to TailRank. I have occasionally played with various meme trackers (TechMeme, Digg, Reddit, populicio.us) but usually my feeds contain the same stories of interest. I also like popurls as a quick dashboard of current and breaking news.
Today I am visiting a Siebel customer in Ascot. This location is convenient for me (no hotels, no flights, no lengthy drive) and is a shorter journey than to Oracle's offices in Thames Valley Park.
That's strange. For some reason, the traffic in Kingston upon Thames isn't completely gridlocked and I actually cross the bridge over the River Thames in less than 20 minutes. Then I remember why. This week is half-term for some local schools (my son is on holiday) but, much to his glee and her chagrin, my daughter is still at school.
Drive through Sunningdale and marvel at the size of some of the houses (mansions would be a better description) here. Although I keep hearing that Sandbanks in Dorset is the richest area in the UK, Sunningdale must run it a close second.
Arrive at client offices. I am slightly early which is better than slightly late so I make a quick call to an account manager with a ('political not technical') query from a customer about a review from last week.
This customer has a serious data issue in production. On July 22 2006, a 'consultant' advised the customer to configure Siebel to use Universal Time Co-ordinated (UTC). This proposal was a good idea (TM) but poorly executed.
Key elements of the UTC migration were omitted (migration of pre-existing non-UTC data, specification of timezones for each group of users who are located around the world, modification of the database timezone). Apart from that, the conversion to UTC went very well.
The net result was obtuse behaviour and incorrect appointment times observed by different users. The issue is compounded by the fact that this customer also has mobile Web clients who use Siebel on a disconnected laptop and then synchronise with the server. In addition, the Siebel administrator reports that server components (EIM, Workflow) function but now report incorrect submit/start times.
Fortunately, Siebel has a conversion utility (documented in the Global Deployment Guide) to address the issue so I spent some time configuring and testing to fix the data quality issue for the various scenarios.
Get home. Eat tea. Settle down to watch United versus Copenhagen. Discover that the wife is going out (how very inconsiderate) and I have pop out to collect my daughter from trampolining.
Count words using Google Docs - 560.
Last night as I waited for the baggage carousel to leap into action at Terminal 1, I heard a familiar voice speaking on his phone. I looked round and there was a very familiar face - the face of Michael Aspel.
Then I started thinking about all the celebrities and superstars I have seen over the years
Walked past Martin Buchan with mouth open (mine not his) on Deansgate.
Tommy Docherty signed a pack of MUFC matches for me in a Chinese restaurant in Wilmslow.
Temporary job at NatWest bank where I...
Spotted members of The Fall (minus Mark and Brix) having a quiet, pre-match drink in the student union bar at Warwick University.
Flew to Sydney in 1990 with the Australian cricket team. The novelty of Merve Hughes' suggestive comments to BA stewardesses, his loud and repeated demands for alcohol and generally obnoxious behaviour soon wore off. In fact, it wore off 10 minutes into the 9 hour flight. Thankfully Alan Border had a quiet word in his moustache.
Saw George Best in a King's Road pub.
Made John Inverdale a cup of tea in my kitchen.
Chatted with Mark Burgess before a Chameleons gig.
And, err, that's it.
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Service was restored at 19:15.
I had a blind date this morning at 06.55. An early start admittedly but this lady would surely be worth it. The ladys name was Iris. I was supposed to meet her in Terminal 1 at London Heathrow.
Iris was flying in from Russia after a short courtship (19 hours) on the Internet. I even had an letter (IM) from Iris. Iris said she'd be waiting on the right before you reach the shops (which was worrying enough in itself).
So I slept downstairs on the sofa, snatched some sleep and I booked the taxi 30 minutes earlier than normal.
But, of course, Iris was nowhere to be seen. Stood up once again. Why. oh why, didn't Iris show up ? What's wrong with me ? Will I ever find true love ? I am disconsolate. I am a broken man.
Turns out that Iris only wants to date high flying, big earning, international travellers with BA Silver (or above) and isn't interested in peasants in flying to Newcastle. Even if they are staying in the Malmaison.
I recently read some homework (Religious Education) about the life and times of Jesus Christ that included the following gems: