Thursday, February 26, 2015

Who calls me? Spam numbers


Beautiful Ballachulish
The village of Ballachulish in Lochaber, HighlandScotland, is centred on former slate quarries. 

It’s a beautiful part of the world. Apparently. I’ve never been. But Today I got called at 10:10 am by this number: 01855 605 303

This is evidently a spam number. I know nobody in Ballachulish. I don’t tend to give out my mobile number when I fill in forms, etc. If I do, I always tweak one of the numbers so it’s not accurate.

Yesterday, I got called at 11:43am by 01943 593491. This is from a place called Guisely, based in the City of Leeds metropolitan borough in West Yorkshire, England. Historically part of the West Riding of Yorkshire, it is situated south of Otley and Menston, it is a suburb of north west Leeds.

Also, a very beautiful little town. From the pictures I’ve seen, it has quaint limestone walls and small grey-stone buildings.

But once again I know nobody who lives there. And nobody who would want to call me in the morning. The mystery deepens.

On Tuesday, I was phoned by 01792 828958. This is a proper firm called Opinion Research Services. At least, it has a web presence. Now, nobody can be 100% sure that any firm with a web presence is actually genuine but it looks genuine. It has even put a helpful notice on its website:

“Our telephone interviewing centre based in Swansea makes calls from 01792 828958, 01792 674980 or 01792 348614. We understand that many people are reluctant to answer calls from numbers that they don't recognise, so we have prepared this FAQ page for people who receive a call from us and then search for 01792 828958, 01792 674980 or 01792 348614. It explains who we are, why we are calling and will hopefully answer any other questions you may have.”

Well, not really. I want to know how it knows who I am and how it has my personal mobile number. Anyway. Of course I ignored it.

Monday was also fun. At 11:57 I was called from Bridgend on 01656 360199. Again although I know a few people there, nobody would call me. You see the pattern here? Random numbers from across the UK, all calling at roughly the same time. I actually answered this one as “Newsdesk”. When they realised they’d called the national newsdesk of a major newspaper, they quickly apologised, said they’d remove me from their database, and hung up.

I bet they didn’t. I bet they passed me to Guisely and Ballachulish.

I had quite a few unwanted calls on Monday. Spammers 0843 724 0610 called me – I get this one quite regularly. In fact, it has its own entry in my phone book as “Spam”.
That evening, Opinion Research Services called me again.

I got spammed by Spam on Sunday, by ORS again on Sunday, by Morons last week – Morons being 0117 301 7723. They also have a special entry in my phone book.

ORS called me twice more last Friday, last Thursday, and last Wednesday.
I got a fun call from 0800 056 2422 on the 19th, ORS on the 19th, again in the morning from 0800 056 2422. ORS is starting to be a PITA (pain in the xxxx)

On 18th I got called by 01530 382 170. This is from the place called Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Coalville. This is accordingly a very nice place to visit in Leicestershire. It boasts several centuries’ worth of historical activity, Norman Castles and quiet English Pubs.

Overall, the past couple of weeks I’ve been blessed by such a national variety of spammers trying to do whatever – sell me PPI or talk to me about my accident claim. In fact, it’s risen so much over the past couple of weeks that I have to suspect either that my details have been passed on by one of my providers – I recently signed up with Amex – or someone has a grudge against me (perfectly reasonable) and has put my number on every single spammer’s website to punish me.

I can only assume I am being punished. And I probably deserve it. But just in case you get met with one of these numbers, I am informing you now to be aware. The scammers are everywhere, even in the middle of absolutely frigging nowhere. 

Friday, February 20, 2015


I am not sure how I managed it. I'm not sure how I got here. But I am sure of one thing: it is National Cat Day and therefore I must post pictures of cats.

Not just any cats. No no. Surprised cats.

You're welcome.

1) Derp. Yep, there's one in every family.
Photobombing Kitty Style

2) Help! Ray's turned Feral!
The Zombie A-paw-calypse starts

3) You serious? That's your new boyfriend?
I can't believe the horror 

5) NO WAY!
well I never!
6) Get it away from me!  GETTITAWAYFROM ME!!!!!
So. Much. Terror.
Death come swiftly I beg thee
8) Caption says it all

               HAPPY CATURDAY FOLK!

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

The Valentines-Day Wash Out

I am exhausted. Getting to the end of the week seems a chore, a nightmare scenario each week. Going out in the evenings fills me with dread. Sleep evades me.

This is probably why I thought for once, on Valentine's Day, I might be able to have a little bit of a lie-in, at least until 9am. A romantic lie-in, I suggested. This is basically exactly the same as a lie-in but I thought if I threw the word 'romantic' in front of it, it might actually sound special and therefore acceptable as a Valentine's Day activity.

Well that didn't quite happen, as mom popped round to give us a little present and to collect hers, but as she didn't stay for breakfast, I thought I could catch another hour's kip until about 9:30. The intention had been to get up at 9:30, 10am and make pancakes. Then Mr Mermaid and myself could decide where we would be going for a day out. A nice walk in the countryside, maybe to a country pub, then back home where Mr Mermaid would have to do some freelance work.

I slept until 11am, and just about shook myself out of my stupor to create the below - Canadian style blueberry pancakes with Maple Syrup - while Mr M popped out to the shops.

I had just about enough time to make the pancakes and put the finishing touches to his gifts from me - wrapping his Penhaligon's candle, icing the enormous heart-shaped choc chip cookie I'd baked on Thursday, and writing on his card, which was also hand-made - when Mr M came back.

The feast was all we'd hoped. In fact, it was so good that we felt a little sleepy. After some lovely gifts from the hubby - a rose, some choccies and some Clinique make-up, I headed for the sofa, and fell fast asleep. I didn't wake up again until 4pm.


I was SO knackered, you couldn't even imagine. What a Valentine's Day wash-out! We managed to get to Tooting, to Honest Burger, and have a nice short meal, then come home again. An hour out of the house. Immediately upon entering, I made myself a cup of tea, re-entered my onesie and thereafter I lazed (and grazed) on the sofa again for a few hours while Mr M worked.

We did have a friend to put up that evening, as she was stuck for somewhere to crash for the night, so I made her bed, got a hot chocolate ready - and that is all I remember of Saturday. Hearing everyone's tales of wintry walks, pub lunches, days out on the Thames, shows or evening date nights has made me concerned for my physical well-being. Mental, too. I took a test yesterday on Facebook, probably one of those awful BuzzFeed things, which says my mental age is 53.


Frankly I am unsurprised, though I am shocked. I am always tired, always working, never resting. I do not want to go out with friends or with work. I want to stay at home and sleep. This week I am out three nights in a row and dreading it. It is the worst possible thing that could happen to me. I say no to going out on Saturdays because I just can't face how tired I will be afterwards. I literally do not want to do anything. Every time I get invited to something I groan inwardly.

So much for Valentine's Day, birthdays, Easter, etc etc. Might as well buy me one of those fat lady scooters now so I can just hum along to the shops and collect my pension.

PS  I also made a stack of pancakes for the office this week, cinnamon and blueberry American style (with the ubiquitous maple syrup). I think they went down well.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Why Santa is a Terrible, Wicked Man

Evil Santa?
Anti-Santaism isn't just believing there is no Santa, but the thought that if there is a Santa, he is a malicious, malevolent being and to be despised above all beings.

The idea that one man, one supernatural being can willy-nilly make or break a child's emotional, mental and spiritual state at Christmas is obscene. Santa is a megalomaniac, an absolute despot, passing judgement on children who because of circumstance or upbringing are breaking his so-called 'naughty laws'. Who made him a judge over children? It's evil. There are children begging for help in this world, who are suffering from terrible diseases, abuse, wars, famine.

Santa has the power to help them at Christmas. But he doesn't. He gives expensive gifts to children who do not need them, and does not answer the pleas of the desperate, the needy, those dying of
starvation or from a lack of clean water.

What kind of a being is that, who would leave children in such a world? What a wicked, nasty character people believe in. He does not use his supernatural powers for good, but makes demands on people to thank him, to be grateful, to present their grovelling petitions to him so he can make some arbitrary decision over their lives.

If I were to go to the North Pole - and I wouldn't want to, personally the Tooth Fairy is much more likeable, seeking to give back to children who have lost something - I would say to Santa: "How dare
you? How dare you create such misery for thousands, millions of children around the world? How dare you leave children to starve on the streets of Calcutta or Brazil, when you could easily give them
food and shelter. Who gave you the right to decide upon whom to bestow your so-called Christmas spirit?"

No, Santa is not good. He is wicked, evil, despotic and a megalomaniac. He is a madman and I hate him, I hate his nasty little lists (who gave him the right to say who is naughty and who is nice?). If I saw Rudolph I would punch him in his bright red nose.

But wait.. What is this you are saying? 'Why? Why rail against Santa? Why all this aggressive spewing of bile against someone who does not exist? He doesn't exist, so it is impossible that you can hate him. You cannot hate him for what he has never done, because he never existed.'

Ah. You see, to rage and rave against a non-entity, something that does not exist, well that does not make sense, does it? It like is a man shouting into the wind, telling it to stop but achieving nothing.
It is the ranting of a person so full of hate that it simply does not matter that the thing he hates does not exist. It is the ranting of a madman, fighting an unseen assailant, battling only with the image in
his mind.

I do not really hate Santa, because he does not exist. I have no feelings towards him either good or bad. Seeing his face on billboards does not choke me up with rage, nor do I blame him for the suffering of millions of children across the world at Christmastime. If you were to question things logically, you would see how futile it would be of me to expend so much hatred on a myth.

If Santa does not exist, it is illogical to hate him and what he has done, or to accuse him of not doing something that he should have. To hate, to question, to accuse in this way actually gives form to him,
gives him credibility, gives him an identity. The very thing you hate and claim does not exist, now exists in the form you have created, but - and here is the kicker - only in your mind. Well done you. You've officially lost the plot.

But what if? What if it was not just a myth! What if Santa does exist? Well it would still be in your right to hate him for all those reasons outlined above. That is fair enough. But then you would need to give Santa the right to respond. And perhaps you may have to admit that you might have been wrong about Santa, after all, you were wrong about him not existing at all. But you would hate that even more.

You see, you cannot make a stand on the grounds that Santa is a myth, and does not exist, if you are so concerned about all the things he has done wrong. He's a myth. He has therefore done nothing wrong.

But if you persist in accusations and hatred of his character, person and being, then you cannot say you do not believe in him, or that he is not real, rather that you simply choose to believe your version about him.

A-Santaism therefore as a concept eats itself. The thing that gives it validity is that there is no Santa to believe in. But to justify this disbelief, one must actively hate, one must discredit the person, being, actions and thoughts of Santa, thereby making him a real concept. You cannot hate what is not there; you cannot tear down that which has not been built up.

Don't get me started on the Easter Bunny.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

The peculiar incident of the cat in the daytime

Monty Baggins the angelic (?) cat
It started off so well.

Actually, not so well. It started off with me cleaning the windowsill of a (then) empty study overlooking the back garden.

From there I could see our Rum-Tum-Tugger, aka Monty the Cat, perched insouciant on the border fence between our house and the neighbours' on the left.

He was making rude noises at something small and fluffy on their lawn. It looked like a grey owl, but turned out to be a small kitten, all fur and eyes the colour of ripening pumpkins.

Before I could utter a warning, he had leaped into their garden and was saying very nasty things, dark things, irascible words for which there is thankfully no discernible human meaning, whereupon a jet of water sprang out from a hosepipe and he bounded back into the sanctity of our home.

Of course, I laughed out loud, which prompted three ladies sitting in the garden to look up. These were our new neighbours. Correctly, we were their new neighbours, and Monty had just attempted to rough up their kitten. What a bully!

But this was nothing compared to what happened one terrible, sultry, summer afternoon, back in '14.

It happened thus. Monty and I were doing nuttin while sitting inside and saw Rowdy cat (the un-neutered black and white tomcat) prowl into a neighbour's garden and pick a fight with Flea (the fluffy black cat who lives up the way). They were hammer and tongs, then entered our garden, then entered Left Hand Neighbours' garden. There was their grey kitty, still too young to be speyed but old enough to be on heat. They were chasing her round the garden, making those weird, angry sexual sounds that only cats can make.

This catfight had been going on for hours. The ladies next door managed to get their cat in, and the couple to the left had managed to spook the black cat with a gentle squirt to the behind, but Rowdy and the black cat were still circling each other - now in our yard.

So thinking the coast was clear, and with Monty definitely raring to go outside and show these muppets what a real bruising was (he grew up in Streatham), I decided it would be a reasonable, grown-up, adult thing to do to don a cape, put Monty on my shoulders, and gallop out of the back door towards the two spatting cats while singing the Feline version of Ride of the Valkyries.

I called it ..... Apocalypse Meow, and it goes like this.

"Meow Mi-mi MEOW Miaw, Mew mi-mi MEOW Miaw, Mew mi-mi MEOW Miaw, MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOOOOOWWW."

Just in case you were wondering.

Anyway the two caterwauling kitties froze mid-yawl and looked at us in horror, the caped pink, two-legged beast (me) and the Ginger cat sitting astride her shoulders like the Colossus of old. And then they scarpered.

"Yeah" I shouted at their retreating forms. "Monty brought a Human to a cat fight". I think I even did a gangland sign.

Just then, heard a male voice shout with laughter "Well done Mermaid" ... and looked round to see pretty much all neighbours, left and right, looking out of their windows at me.

I will never live this down.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Christmas under the sea

It is a common misconception that Mer-people do not celebrate Christmas.

This is blatant error, no doubt perpetuated by Fox News, which has a penchant for key facts, such as the rampage of the Muslim Religious Police that haunt parts of the UK and beat you for entering a no-go zone.

In fact, Mer-people love Christmas.

This year the tree was purple, pink, gold and teal, with a kind of 'Arabian Nights' theme to much of the food - spiced parsnip and tarragon soup for starters; baklava and figs for nibbles and Greek sweetmeats and goodies sent to us by the inlaws.

However, no Christmas is complete without the usual fusion of Germanic and American-inspired holiday favourites, such as Gingerbread houses (made and decorated by yours truly) cookies and cakes (also made and decorated by yours truly), stollen, stockings for Santa to fill and general gourmandising excess.

However, it all got too much for one member of the Mermaid's household, who could not cope with the sheer volume of treats from the table and gifts - many of which were from friends of the family who felt it was important to treat Monty the Cat as if he were a human child - and succumbed to a weird stupor on the settee.

Monty the Cat in post-Christmas 'Nip Trauma
And for a fuller view of the various Christmas decorations and food, simply for those who like a good nosey around the Mermaid's palace, follow me on instagram:

Tuesday, January 06, 2015

Press Release of the Decade

We just got sent this about a new green chauffeur service....
Every single Fleet Street Journalist got this very informative press release. via  (12:08)

Hi Mermaid,

I am writing to you from (name of company) (URL of company) to let you know about (our product, new launch, event, award etc). It is (launching, starting, appearing, on sale etc) from (insert date) and is available from (insert brief description). Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you want more information.

On (x date), (company name) (company URL) is (details of news – eg launching a new product, holding an event, won an award, new person starting a job).

Insert line indicating why it is ‘news’ and what makes it interesting e.g. first time product/event, new launch, celebrity involved, award received)

Insert line on what sets you apart – any personal angle or interesting facts/statistics?)

Other key points – list (bullet points) and other areas of interest – maximum 5 points)
(Insert prices and availability. Include stockist details if appropriate or location and timing of event)

Please let me know if you use this story.

Best wishes,

For press enquiries, further information or to set up a product review / request product:
eConnect cars


Tuesday, December 09, 2014

The name game

Something that really annoys me is when I answer the phone by saying my full name, and the person who has called me struggles to pronounce my name, or asks

"Is XXXXX there?"

YES you dolt, I am here. I answered the phone. I answered the phone with my name. With my full name, pronounced correctly.

I also get emails responding to mine where the respondent has assumed my name is a man's name, and not bothered to read either my sign-off or the email address or the signature underneath the email.

Sometimes they do this several times.

But the most annoying is when someone I have known for 15 years HANDWRITES a card to me and gets my name wrong. Not the spelling - that is forgivable - but the actual name. Calling me by a man's name instead of my name.

I'm simply going to delete every single email without reading it, and put the phone down on every single person not getting the name right in future until they learn. They're trying to sell me their services, their ideas, their people. I don't have to sell them anything. They're the ones wanting to "reach out to me".

By the way - ugh - 'reach out'. What an appalling phrase, conjured up by illiterate and uneducated jargon-munchers. I do actually delete everything that comes with people offering to reach out to me. Reach out to me and I'll rip your flagging arm off.

Lord Sugar wouldn't stand for it. Why should I?


Learn your audience
Spell-check before you send

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Gyrating Bananas

Know your internet memes, Canadians
Among all the news stories hitting the headlines this week about young girls heading off to Syria to fight against Islamic State, or potential terrorist attacks thwarted by undercover police stings, one act of cyber-terrorism, or rather, hactivisim, which went almost unnoticed, caught my beady eye.

I guess this was because it happened in Canada, and unless there is something dramatic that involves heroic security guards at the houses of parliament, news from the nice neighbours across the Pond does not make it big over here.

It might also be because the act was itself pretty darn hilarious, so hard news sites have found it difficult to report on without indulging in a little bit of headline hamming or spurious photos.

Basically, since Friday, people wanting to log onto official websites for Canada's Parliament, its Supreme Court, the city of Ottawa and the Ottawa and Toronto police forces have been occasionally greeted by what the New York Times can only describe as a "a gyrating, anthropomorphic banana" or, more frequently but less amusingly, an error message.

According to the reports secreted in the bottom of newspaper columns, the strange banana shake was prompted by a hacker or a small group of hackers supporting the cause of an Ottawa teenager who was charged last spring with making hoax telephone calls throughout North America.

Along with the banana, the group/person called Aerith, who claimed responsibility for the hacking, posted statements denouncing the city’s police and provided personal information about the lead investigator and the city’s police chief.

I do not applaud the dissemination of private information about individuals, who are only doing their jobs as far as the law is concerned, but I do applaud someone who can make a statement so well and so widely, employing a favourite internet meme to put the message across.

Fans of the gyrating banana referred to so obliquely by the NYT will know that this was the famous 'Peanut Butter Jelly Time' banana, a heavily pixellated dancing flash animation from c. 2000-2001, which asked: "What time is it? It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time".

The internet - what a mine of information it is, not all of it useful - also informs me there is an emoticon developed for people who wish to insert a dancing banana into any emails. Thankfully I have not updated Blogspot with this, or I may have been tempted to insert it here.

A more famous parody would be Brian Griffin's attempts to cheer up Peter by performing the PBJT dance.

Family Guy Brian Griffin and Peter Griffin
I did want to see the gyrating banana dancing across official Canadian websites, but so far I have had no luck. But right now, all I want is a big piece of bread, smothered in grape jelly and peanut butter. It is 4:30. So surely, SURELY, it must be peanut butter jelly time - somewhere? Probably in Ontario.

I'm off to Canada.

Monday, November 24, 2014

Flaggin' mansions!

My defence of Ed Miliband last week got a storming response on Facebook, not all of it polite, but it certainly raised quite a few issues.

Since then, I have discovered two things: 
  • Someone has started a petition to remove Myleene Klass as the face of Littlewoods
  • Some Labour MPs (and ex MPs) will fall into the Mansion Tax bracket.
Let's deal with Littlewoods first. Personally, I like Myleene Klass. She was very sweet to my mother at a party we went to (her family are friends of our family) and she spent 20 minutes trying to explain how to use a digital camera to her. Anyone who has enough patience to teach my tech-illiterate mother how to use a camera has to be a good person, in my book. 

However, since her tirade against Ed, which I think was a thoroughly misguided and ill-informed topic for her to tackle, more than 8000 people have signed this petition on There has also been a counter-petition for her to not be dropped, which has so far generated 590 supporters. 

I don't think Littlewoods should drop her, but a media-savvy PR at the firm should sit down with their face of the brand and explain to her that the target audience for Littlewoods is not likely to sympathise with people who have to shell out £1.8m for a garage.

Next, Emily Thornberry, a thorn in the side of Ed Miliband. There must be something about the man that means every week, a woman will publicly berate him or cause him embarrassment. Last week it was the turn of this woman in her £2m+ mansion, who tweeted a picture of a house in Rochester, swathed in England flags. In case you have been living in a bubble/not in the UK, here's the tweet:

That Thornberry Tweet Rochester
I can't help feeling a slight twinge of guilt when I read about Emily Thornberry's tweet. Sure, the people living in this house are unlikely to have felt any sympathy for those wealthy people complaining about the mansion tax, so they'd agree with Miliband on that. But they should not have to stomach the upper-classes sneering down their noses at them, publicly, on twitter.

People who have bought Thornberry's lame excuse: "I have never seen so many flags on a house, this is what I meant" are obviously living in cloud Kitten Land, where everything is beautiful and people tell the truth.

The truth is, she was taking the proverbial and - do not deny it - she said what many of us were thinking, especially when we saw TV footage of the man emerge from his house, cap on head, less than 100% fit and covered in tattoos. To be honest, I believe people should be allowed to fly their flags without being branded as anything by anybody, but when I saw him, my first thought was 'this is exactly the person I thought would live there'. Then I realised, guiltily, that someone else lives in a yellow house and flies the flag daily, without censure: 

Buckingham Palace
Who was I to criticise? I was no better than Thornberry. But I am just a person, not someone in public office, let alone a Labour personage living in a lofty house in North London. Her comment and the motive behind it smacked of upper-class snobbery. It smacked of Toryism of the Old School kind, not the kind that is pandering to UKIP. It reeked of Middle England putting the educational boot into the rest of us. And therefore Miliband was right to give her the boot, too. Oh, wait, sorry, yes, "accept her resignation". 

If Labour wants to prove it is for the people, for the masses, then its party members better start looking at their own lifestyle rather than criticise that of others, especially the voting public. Because it won't be too long before someone sets up a petition against the entire Labour shadow cabinet - and their £2m houses - and then we are left with nothing credible that can stand against the grinding, terrible machine that a Con-UKIP truce would bring.

However while I may not be able to pay a tax on something like this BIG WHACKING HOUSE unless I become a former prime minister, I am still convinced that if I did own a £21m house in a prime central London location, I would have more than enough equity and/or free cashflow to be able to pay a tax for the privilege.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

In defence of Ed Miliband

Ed Miliband, Labour Leader

I can hardly believe I am doing this but I agree with Ed Miliband.

In a week where he has been lambasted by celebrities, the media and politicians of all flavours, it is harder to praise the man than to bury him.

My old debating coach used to tell me it is harder to stand up for an unpopular cause than to decry one, and as I have always relished a challenge, I am unafraid by what might follow.

Ed Miliband is right.

While Myleene Klass may claim that £2m will just about get you a garage in London, and the media may agree, I would like to ask the normal, working people of London and the South East whether they live in a £2m garage.

It is my experience - 15 years as a financial services journalist, not as a celebrity commentator who reads the papers occasionally and listens to BBC Radio 4 - that the majority of people live in homes worth far less.

The average house price in the South East, according to the latest data from the Office for National Statistics and the Halifax House Price index, is somewhere between the figures these bodies have provided of £485,000 and £355,630 respectively.

That's a far cry for £2m - a figure skewed by the media and celebrity-rich areas of Kensington, Kingston, Chelsea, Putney, the City, Canary Wharf penthouses, Wimbledon Village, Dulwich Village, some parts of Clapham and Islington, and some parts of Golders Green and Finchley.

For the rest of us oiks, who slum it out in Brixton, Streatham, Peckham, Lewisham, Mitcham, Morden, Hackney, Newham, Hammersmith, Walthamstow, Balham, Norwood, Norbury, Thornton Heath, Hackbridge, Camberwell, Elephant & Castle, New Cross Gate, Lewisham, etc etc etc, well house prices just ain't anywhere near £2m.

We'd be grateful for a £2m garage, sure, but we are normal people who like normal houses that we can afford to maintain. If we were so desperate to live in an area that only had £2m garages, then we'd need to be paid seven-figure sums to advertise clothing catalogues.

But we don't. We are nurses, teachers, shop workers, journalists, pencil-pushers, council workers, administrators, bus drivers and the self-employed.

According to data from the Council of Mortgage Lenders, these normal people here in London and the South East have an average loan size of less than £250,000. Here's some statistical data to stick it to the whinging rich who have actually NO idea what real people earn or experience.

"First-time buyers typically borrowed 3.90 times their gross income, more than the 3.83 in the previous quarter and the UK average of 3.46. The typical loan size for first-time buyers was £212,000 in the second quarter, up from £200,000 in the previous quarter. The typical gross income of a first-time buyer household was £55,000 compared to £52,500 in the first quarter.

"Due to higher house prices within London compared to the UK overall, there was a continued shift in the mix of properties bought by first-time buyers in London towards more expensive properties. In the second quarter, 63% of first-time buyers bought properties priced at more than £250k, up from 57% in the first quarter and 51% in the same period last year. This was significantly higher than the UK overall level of 17%."

Yes it is true that house prices are higher in London - but as with all data, this is skewed by the super-rich areas where a dog kennel costs £70,000. This is not the experience of the vast majority of the population, for whom a £2m mansion is far above what any length of inflation and upward pressure on house prices could hope to achieve. 

Even if my own five-bedroomed house were to show house price rises of 600 per cent in the next 50 years, it could not match the £2m mansion tax proposed by Labour.

Now I am not agreeing that it is a good policy. But it may be a way to show that Labour is getting back to its roots - tax the rich and give to the NHS (and yes, if you have a £2m house you are going to be more wealthy than the majority of the UK population. Get out of your cars and go have a look at some of the poorer neighbourhoods around you).

It may also be a way of raising some much-needed revenue to shore up our ever-flagging deficit. 

I've sat through Budgets and Autumn Statements which each year tell me how great the government has been in cutting the deficit and getting us out of a recession, how austerity has helped us get back on our feet. 

And each time the figures get smaller, the achievement gets narrower, the prospect of being a country with no debt gets further away. This is called clever accounting by some, or wishful thinking by others. 

A proposed £2m tax on property - a theory by the way - might be a very convenient political football for a party that is already taxing people in council houses and on the lowest earnings ladder.

These people fall below the £10,000 a year limit for auto-enrolment into a pension. They have no savings. 

They literally live in garages - prefabs and tiny homes run by councils. And if they should dare to have one extra bedroom - maybe a spare room, maybe a room that their family uses, or maybe a grandmother looks after her grandchildren at weekends - they get taxed.

Let's repeat this slowly so that people understand: 

Labour has proposed to explore a £2m mansion tax on the wealthiest sectors of society (sorry upper middle class, yes you are more privileged than you believe you are).

The Conservatives are forcing the poorest people in society, the financially vulnerable, the people relying on food banks, and often the least educated, out of their homes into smaller properties or taxing them for daring to have one more room than they need.

Instead of jumping on a fashionable bandwagon and slating the Labour leader, why not sit back and actually think about these things: 

Social equality
Raising people out of poverty
Helping the excluded.

If you advocate any of these things, you cannot take anything the Tory party says to ridicule Ed Miliband seriously.

This is the Tory party that doesn't know whether or not, or how much, it will have to pay the EU. First it doesn't owe them, then it does, then it managed to halve it, then it managed to not halve it but in fact will repay it "at its own convenience".

So basically it worked out a debt repayment plan, just like many of the poorest people in the UK have to do daily just to get by.

Ed Miliband is right. The Labour Party have their party members' interests at heart. Their policies are getting back to the real everyday struggles of normal people, the people that the Coalition has forgotten. 

Think before you leap and end up alienating we people, the normal people, the average people. 

Because we are the voters, the majority of voters in the UK and we want someone who actually will represent us. 

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

Plump from the Pump(kin)

Let's get some pumpkin pie!
I love this time of the year; golden leaves crisping and curling into brown on the pavement and fine morning mists that send shivers up the spine. Not for nuttin' did Keats praise Autumn as the 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness'.

The other week I was in Norfolk with my mater dearest and the 'stubble plains' of the poet were clear to the eye. As for the mellow fruits - the pumpkins were almost ready, sitting in their fields waiting patiently for the harvest. It was a delight to the eye and tantalising to the tastebuds.

Now as much as I hate Halloween, I love pumpkins. They're such awfully good fun to make things with. But this time I think I bit off more than I could, literally chew.

It is now day six of our pumpkin and it does not appear to be diminishing fast. I have tried to use all sorts of recipes and invent some more just to use it up, but this one large beast we bought for £1.50 from Tesco just doesn't want to give up easily.

The reluctance of the pumpkin to disappear reminds me of one of my favourite fables, about the Little Pot that Wouldn't Stop. The story goes something like this: Once upon a time, a little girl lived alone with her grandmother at the edge of a village. They were very poor, the poorest of the poor, so the little girl promised her grandmother that she would do lots of work to help raise some money for food.

Being a good little girl, she did what she was told and all day from dawn to dusk, she helped to clean, sweep and tidy up a house belonging to another old woman. In return, the old woman gave her a little pot. No coins, but a little pot.

She said: "All you have to do is ask the pot to give you food, and it will give it to you. When you have had enough, say 'Little pot, stop'." The girl brought it back to her grandmother, who clipped her round the ear for being so dumb as to bring back an old, rusted pot instead of much-needed money.

The girl ran outside. While she was there, some people visited the grandmother and wanted food. Deeply embarrassed at having none, she thought she would try to ask the little pot to give her food. It did. Steaming hot broth filled the pot - but kept on filling it.

"No, no" cried the grandmother, as the broth spilled over the top and into the fire.

"Stop it now", she yelled as she and her guests scooped up their dresses and stood on chairs to escape the torrent that was streaming across the floor.

"No more please!", she screamed, as the broth started to flow down towards the village. Hearing the commotion, the little girl waded towards the pot. "little pot, stop" she commanded, and all the broth disappeared magically.

Well it's a little like that in my household, except the pumpkin isn't multiplying magically, for which my insurance provider should be grateful. At least, I think it is not growing magically. We have already had six servings of pumpkin soup and a short, sweet pumpkin fruit loaf. I roasted the seeds with some celery salt and paprika to make a healthy snack.

Then I made pumpkin pudding and a large pumpkin pie, which I have put into the freezer. Then I cut up dozens of chunks to put into the fridge in a container. Still there was about one third left of the pumpkin. I made pumpkin mash alongside our dinner on Monday. Yet the pumpkin hadn't diminished discernibly.

On Tuesday, I made a spiced sausage and pumpkin casserole. Still a large chunk of the pumpkin remains. I made more pumpkin soup last night - when will this orange madness end?

Tonight I will attempt pumpkin rissotto - but that still leaves me with the remainder of the pumpkin AND a pyrex tub full of pieces.

All I can say is that pumpkin was probably the best £1.50 I've ever spent. I hope I don't get sick of pumpkin before we've eaten the pie.

Please little pumpkin (giant enormous bargain pumpkin), STOP.

Monday, November 03, 2014

Caveat Ambulator

Oh no! I've fallen over while using my phone!

Regular readers of the Mermaid's rants will know that one of her pet hates is people who do not look where they are going. Whether it is because they are simply letting their imaginations wander down tangled forest paths or because they are wrapped up in a newspaper, I get frustrated when their meanderings end up with near-collisions.

Recently - over the past few years I should say - my very British tutting, sighing and sometimes foot-tapping has been reserved for the moble phone gazers. People who are spending far too much time attempting to answer a text or finish a message on facebook, and thus spending far too little time paying attention to the road.

I've narrowly avoided an umbrella spike to the upper body unmentionables this week, because a man was engrossed in what looked like a BBC news interview with Jeremy Hunt. Now I have nothing against Jeremy Hunt as a person. But if his ferrety little face prevents someone from paying attention to what they are doing with a steel-point umbrella, then I do take issue with it.

Last week, a woman on the phone, with pushchair afore her and a toddler behind her, didn't notice her child was attempting to get back onto the train, because she was too busy telling "Kaneesha" that "If he thinks that I am going to sit down and take it just because she's my sister, then he's got another think coming."

And not to mention the innumerable times common-sense commuters have been held up at the ticket barrier because people in front have been absorbed by erudite textual conversations, such as "what are we having for dinner tonite" "Pizza" "OMD we had that last night u gtb laffing. U got jokes". Yes I was reading it over his shoulder. No, he didn't get his train pass out in time and we all waited behind him patiently. Sort of patiently. There was a lot of tutting. It was me.

Having ranted on many occasions about this perambulatory phenomenon, I was glad to find my gripes justified by claims statistics this week.

According to a pan-European study from SquareTrade, the majority of phone-damage incidents in the UK and elsewhere have occured because people were Wexting - the word I have coined to refer to "Walking and Texting".

The study also claimed 86 per cent of Britons have tripped, stumbled, walked into a lampost or wall because they were distracted by their mobile devices. As someone who has been often frustrated at every corner by an oblivious walker, I am not surprised by the statistic, but I am somewhat disappointed that I have never witnessed immediate Karma. It would be so good to say "I told you so", even if I hadn't actually told anyone so, unless a sharp London "tchah" and kissing my teeth counts. (It doesn't, apparently).

However for all those who, like me, wish for the good old days when people watched where they were going, and left poor lamposts and walls to mind their business without being walked into, we can take some comfort.

The SquareTrade study has revealed that, in a league table of mobile mishaps (yes, this is a thing and I have seen it), the Mediterranean countries are the worst offenders.

Greece, Italy and Spain have "the clumsiest mobile phone users in Europe".

The UK is only ranked sixth in this Darwinian table. Out of 12 countries, you can probably guess which country came in last - Germany. There's probably a law against using a phone while walking. I know there's a law against wearing a mask in public unless it's specifically on a known holiday. I can't tell you how I know this, but suffice it to say that my career as Spiderwoman didn't go anywhere after a stopover in Munich.

Quoted by SquareTrade were several dumbnuts, I mean, survey respondents, who detailed their mobile-related injuries. My two favourites.... with my commentary

“I have walked into a low-hanging tree branch and almost knocked myself out while tweeting.”
Birds have been tweeting since the dawn of time, and they are surprisingly good at not hitting their heads on branches. There is no excuse for you!

“I walked into a shop window and I’ve also fallen over using my phone”
TWICE? This person is a repeat offender? How far down the IQ spectrum do you have to be to achieve such moronity - twice! Walking into a shop window is stunning enough; wouldn't you be doubly cautious the next time you are texting and walking outside of the safety of one's own padded cell? I guess not.

I can only hope they live in Greece. Because if they live in the UK, I'm going to have to emigrate to Germany. With or without my mask.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The Taxman Cometh

Now here's a fun topic we haven't covered much before, partly because it's not fun at all: Tax.

Specifically, what measures some governments are going to in order to scoop more revenue in these austere times.

You probably read about this man.


What a handsome chappy! I hear you say. What is this troubled, "je ne sais pas" expression doing on such a silver fox of a man? Well this is not just a man, this is an M&S man. Actually, it's Viktor Orban, prime minister of Hungary, who has just earned the ire of 40 per cent of his electorate. I suspect a few more wrinkles will grace his brow now, than the few that were photographed by Reuters in 2010.

This week, Mr Orban had to backtrack furiously because he had proposed to introduce a tax on using the internet.

Yes, that's right, people would have had to pay tax on how many times they looked at pictures of cats! OUTRAGEOUS. Everyone knows, the internet is made of tubes, and the tubes are filled with cats.

Protestors took to the streets against the threat that they would have to pay the equivalent of 40p per gigabyte. Questions about freedom of information, freedom of expression, the right to browse, etc were lobbied inside and outside of the Hungarian parliament.

But as one of my favourite tax analysts, Andrew Hubbard of Baker Tilly, has said, although this internet tax may be "consigned to the dustbin of history", there is another tax row brewing, this time on the other side of the pond.

There is a tax vote going through San Francisco and Berkley, California, to impose a tax on sugary drinks. It has been mooted in other US cities and it has also been debated in the UK. Can we stop people from being fat by taxing the fun out of sugary drinks and fatty food?

Mr Hubbard said: "There have been other attempts to introduce such as tax but none have been successful because of public opposition to additional taxes and the clout of the powerful soft drinks lobby."

(Side-note: a Soft Drinks Lobby sounds really nice. It sounds like a seated area in a hotel or an office, where gorgeous waiting staff serve you ice-cold cola on a silver platter on a warm day, and hot squash and a blanket on a cool day. I'd like to spend time in that sort of a Soft Drinks Lobby.)

Mr Hubbard adds: "But the tide may be turning".

Yes, the healthcare lobby is desperate to get people to cut their sugar intake. If you've ever seen those Secret Eaters or Super Skinny vs Super Size shows on your tellybox, you will know how bad sugary drinks can be. I like watching those programmes, it really opens your eyes to what we are putting into our bodies. I make a point of watching a few episodes in a row on iPlayer, so that I can get through a whole tub of Ben 'n' Jerries while judging fatter people, silently.

So it may not be too long before this bizarre tax is levvied not just across the US but also in the UK. Teachers will rejoice.

It's not the most bizzare tax, however, in the UK. And certainly it is not the weirdest one in the world.

Here's my list of top five weird and wonderful taxes

1) The window tax. It sounds like a Tory Party policy to hit out at council house people who have not just a spare bedroom (The SIN!) but also have more than one window (coming over here, stealing our natural light). However, this was a real tax just over 350 years ago in the UK - which is why you will see many old buildings with some window cavities that have been bricked up.

2) Soap. Yes, that expensive commodity endured a tax for centuries across Europe, from the late middle ages onwards. It wasn't repealed until 1835, when, coincidentally, people started to realise that hygiene helped them not to get diseases. Some parts of the UK, teenage boys' bedrooms included, may think a tax on soap still exists. It is time to put them straight!

3) Urine the money. Yes, those lovely Romans didn't like people wasting their precious pee, especially as tanners (people who treated the skins of animals) and launderers (not money launderers) used the chemicals in urine to keep themselves in business. So by taxing other people's "business" back in the 1st Century, Vespasian managed to raise a lot of money from people buying urine. But then he had also managed to pee away the majority of his predecessor's large fortune...

4) Bearded Russians? You've heard of bearded Russians? Well, you wouldn't have if you visted in the early 1700s. That doyen of Czars, the Emperor Peter the Great - a man often pictured with a beard - placed a tax on beards so that men would look like the French, who were clean-shaven. For about 100 years, the Russian elite attempted to look, feel and sound French. Until that bald-faced Napoleon tried to invade Russia.

5) Hat Tax. For some weird reason unknown to anyone but the political establishment in 1784, England tried to impose a tax on hats. No man could wear one unless he paid a tax; in desperation at loss of customers, milliners invented new names for things you wear on your heads. The English government decided that wasn't cricket, and they were not about to start playing a Regency game of Taboo with hatmakers, so put a blanket ban on all headgear. This was repealed just before the Battle of Waterloo - so maybe Napoleon did English gentlemen and Russian noblemen a big favour. Hats and beards ahoy!

In fact, I am so happy that people have the right to be hatted and fuzzy-faced that I've decided to come out in favour of them. I don't have a hat in the office, so I hope my tache and beard will suffice.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Non Mea Culpa - it's all at your own risk

If you are sent cheques you bear all responsibility 

While scrying the internet on press day for stories that might whet the advisers' appetite, I came across consumer champion Tony Hetherington's latest investigation into Missing Cheques. More accurately, how one man cashed in his savings with Standard Life, and was sent a cheque from Capita to the tune of £928.

The cheque was paid into an account at Lloyds - but not by the intended recipient. He has never received his money after cashing in his savings. The upshot? According to Capita, it's all at the investor's own risk. They claimed to have sent the cheque to the correct address, so even if his mail was intercepted and the cheque was stolen, he will never see his money unless he tries to take the person who cashed his cheque to court.

It is all "at your own risk" if a cheque is sent to you.

Now I've heard the 'caveat emptor' phrase a million times and I have some sympathy for it. You must be able to bear some responsibility for what you buy. If you don't check the terms and conditions, if you don't get someone else to do this for you, if you don't understand what you are buying - then don't buy it! It is basic common sense.

You don't go into a clothes shop and tell the assistant that you like the bag in the window, then get given a mystery box all wrapped up and told to "sign here". You check the box to see what is in it before you pay for it. Or any sensible person would.

This reminds me of a story back from when my late Great Aunt Ivy was a young lady travelling to work in London back in the early 1920s. She bought herself a nightgown - a silk one - from a posh shop in the West End. The lady at the counter took the slip, turned around, wrapped it into a box and delivered it to Ivy without saying a word. When Ivy got home to try on her purchase, it was an old vest. No returns.

Always check in the box is a good simile for 'caveat emptor'.

But when it comes to other parties entrusted with the delivery of your money, what has happened to this man in the Mail's column is pretty shoddy behaviour. Did Lloyds not double-check the names and initials on the cheque? Why has Capita absolved all responsibility? Why has nobody examined the information to see whether Capita did, indeed, put the right address on the envelope?

To say that once you have sent a cheque to someone, it is their responsibility is ludicrous. There should be some duty of care involved - such as requring a signature on delivery of the cheque. This may not be a lot of money in the world of investment managers and consultants, whose salaries are enviable, but to a man whose entire savings with that provider didn't even amount to £1000, this makes a lot of difference.

Why couldn't the money be delivered by BACS?
Why couldn't it be paid directly into his account?
Why wasn't the cheque, if it had to be posted, tracked, marked for signature on receipt?

This smacks of being careless with other people's money and for the victim, this isn't a laughing matter. Although of course, someone was laughing - the person who took this fellow's cheque all the way to the bank.