Cheap Easyjet 4-day trip to capital of the Rhone area. Well worth a visit, plenty of tourists but not touristy. Huge city but all the sights are in a compact area called the Presquille forming a penisular between the Rhone and Saone rivers, like a mini Manhattan. Its got everything you want really; more bars, shops, cafes and bistros than you could count, more high-end or chain store shops than you could ever want to visit, Roman remains, gothic churches, imposing squares and a charming old town just across the Saone.
Best to actully stay in the Presquille and not in the mass of the newer town, that way you are never more than a few minutues walk from anywhere. Loads of hotels in the area to choose from; we had pre-bokked the Boscolo Grand Hotel just off the main shopping and eating areas and only a 10 minute walk to the old town. A 4 -star which has a touch of faded granduer about it but ideally located and with a full-size bath - heaven for me. Got the whole flight and hotel deal for about £230 each B&B. As always in the Euro zone it ridiculously expensive but still spent no more than about £200 quid (me being me).
Airport is a good distance away but easy to reach. They have just opened a tram shuttle called the Rhone Express which runs into the city. If staying in the Presquille, get off at the second last stop (Vaulx-en-Velin) and then take the adjacent metro line A (the red one) to which ever tube station on the Presquille suits.
Beware Terminal 3 at Lyon ariport! It should be in quoatation marks as its just a glorified corridor squeezing in Easyjet fights and is so small and chaotic I'm amazed there aren't riots. Never spend any more time there than necessary.
The weather was warm but often cloudy and wet, especially in the afternoons, which was disappointing but fortunately its not a city that is weather dependant, so always plenty to do. A real find and we'll be back. Great place to do day trips from too. Bit of a hidden gem, like Bologna.
Sunday 19 June 2011
Thursday 14 April 2011
MARRAKESH - 5-12 APRIL 2011
I'm on the lookout for an 'I survived Marrakesh' t-shirt....... yes it was that disappointing.
We stayed in an authentic riad in the eastern part of the old Medina, well away from the usual tourist hotels and riads around the souks and central square. Nothing quite prepares you for the instant time travel element which hits you when you walk into this place - it really is like stepping back to biblical times. The streets are narrow, claustrophobic, dirty and chaotic with life and activity. Every kind of social or tinpot business enterprise under the sun goes on within them; tiny shops built into the walls sell clothes, meat and vegtables; makeshift garages sell and repair bikes and scooters; handcarts sell anything that can be thrown onto the back; sickly donkeys drag goods here and there; people stand around flogging thirty year-old tellies and microwaves, bartering and haggling is everywhere and the noise in such a small and confined space is deafening. Its like a nation of North African Del-Boys all crammed into the one spot trying to out-do each other. Kids don't appear to go to school and hang around all day long. Boy racers speed around on scooters wearing replica Barcelona or English Premier League football kits. Lorries and taxi's muscle there way through the crowds and all social activity takes place on the streets; everybody always appears to be going somewhere and doing something.
You have to walk into all this straight from the airport and straight from your own typically European lifestyle and expectations - there is no time to acclimatise at all, so no matter how seasoned a traveller you think you are its serious culture shock. You wouldn't mind if there were other tourists around, but there aren't - there are none! So the locals, who are a pretty loud and streetwise lot anyway, stare at you and immediately think of how they can exploit and rip you off. Its a bit intimidating and never relaxing, nomatter how strong a character you are.
We had to do a 20 minute walk from the riad to get into the main square and for the majority of that trip there wasn't a tourist in sight. The hassle was fairly gentle and they'd mostly go away after a firm 'no', but we had to risk life and limb to avoid every car, cart, donkey, bike and moped that sped past missing us by fractions, so it was never particularly pleasant and the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb and being gawped at all the time was constant. Sure, it was fascinating and educating enough in its own way, but sometimes you feel more comfortable observing the fish from outside the tank, not inside it. I never felt especially intimidated myself but I wasn't comfortable either and Fiona felt particularly uncomfortable and tended to get more attention than me.
Often we would take a taxi back from the square to the riad at night, but this presented its own horrors, as Moroccan drivers, possibly learning from their former colonial masters the French, pay little heed to anything regarding the laws of the road and taxi drivers inparticular seem to exist for no purpose other than to get in front of the driver ahead of them at all costs. Basically all you can do is brace yourself in the back seat and count the number of children dressed in Barcelona shirts with the legend 'Messi' embazoned on the back that the taxi driver comes within a centimetre of obliterating on the journey home. I had visions of the taxi finally arriving dripping with the blood of its victims and the word 'Messi' repeated in a variety of impressions all over the bonnet and windscreen, like crushed flies.
One particularly hair-raising journey to Bab Ailen gate took us through mistifying back alleys to an uncertain stopping point with the driver shouting 'Bab Ailen!' in the front seat, a spaced-out Moroccan hammering the window on the outside and shouting 'Bab Ailen!' while Fiona and I sat in the back seat pointing at a different location on a map and shouting 'Bab Ailen, Bab Ailen!' It turned out the driver and the spaced-out guy were right and we had to slink off down the road surrounded by jeering children in 'Messi' replica football tops.
The riad itself, down another dark and dirty back alley, was actually fine once we got into it. It was designed to be a quiet haven in that deliberate Islamic way which doesn't encourage any street-side opulence to be on public view. The suite was sizable enough and very ornate in its design with windows that faced out over the inner courtyard. The staff were friendly and helpful throughout and it was always a relief to get back to it and relax on the roof garden away from the endless madnesss that went on outside.
Otherwise Marrakesh was a bit of a disappointment. OK the big Jemma-el-fna square can be quite spectacular with all the street vendors, eateries, snakecharmers, shamens and musicians on the go, but it wears its tourist rip-off credentials unashamedly on it sleeves and the amusement wears off after an hour or so. The soulks are colourful, maze-like and full of the usual goods and trinkets, but ultimately there's actually not a whole lot to see and mostly you just sit around the cafes and restuarants watching the teeming masses go noisily by and generally passing the time. Frankly the locals don't help; we never met a shopkeeper, waiter or taxi driver out there who wasn't at best indifferent or a worst downright rude. They're very tempremental with each other too and watching them have blazing rows with each other in the middle of the street was commonplace. You can't even drink to any decent degree as most places don't sell alcohol and even those who do charge extortionate prices. Anyway, you wouldn't trust yourself on these streets in anything other than a sober and alert state.
There is a new town built by the French along standard boulevard lines with some good shops and cafes and we took a decent, if tourist-loaded, trip out into the Atlas mountains which included a fun trek up to a waterfall, but the holiday has to go down as a bit of a yawn. A week is far too long in this town and the location didn't favour the laze-by-pool type holiday that one of the more modern resort hotels outside the medina might offer. We were either bored or slightly scared, which is a strange combination. Truth is we're probably 20 years too old for this kind of ethnic semi-roughing it; but its hard in any case to see where the town's hippy credentials still are as its as tacky and commercialised as any custom-bult European resort that I've ever been in, and the feeling that the locals despise the tourists is never far from the surface.
Done, dusted, ticked off the list and never again.
We stayed in an authentic riad in the eastern part of the old Medina, well away from the usual tourist hotels and riads around the souks and central square. Nothing quite prepares you for the instant time travel element which hits you when you walk into this place - it really is like stepping back to biblical times. The streets are narrow, claustrophobic, dirty and chaotic with life and activity. Every kind of social or tinpot business enterprise under the sun goes on within them; tiny shops built into the walls sell clothes, meat and vegtables; makeshift garages sell and repair bikes and scooters; handcarts sell anything that can be thrown onto the back; sickly donkeys drag goods here and there; people stand around flogging thirty year-old tellies and microwaves, bartering and haggling is everywhere and the noise in such a small and confined space is deafening. Its like a nation of North African Del-Boys all crammed into the one spot trying to out-do each other. Kids don't appear to go to school and hang around all day long. Boy racers speed around on scooters wearing replica Barcelona or English Premier League football kits. Lorries and taxi's muscle there way through the crowds and all social activity takes place on the streets; everybody always appears to be going somewhere and doing something.
You have to walk into all this straight from the airport and straight from your own typically European lifestyle and expectations - there is no time to acclimatise at all, so no matter how seasoned a traveller you think you are its serious culture shock. You wouldn't mind if there were other tourists around, but there aren't - there are none! So the locals, who are a pretty loud and streetwise lot anyway, stare at you and immediately think of how they can exploit and rip you off. Its a bit intimidating and never relaxing, nomatter how strong a character you are.
We had to do a 20 minute walk from the riad to get into the main square and for the majority of that trip there wasn't a tourist in sight. The hassle was fairly gentle and they'd mostly go away after a firm 'no', but we had to risk life and limb to avoid every car, cart, donkey, bike and moped that sped past missing us by fractions, so it was never particularly pleasant and the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb and being gawped at all the time was constant. Sure, it was fascinating and educating enough in its own way, but sometimes you feel more comfortable observing the fish from outside the tank, not inside it. I never felt especially intimidated myself but I wasn't comfortable either and Fiona felt particularly uncomfortable and tended to get more attention than me.
Often we would take a taxi back from the square to the riad at night, but this presented its own horrors, as Moroccan drivers, possibly learning from their former colonial masters the French, pay little heed to anything regarding the laws of the road and taxi drivers inparticular seem to exist for no purpose other than to get in front of the driver ahead of them at all costs. Basically all you can do is brace yourself in the back seat and count the number of children dressed in Barcelona shirts with the legend 'Messi' embazoned on the back that the taxi driver comes within a centimetre of obliterating on the journey home. I had visions of the taxi finally arriving dripping with the blood of its victims and the word 'Messi' repeated in a variety of impressions all over the bonnet and windscreen, like crushed flies.
One particularly hair-raising journey to Bab Ailen gate took us through mistifying back alleys to an uncertain stopping point with the driver shouting 'Bab Ailen!' in the front seat, a spaced-out Moroccan hammering the window on the outside and shouting 'Bab Ailen!' while Fiona and I sat in the back seat pointing at a different location on a map and shouting 'Bab Ailen, Bab Ailen!' It turned out the driver and the spaced-out guy were right and we had to slink off down the road surrounded by jeering children in 'Messi' replica football tops.
The riad itself, down another dark and dirty back alley, was actually fine once we got into it. It was designed to be a quiet haven in that deliberate Islamic way which doesn't encourage any street-side opulence to be on public view. The suite was sizable enough and very ornate in its design with windows that faced out over the inner courtyard. The staff were friendly and helpful throughout and it was always a relief to get back to it and relax on the roof garden away from the endless madnesss that went on outside.
Otherwise Marrakesh was a bit of a disappointment. OK the big Jemma-el-fna square can be quite spectacular with all the street vendors, eateries, snakecharmers, shamens and musicians on the go, but it wears its tourist rip-off credentials unashamedly on it sleeves and the amusement wears off after an hour or so. The soulks are colourful, maze-like and full of the usual goods and trinkets, but ultimately there's actually not a whole lot to see and mostly you just sit around the cafes and restuarants watching the teeming masses go noisily by and generally passing the time. Frankly the locals don't help; we never met a shopkeeper, waiter or taxi driver out there who wasn't at best indifferent or a worst downright rude. They're very tempremental with each other too and watching them have blazing rows with each other in the middle of the street was commonplace. You can't even drink to any decent degree as most places don't sell alcohol and even those who do charge extortionate prices. Anyway, you wouldn't trust yourself on these streets in anything other than a sober and alert state.
There is a new town built by the French along standard boulevard lines with some good shops and cafes and we took a decent, if tourist-loaded, trip out into the Atlas mountains which included a fun trek up to a waterfall, but the holiday has to go down as a bit of a yawn. A week is far too long in this town and the location didn't favour the laze-by-pool type holiday that one of the more modern resort hotels outside the medina might offer. We were either bored or slightly scared, which is a strange combination. Truth is we're probably 20 years too old for this kind of ethnic semi-roughing it; but its hard in any case to see where the town's hippy credentials still are as its as tacky and commercialised as any custom-bult European resort that I've ever been in, and the feeling that the locals despise the tourists is never far from the surface.
Done, dusted, ticked off the list and never again.
Friday 1 April 2011
Nobody's fool on April Fools day
Officially my first day of retirement although I've already been off for two weeks. Tonight I have my latest leaving do in Edinburgh, shared with a few other souls to save cash. I've had virtually nothing to do with the organisation of it and will basically just turn up on the night. I'll go into town in the afternoon and probably meet up with Tommy and Robin for a few drinks first. It almost seems like one celebration too many frankly, after the others that have gone before it, but hopefully I'll catch up with some people I haven't seen for some time and god knows what will eventually happen.
Everything has gone smoothly so far; all the pension pot monies have come in and been distributed around other accounts until I do some further investments after I come back from Morocco. The actually monthly pension itself is expected to be paid in from the middle of each month.
Up to now everything has been as easy as I expected. I'm not bored, appear to have plenty to do and have set myself up with Bannatyne's gym membership where I should be able to hang around for hours on end. Or perving by the pool as Fiona describes it.
No doubt there will be boring days but you have to remind yourself that there are always boring days in life. How many days did I spend at work bored out of my tiny? Too many in latter days.
First day of unemployment in over 25 years just the same. Can't help but feel a bit strange and something of a red letter day. Still here's to the future!
Everything has gone smoothly so far; all the pension pot monies have come in and been distributed around other accounts until I do some further investments after I come back from Morocco. The actually monthly pension itself is expected to be paid in from the middle of each month.
Up to now everything has been as easy as I expected. I'm not bored, appear to have plenty to do and have set myself up with Bannatyne's gym membership where I should be able to hang around for hours on end. Or perving by the pool as Fiona describes it.
No doubt there will be boring days but you have to remind yourself that there are always boring days in life. How many days did I spend at work bored out of my tiny? Too many in latter days.
First day of unemployment in over 25 years just the same. Can't help but feel a bit strange and something of a red letter day. Still here's to the future!
Friday 18 March 2011
Goodbye to all that
On 17 March 2011 I left the Civil Service for early retirement after 25 years and four months. Technically I remain employed until 31 March, but I had to use up remaining annual leave before I went. The Scottish Government were keen to post blogs from all the leavers who are going over the next few months. Its reckoned around 6-700 people will have gone by the end of June - seroius numbers in hard times. Not many actually supplied a blog but as usual I couldn't resist. Here's what I posted.
"I joined the Civil Service in 1985, initially working for the MoD in a military records office, bizarrely located in an old Jesuit Mission in darkest Hastings. A suitably surreal start to what has often been a surreal career! It was a detached duty posting, eventually relocating to Brown St in Glasgow, just opposite where the Europa Building is now. It was mostly run by bufty-blazer retired majors who hadn't a clue how to deal with civilians and thought we should all be shot for not shaving in the morning; but I primarily remember it as a riotous social affair, with 50-odd people from the Glasgow area all congregated in the one town and determined to leave an impression. I remember once calculating with a mate that we were averaging about 70 pints a week each down there. Just as well it was only for a year!
"I eventually decided to try my luck in London and ended up in a MoD statistics department in Holborn, where I was greeted on my first day by a bloke of about 19 in pipe and slippers (literally) who told me to keep quiet as my boss was sound asleep at her desk (she was too, face down and snoring her head off). Reminds me that one of the great strengths of the civil service, though it often doesn't know it, is its ingrained quirkiness, eccentricity and quiet sense of rebellion.
"Basically, 5 years in London was another blizzard of drink, womanising and curious encounters. Friday sessions used to start at lunchtime in a pub called the 3 Cups. Our cue to eventually repair back to the office came when the Head Statistician, who spent his Friday lunchtimes going round the fruit machines in all the nearby bars, finished up in ours at about 3pm. A couple of hours back at the office sleeping it off were then followed by the main boozing session which would run until the last trains left Charing Cross at midnight. We would invariably lapse into unconsciousness and end up miles beyond our stops. One guy from Hayward's Heath used to wake up every weekend in Brighton and just sleep on a station bench until daylight and the bracing sea air woke him up again.
"Occasionally we wouldn't make it home at all. One particular evening involving a gothic pile in Hampstead, a schizophrenic host, a deranged father locked in an upstairs bedroom and the desperate defence of improvised barricades in a basement games room will never be forgotten. It was like Jane Eyre with pool cues.
"Eventually I ended up in MOD communications out at Earls Court; where among other things I production-managed the publication of technical guidelines to the specifications of fixed-wing aircraft. Ah, the page-turning excitement of it all; nearly as bad as labouring through a Dan Brown novel. Just as well they had all those Australian bars nearby.
"At some point in 1991, and for the life of me I can't really remember why, I ended up in Edinburgh working for the Scottish Office, where, given a corporate name change or fifty, I've been working ever since.
"I started in the old Information Directorate, as it was called then, initially doing Royal Visit press arrangements. What a funny old job that was, dealing half the time with Palace bigwigs and Dowager Duchesses of This and That and the other half dealing with pushy visitees getting into an unnecessary flap about the whole thing and wanting to freshly paint entire towns because Prince Edward was dropping in for five minutes.
"Fascinating days though - the high watermark of the Diana and Fergie era and the whole tabloid circus that came with them. Stories abound but my favourite has to be the day Prince Charles crashed his plane while visiting the Laphroig Distillery in Islay. As soon as the story broke the island was infested with chartered helicopters carrying red-top hacks buzzing in to get a scoop. The place looked like the attack scene from Apocalypse Now - the only things missing were Wagner and surf boards. And there was me, the only press officer in town, still hungover from my night of hospitality with the hosts, trying to marshal it all like Gary Cooper in High Noon.
"After that I ended up in the ministerial press office, where for some reason I always seemed to be working the local government desk and always seemed to be dealing with the happenings of Monklands District Council (I'm from Coatbridge, which didn't help). Those were also intriguing days. I joined just when the whole culture of government communication was moving away from the rather formal dissemination of information into the frontline guerrilla warfare it quickly metamorphosised into. Rising profiles inevitably led to rising pressures and stresses and, after a slow start, an impressive after-hours drinking culture led to another colourful era of misadventures, strange happenings, unlikely relationships and the kind of early-morning recollections that have you pulling the duvet cover up over your head and curling into the foetal position. That's if you even got home - one morning I woke up in the cabin of a Russian factory ship down at Leith docks. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately?) I managed to get off before we steamed into the chilly North Atlantic.
"As older colleagues may remember, my press office days ended in 'controversial circumstances' around the time of the millennium and I ended up (semi-banished?) to Saughton House and Estate Services. This turned out to be more fun and interesting than I thought; you never realise how possessive civil servants get about their rooms until you work in estates. We practically had to drag some worthy colleagues out of their rooms kicking and screaming, like they were being evicted from their own homes.
"After that I found myself in a place I can't remember and don't remember what I did (though I remember some of the people in it). So we'll pass on that…..
"I then did a secondment to Fife Council which was a lot of fun; starting up a process that's not a million miles away from what the team brief turned out to be in here (can I sue for plagiarism?). As is the way with public services I came in to do one thing but ended up doing quite another, and as I was working beside their marketing and design people I ended up as their unofficial copywriter and spent most of my time writing slogans for adverts and designing exhibition stands.
"Where was I after that? You see, you get more forgetful as you get older. Oh yes, I ended up in another place I can't remember the name of doing Policy Week 2005. Whatever happened to Policy Week? That was fun too. I remember we got in an anti-sectarian play off the Fringe and ran it in VQ conf room 1 (full house too). I remember loads of people came walking through the atrium wondering who was doing all the effing and blinding in the conference suite and moving off a bit chastened.
"Where does that take me? 2007 I think. I did another secondment to the Office of Fair Trading, who were opening a Scottish arm in Edinburgh. That was fun too - I met loads of filthy rich competition lawyers who turned out to be pretty agreeable really. Nobody tells better dirty jokes about lawyers than other lawyers.
"That took me to what has turned out to be my final job in eHealth. Yes, after years of studiously avoiding Health I ended up in Health! But this has been fun too as I've largely been left to my own devices to act as an unofficial journalist and webmaster spreading the word.
"So I think that's that - a quick run through 26 years. My memory isn't the greatest in the world and I've probably forgotten so many great things and great times. David Bowie, when asked to recall the 1970s, once said: 'apparently I had a good time'. I can't remember the 1970s either, probably for many of the same reasons he can't, but the civil service years of my life have been a good time!
"What am I going to do now? Nothing initially. Outwith the odd period of unemployment or further education I've been working since I was 17 and I'm happy to take a long break. I've got plenty to keep me occupied and loads of travel already stacking up. I fully intend to make the most of every cheap mid-week Ryanair or Easyjet city break deal I can find; and knowing me I'll always manage to find fresh ways to get myself into trouble. Then again, I might spend the next six months lying on the settee drinking beer and watching sport.
"Ah, the options!"
"I joined the Civil Service in 1985, initially working for the MoD in a military records office, bizarrely located in an old Jesuit Mission in darkest Hastings. A suitably surreal start to what has often been a surreal career! It was a detached duty posting, eventually relocating to Brown St in Glasgow, just opposite where the Europa Building is now. It was mostly run by bufty-blazer retired majors who hadn't a clue how to deal with civilians and thought we should all be shot for not shaving in the morning; but I primarily remember it as a riotous social affair, with 50-odd people from the Glasgow area all congregated in the one town and determined to leave an impression. I remember once calculating with a mate that we were averaging about 70 pints a week each down there. Just as well it was only for a year!
"I eventually decided to try my luck in London and ended up in a MoD statistics department in Holborn, where I was greeted on my first day by a bloke of about 19 in pipe and slippers (literally) who told me to keep quiet as my boss was sound asleep at her desk (she was too, face down and snoring her head off). Reminds me that one of the great strengths of the civil service, though it often doesn't know it, is its ingrained quirkiness, eccentricity and quiet sense of rebellion.
"Basically, 5 years in London was another blizzard of drink, womanising and curious encounters. Friday sessions used to start at lunchtime in a pub called the 3 Cups. Our cue to eventually repair back to the office came when the Head Statistician, who spent his Friday lunchtimes going round the fruit machines in all the nearby bars, finished up in ours at about 3pm. A couple of hours back at the office sleeping it off were then followed by the main boozing session which would run until the last trains left Charing Cross at midnight. We would invariably lapse into unconsciousness and end up miles beyond our stops. One guy from Hayward's Heath used to wake up every weekend in Brighton and just sleep on a station bench until daylight and the bracing sea air woke him up again.
"Occasionally we wouldn't make it home at all. One particular evening involving a gothic pile in Hampstead, a schizophrenic host, a deranged father locked in an upstairs bedroom and the desperate defence of improvised barricades in a basement games room will never be forgotten. It was like Jane Eyre with pool cues.
"Eventually I ended up in MOD communications out at Earls Court; where among other things I production-managed the publication of technical guidelines to the specifications of fixed-wing aircraft. Ah, the page-turning excitement of it all; nearly as bad as labouring through a Dan Brown novel. Just as well they had all those Australian bars nearby.
"At some point in 1991, and for the life of me I can't really remember why, I ended up in Edinburgh working for the Scottish Office, where, given a corporate name change or fifty, I've been working ever since.
"I started in the old Information Directorate, as it was called then, initially doing Royal Visit press arrangements. What a funny old job that was, dealing half the time with Palace bigwigs and Dowager Duchesses of This and That and the other half dealing with pushy visitees getting into an unnecessary flap about the whole thing and wanting to freshly paint entire towns because Prince Edward was dropping in for five minutes.
"Fascinating days though - the high watermark of the Diana and Fergie era and the whole tabloid circus that came with them. Stories abound but my favourite has to be the day Prince Charles crashed his plane while visiting the Laphroig Distillery in Islay. As soon as the story broke the island was infested with chartered helicopters carrying red-top hacks buzzing in to get a scoop. The place looked like the attack scene from Apocalypse Now - the only things missing were Wagner and surf boards. And there was me, the only press officer in town, still hungover from my night of hospitality with the hosts, trying to marshal it all like Gary Cooper in High Noon.
"After that I ended up in the ministerial press office, where for some reason I always seemed to be working the local government desk and always seemed to be dealing with the happenings of Monklands District Council (I'm from Coatbridge, which didn't help). Those were also intriguing days. I joined just when the whole culture of government communication was moving away from the rather formal dissemination of information into the frontline guerrilla warfare it quickly metamorphosised into. Rising profiles inevitably led to rising pressures and stresses and, after a slow start, an impressive after-hours drinking culture led to another colourful era of misadventures, strange happenings, unlikely relationships and the kind of early-morning recollections that have you pulling the duvet cover up over your head and curling into the foetal position. That's if you even got home - one morning I woke up in the cabin of a Russian factory ship down at Leith docks. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately?) I managed to get off before we steamed into the chilly North Atlantic.
"As older colleagues may remember, my press office days ended in 'controversial circumstances' around the time of the millennium and I ended up (semi-banished?) to Saughton House and Estate Services. This turned out to be more fun and interesting than I thought; you never realise how possessive civil servants get about their rooms until you work in estates. We practically had to drag some worthy colleagues out of their rooms kicking and screaming, like they were being evicted from their own homes.
"After that I found myself in a place I can't remember and don't remember what I did (though I remember some of the people in it). So we'll pass on that…..
"I then did a secondment to Fife Council which was a lot of fun; starting up a process that's not a million miles away from what the team brief turned out to be in here (can I sue for plagiarism?). As is the way with public services I came in to do one thing but ended up doing quite another, and as I was working beside their marketing and design people I ended up as their unofficial copywriter and spent most of my time writing slogans for adverts and designing exhibition stands.
"Where was I after that? You see, you get more forgetful as you get older. Oh yes, I ended up in another place I can't remember the name of doing Policy Week 2005. Whatever happened to Policy Week? That was fun too. I remember we got in an anti-sectarian play off the Fringe and ran it in VQ conf room 1 (full house too). I remember loads of people came walking through the atrium wondering who was doing all the effing and blinding in the conference suite and moving off a bit chastened.
"Where does that take me? 2007 I think. I did another secondment to the Office of Fair Trading, who were opening a Scottish arm in Edinburgh. That was fun too - I met loads of filthy rich competition lawyers who turned out to be pretty agreeable really. Nobody tells better dirty jokes about lawyers than other lawyers.
"That took me to what has turned out to be my final job in eHealth. Yes, after years of studiously avoiding Health I ended up in Health! But this has been fun too as I've largely been left to my own devices to act as an unofficial journalist and webmaster spreading the word.
"So I think that's that - a quick run through 26 years. My memory isn't the greatest in the world and I've probably forgotten so many great things and great times. David Bowie, when asked to recall the 1970s, once said: 'apparently I had a good time'. I can't remember the 1970s either, probably for many of the same reasons he can't, but the civil service years of my life have been a good time!
"What am I going to do now? Nothing initially. Outwith the odd period of unemployment or further education I've been working since I was 17 and I'm happy to take a long break. I've got plenty to keep me occupied and loads of travel already stacking up. I fully intend to make the most of every cheap mid-week Ryanair or Easyjet city break deal I can find; and knowing me I'll always manage to find fresh ways to get myself into trouble. Then again, I might spend the next six months lying on the settee drinking beer and watching sport.
"Ah, the options!"
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