.....thinking inside or outside a box.

In the 1990s I worked for a director who had seemed to have made a personal discovery of the relationship between boxes and thinking. Every monthly meeting he would find some pretext to tell us about at least two examples of thinking outside the box. The inside the box thinkers, including myself, then spent a harrowing three or four weeks trying to come up with some credible out of the box thinking that would come to his attention and be praised at the next meeting. As you have guessed, we were never too sure how far outside the box we could venture without being seen as foolish. Fortunately all mention of boxes at meetings disappeared within a year and a half and we no longer had to worry about whether we were thinking in or out of them. This was a trendy business idea that had made more than a few management gurus and motivational speakers a lot of money, but it could not sustain the test of time beyond a couple of years. So, I was really surprised when I heard it again on the radio.

As it happened, I was driving from the Metro station to my home this week listening to a careers program, where the theme was about making it big in business. A fellow from the electrical goods industry was telling how he came to the city with empty pockets and became a millionaire a year later. Of course, we understood that he had to mention at least five times about how he succeeded because of his great passion for what he was doing, selling toasters and coffee-makers. We also half-expected him to tell us that he had only been able to do this because he had such talented staff, and on this he didn't disappoint us. However, he then just went too far when he stated, in his own words, that all of his success was due to thinking out of the box. Unable to hold back any longer, I was forced to wind down my window and evacuate the contents of my lunch box. There's nothing worse than doing anything inside or outside a box.

...looking like a spiv.

Last weekend, while out with my wife Asha, I bought a pair of sunglasses. Obviously, to me anyway, I needed to start wearing them straight away.  Asha then questioned me, using rather overly-harsh terms I think, about why I was walking around a shopping mall in the middle of the afternoon wearing sunglasses. I pointed out that I was road testing them - making sure, whilst in the comfort and safety of Festival City mall, that I didn't walk into people and things, fall down stairs or trip over imaginary cracks in the floor. This didn't convince Asha, who declared that she wasn't going to walk with me if I continued wearing them. One glance into a convenient shop window mirror revealed the reason why she was right to say this - I looked like a spiv*.  On a beach, nobody bothers to look at men so it doesn't matter what they look like, but in town men and sunglasses form a difficult juxtaposition. Women, of course, always look good in sunglasses in any location, but at least 75% of men look definitely spiv-like, and I am, unfortunately, one of them. I will wear them on my daily ten-minute walk from Dubai Internet City Metro station to where I teach, Knowledge Village. Once safely out of the sun and inside Knowledge Village I can take them off and look like an English teacher again.


*spiv. English slang word, dating from the 1930's. 1. One who shirks work or responsibility; a slacker.  2. A person who makes a living by underhand and black market dealings.

... being lost for words.

In a recent English class the topic was favourite films. The learning objectives focused on the vocabulary and grammar required to discuss preferences. Towards the end of the lesson I asked the students what their favourite film was, and nobody had a favourite film. It also transpired that they also didn't have a favourite book, or song. I expected, at the very least, Titanic. I was completely lost for words, as were they. I wasn't sure what to do next as the last part of the lesson required them to describe their favourite film or book, or song.  I ended up finding a few words and talking about my favourite film, which took us to the end of the lesson, but rather pointlessly. My favourite film is Educating Rita, where the characters, like me, probably use too many words. Who is interested in me talking about my favourite anything?

... accidental use of alliteration.

There's nothing worse than accidental use of alliteration

I like alliteration, but I think it should be used with care and thought. In Celtic and 17th century poetry we cannot question its use, but everyday use is problematic.  It always seems to me that alliteration somehow or other reduces the seriousness of the implications of written and spoken English, which is okay if that is what you want to do, but not otherwise. An argument for using it is to make the alliterated words memorable. However, using motorway madness seems to mask the reality of people driving too quickly and killing or injuring other people.  Commuter chaos is miserable for people trying to get to and from work. An habitual party pooper is probably someone who could do with some serious psychotherapy, as does a moaning Minnie. Nobody wants to be in the middle of a family feud or a damaging dispute, which might lead one into the depths of despair. Quite obviously, he who laughs last might laugh the longest, but getting the last laugh often requires either quite a lot of good fortune or well-planned deviousness. 

...forgetting to eat your apple.

There's nothing worse than forgetting to eat your apple.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.  This may be true, and in a recent case in the USA a doctor in a nursing home refused to go into the room of a poorly patient to administer CPR because, so it was claimed, there were apples in the room. Whatever we think of the apple, it certainly keeps away the hunger pains you might have at midday if you left home early without eating a proper breakfast.  It is always my intention to eat my apple before entering the Metro station on my way home, as eating is not allowed in Metro stations and trains, but normally I realise, just as I enter the station concourse, that the apple is still in my bag. Invariably I end up putting it back onto the fruit tray in the living room when I get home. Accordingly, one apple may have taken three trips on the Metro before I actually eat it.  However, perhaps it's not my fault, and the apple is manipulating me to gain a better understanding of the Metro system.  It is a recently discovered fact that the apple has about 57,000 genes, which is the highest known number of any genome of a plant studied. This number is also about twice the number of genes in the human body, so in some sense, the apple is superior to the human being. This is worth pondering on whilst you are eating your apple strudel.

... wandering in the temple of immensity

Uncommon idioms are always lurking in the shadows and waiting to trip us up. A student on a course I was teaching last week asked me about the idiom "hunting the dog".  I hadn't heard it before and it was impossible to make anything more than a feeble guess at the meaning.  The idiom "not pulling a full load" used to trouble me, as did "holding your/my/his/her/our/their own". Anyway, it seems to me about time I started to make up my own idioms and try to get them introduced into regular use. From the vocabulary of playing cards "flush the aces" sounds goods. Marketing manager to sales manager. "I don't know what you think, but I think we need to flush the aces on this one." "Reverse the suits" is a bit weaker, but has inherent residual qualities. From sport, "up for a googly", "in sight of the boundary", "securing the blocks" and "swimming with one ear out of the water"  are usable  In politics, "voting with his left leg" and "preemptive presidential precision" could take seed.  Anyway, perhaps it is a waste of space, and I am just treading water whilst wandering in the temple of immensity, awaiting arrival of the flame of destiny or the march of the frozen wastelands.

... the only person unable to get into a commuter train.

There's nothing worse than being the only person unable to get into a commuter train.

The way into the main city From terminal 1 at Narita International Airport is by one of those really snazzy high speed railways.   You go down three levels by escalator, and up again two.  To take the train you naturally assume that you need to purchase a ticket.  Except in uber efficient Tokyo they've long since abandoned actual train tickets and phased over to universal smart cards, which are used everywhere from the train network to 7-11's.  After purchasing your Sunjiko smart card from a fortress-like enclosure, you spend a few long seconds figuring out how to wave it across a sensor on your way to the high speed train platform.  Then, when the train arrives, you are confronted with the problem of how to make the door open so you can get on the train. Seasoned Tokyo commuters line up behind you silently and politely seething until you've finally worked it out - you have to locate a cleverly disguised button and gently press it.

                  Contributed by Mickey Gidwani                             

....not having access to YouTube

Why is there's nothing worse than not having access to YouTube?

Is YouTube the most incredible phenomenon of the 21st Century?  Some politicians want to control it, after all, why would they want the world to see an event actually as it happened, and filmed by a person actually involved? Why can't everyone understand that in the 21st-century people can analyze situations themselves and come to their own conclusions? Why did we allow the political awareness of the 60's and early 70's to die?

Why is there no picture in this blog entry? Why am I constantly using rhetorical questions?

....a dog that won't go for a walk

There's nothing worse than a dog that won't go for a walk.

We have a King Charles Cavalier spaniel, called Charlie. He snores very loudly when he sleeps. This is manageable although troublesome, however the "I'm not that sort of dog that you can take for a long walk" attitude is not so easy to cope with. The dog we had previously, Sockie, before she became ill, could definitely be classified as a good walker. She knew Sharjah streets better than we did. Before Sockie, Duchess liked nothing more than a long but gentle stroll around the Green Valley housing compound in Dammam, often on her own. Charlie likes to go out, but regards 50 metres as being his limit, and will then stand still or turn back home. We have various ideas about how to develop him into a marathon walker, but are unlikely to implement then. We go for a walk, he stays at home, this is the new order. 

.....incorrect use of a defining clause

Mr Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London recently said in a speech announcing a project to help underachievers in government-funded schools 
“There is nothing worse than seeing pupils full of potential slowly drifting into apathy." 
We can understand from this that it is acceptable for the pupils that are not full of potential to drift into apathy. I don't think he meant this. I think he was just guilty of sloppy grammar. If he wanted to portray himself as the saver of potentially pathetic juvenile souls he should have used the non-defining clause “There is nothing worse than seeing pupils, who are all full of potential, slowly drifting into apathy."  (ps - I don't actually know what drifting into apathy means, but it sounds like something you don't want to happen to young people). Using a non-defining clause in a sentence when speaking is a bit tricky, but the British politician can generally pull it off. However, with right-wing politicians, even when they use simple and compound sentences, it's not always clear what they mean when they talk about publicly-funded education. Most of them, like Boris Johnson, went to private schools, so only have second-hand information about the state system, fed to them by assistants who themselves went to private school.  Still, Boris Johnson is regarded as a jolly decent fellow so lets hope that he can get all those slackers to shape up and learn how to conjugate their verbs.

......finding out that it's you that doesn't get the point.

I went to see the Gold Pavilion Temple in Kyoto and was surprised how well it had weathered the passage of time since it was first built in the fourteenth century.  I was then told it hadn't weathered well at all, and had been burned to the ground twice, quite recently.


"So this isn't the original building?"  I asked my Japanese guide.  
"Yes, of course it is," he insisted.
"But it's been burned down?"
"Yes."
"Twice."
"Many times."
"And rebuilt."

"Of course.  It is an important and historic building."

"With completely new materials."
"But of course.  It was burned down.  The latest technology was used to ensure it wouldn't burn down again."
"So how can it be the same building?"
"It is always the same building."

I had to admit to myself that this was in fact a perfectly rational point of view, it merely started from an unexpected premise.  The idea of the building, the intention of it, its design, are all immutable and are the essence of the building.  The intention of the original builders is what survives.  The wood of which the design is constructed decays and is replaced when necessary.  To be overly concerned with original materials, which are merely sentimental souvenirs of the past, is to fail to see the living building itself.  It wasn't an entirely comfortable viewpoint for me because it fought against my basic Western assumptions, but I did finally see the point.  However, there's nothing worse than finding out that it's you that doesn't get the point.

Bloggers Note.                          This entry was written by Mickey Gidwani.

... a leather waistcoat.

There is nothing worse than a leather waistcoat.

Waistcoat belongs to a group of words like ankle sock, headscarf, ear muffler and eye glass that are strangely appealing - in a vocab sense. However, there can be nothing appealing about a man wearing a leather waistcoat.  British Prime Ministers that came before Harold Wilson often wore a waistcoat, normally under a tweedy kind of jacket, but these usually were also tweedy and matched the jacket. Unless I am mistaken, waiters at the Angus Steak House in London wore a natty tartan design waistcoat some years ago, but definitely not in leather. Imagine my surprise when I saw a man waiting on Union metro platform, on quite a warm day, wearing a black leather waistcoat and no jacket. Why? With those little pockets it's okay for the train ticket, but where did he keep his wallet and mobile phone? What possible benefit could be gained from wearing it? I tried not to let it worry me too much whilst waiting to board the next Green Line train. When the train came in I stood politely to one side to let the passengers off, when suddenly I was pushed aside by the very man in question, who then sat on the only free seat in the carriage. I could have got somewhat annoyed, but then what can you expect from a man wearing a black leather waistcoat.

...having a BBQ on the beach

My wife and I live in a very pleasant location within Sharjah. Sharjah is not the destination of choice for many people, even those that live here, but it does have some nicer areas, one of them being where we rent our apartment. We live on Khalid Lagoon, with Al Khan lagoon on the other side, and, compared to the rest of Sharjah, not so much traffic and human kind. In fact, there is a lot of sand and a large grassy area. However, this relative peace and quiet means that people with only one discernible aim in mind, to burn fresh meat to a cinder, come to the beaches in big numbers in the evening and the weekend. Obviously there are many signs on the beach saying that barbecuing is prohibited, but this is one of those local regulations that is never enforced. We like to walk there, but it is impossible to do so without a full face gas mask and night vision goggles due to the waves of impenetrable choking blue-black smoke and the acrid smell that clings to the atmosphere. I am amazed that barbecuers can even sit amongst it, let alone eat. When we do venture in that direction we are inevitably driven back into our apartment, which thankfully is 35 floors up. The smoke doesn't reach that height, yet.

... making the wrong choice when using singular or plural

Whether or not to make a noun singular or plural is definitely problematic in the English language.  In my previous post, in deference to the Four Tops and for the sake of historical accuracy, the plural of shadow has been used. However, love, as an idea, cannot be counted, so how is it possible for love to have more than one shadow? Similarly, with death. Some people think that we spend our life walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Note that this is only one shadow and we don't know if it is big or small.  Are the roads ahead difficult, or is the road ahead difficult? I am thinking again about love, which can, and frequently does, cast a shadow over everyday existence. One shadow might be bearable, but when it casts many shadows then you are indeed in a very dark place.

... standing in the shadows of love

You will be preparing yourself for the heartaches to come. They might come today or tomorrow. You will want to run away but you know the heartaches will follow you. You need love because without love it is the beginning of the end. You have no reasons for living. All the love you have given has been thrown away. You were there when you were needed, you treated the other person well, but now you find yourself rejected and alone. You are, in fact, destined to be all alone for the rest of your life, with misery your only company. What caused all of this? You really don't know why you have been treated in this way. You are trying not to cry out loud because crying isn't going to help any more. The one thing you are sure about is that from today, or perhaps tomorrow, you've got nothing but loneliness and misery for the rest of your life.

.. a fading memory

There's nothing worse than a fading memory.

I kept hearing a snippet of music on the radio in an advert. I knew I had listened to the complete track in my youth many times. I just couldn't remember where the snippet came from.  Google is great, but one thing it doesn't do is allow you to submit a few notes of music and find the track that it came from, I don't think. Suddenly, as if I had been through one of those back-to-your-childhood hypnotherapy sessions, I remembered it. Well actually I remembered Jeff Love, the band leader. It wasn't him, but then Google somehow got me to Jeff Wayne, via Jeff Beck and then Jeff Lynne. The issue now for me is to decide whether this is a an old memory rediscovered and soon to be discarded or a new memory just put into my brain cells.  If it is old, which is possible, then I need to record it somewhere so that it doesn't become a cob-webbed relic in some unused area of my brain.  The complete track is The Eve of the War, from War of the Worlds, by Jeff Wayne, including the wonderful narration by Richard Burton.

Jeff Wayne - The Eve of the War .mp3 Found at bee mp3 search engine

It seems, in the past few months, that War of the Worlds has become a media and entertainment industry talking point again, perhaps due to the anticipated catastrophe in December that didn't happen.  Living in Sharjah, these things often pass by unnoticed, which might have benefits - there's no danger of remembering and forgetting it. 

Technology note:  The link to War of the Worlds by Jeff Wayne doesn't work on Ipad or Iphone.  I thought I could fix it, but it has to use a flash player, so no go.

... being in the wrong idiom.

The other day I was more than a little disoriented. I could have been in the soup or perhaps I was in hot water. My wife suggested that I might be up the creek without a paddle, whereas my friend was sure I was in a spot of bother, although I didn't agree with him. When I checked on Bing maps it suggested I was up ship (polite p=t) street. I was pretty sure that I wasn't riding a horse with no name or had my head in the clouds. I don't think, either, that I was on my last legs and was definitely nowhere near the last knockings and was not out for the count. Perhaps I was just under the weather. Was I close to something - perhaps the edge, the bone, the wire or even the call? No definitely not. I was in something. If this feeling comes back I might find myself jumping ship and heading towards the murky depths.

..finding a thrupenny bit in your Christmas pudding

There's nothing worse than finding a thrupenny bit in your Christmas pudding.

Pronunciation note. Thr- oo - penny. Say the u like the oo in book or look.

Some people might say there's nothing worse than Christmas pudding, other that there's nothing worse than the complete Christmas dinner. Finding a thrupenny bit in your mouth in the middle of eating that great British delicacy on Christmas day, having already consumed enough calories for the next five days, can never be regarded as a good thing. So this is what has happened. Mum has put a thrupenny bit in the pudding during the mixing stage and cooked the pudding with it inside. Where did she get it from? It hasn't been legal tender in the UK since 1971. Did she have a collection of old coins she had kept from childhood? Probably. Did she properly sterilise the thrupenny bit before putting it in the pudding mix? Probably not. After being the chosen one who found the coin, it must, of course, be given back to Mum for use again next year. The thrupenny bit in question, I'm sure, had an interesting tale to tell, up to that point in time. All the pockets and purses it had been in doesn't bear thinking about. The places where it had changed hands are even more intriguing. Perhaps the young soon-to-be Queen Elizabeth used it to buy a bag of boiled sweets from her local corner shop. Maybe Bobby Moore used it to buy three penny-worth of chips after coming out of Upton Park on a cold Saturday evening having just played a blinder against Liverpool. However, this year, it ended up being swilled around in someone's mouth, and next year - same thing. Tradition is a wonderful thing.

.....not having in-carriage announcements

Today I was in a bit of a dream, standing, as always, in the Dubai Metro Green Line train on the way from Union Station (Al Etihad) to Stadium Station (Al Stad). In fact, if I had imagined myself to be in a seat I would have been in an actual dream. Where was I? What day was it? Was it winter or spring? I didn't know, but it didn't matter because there would be a more than helpful in-carriage announcement bringing me back to reality.    I spent the first 30 years of my life travelling the London Underground when they only had announcements on the platform. Now, I think that there is nothing worse than not having the friendly Metro announcer telling me in Arabic and English when it's my time to get off.

..red underpants

There's nothing worse than red underpants.

When I was a child in East London, no boy, as far as I could determine, wore underpants bought from a shop. There was always a woman – maybe a relative, mother's friend or someone from mother's job - who came round to your house at about 7 o'clock midweek with two large carrier bags containing underpants, vests and socks. The origin of the underwear was never discussed, although it was understood that there were many different ways that clothing could walk out of a warehouse or jump out of the back of a truck. It was assumed that they were never seconds – although the elastic in some pairs did tend to get a little limp after a few months in the wash. Accordingly, prices were always considered to be better than in a shop, as in the title song for the British TV series "Only Fools and Horses" - no income tax, no VAT, no money back, no guarantee. Colour, for underpants and vests, was never an issue – it was always white. The material looked as if it was cotton. This experience determined my concept of the underpant. Later in life, I discovered that you could buy a mixed pack of underpants for a reasonable price, made out of something synthetic. Typically, you would get two white, two blue and two red, but never six white. You had moved out from home, and never saw the underwear woman again, so you bought the coloured collection. Wearing the red, however, was always a very reluctant choice – you wore them because you had no other colour available. While you are out on the street in red you always have to worry about having an accident or falling ill. After all, there's nothing worse than being taken to hospital in an ambulance wearing red underpants.  

..being caught in a traffic jam in Sharjah

There's nothing worse than being caught in a traffic jam in Sharjah.   People, in Sharjah, are in their cars. There's no metro or effective bus service. They need to go somewhere. They can't – they are caught in a solid wall of slow-moving or stationary traffic. No car dare leave more than a 10 cm gap between itself and the car in front. Three lanes go to four then back to three. Is there a possibility of turning into a side street and taking another route? Yes, but then the traffic on that route will also be at a stand still. Will a bit of multiple lane-swapping help? Many are not good at it, so don't do it, but some, particularly the smart dark blue BMW's and white Mercedes are – but then they only manage to move up a few places. Perhaps now is the time to listen to the news broadcast on the radio. Okay, you've done that, now what? Listen to a CD, but then you've heard it 50 times before. Make a phone call – illegal, but all the Landcruisers do it, now what? Contemplate life, but don't go into a dream and take your eyes off the fender of the car in front or you will certainly bump into him. Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? If you are heading towards Dubai, yes, because there the traffic moves along at an acceptable pace.

..speaking in cockney rhyming slang.

There's nothing worse than speaking in cockney rhyming slang.

So, I was in a bit of two and eight this morning as I couldn't get into work. The trouble and strife had already left for the smoke in her jam jar and mine was under the weather.  I had fallen down the apples and pears last night and hurt my Harper Lee a little, so I wasn't happy about taking Shank's pony to the station to get the train.  I decided to get on the dog and bone to the John Moss.  When I told him I was really Jack and Jill I had the feeling that he knew I was telling a pork pie, well I couldn't tell him I didn't have a set of wheels. Anyway, with nothing better to do, I decided to have a Jimmy Riddle and go back to Uncle Ned.

.. being caught on the street in the monsoon in Mumbai

There's nothing worse than being caught on the street in the monsoon in Mumbai.  Some cities, like London and Hong Kong, function as normal in heavy rain, but not Mumbai. When the rains (monsoon) come in India it is, of course, a good thing. The temperature drops. The air freshens up. Farmers are happy. The reservoirs get filled. The PM's office makes an eagerly awaited statement about the state of the monsoon. At Bandstand in Bandra young people have fun in the rain. Families splash about and take pictures of themselves on Worli seafront.  So why should it be so awful being caught out in the heavy rains in Mumbai? Instant mini-floods and maxi-floods are more than inconvenient, every taxi and auto being full puts you into a feeling of despair, buses staying in the depot is disconcerting, flooded railway tracks don't bode well for the immediate future, getting into a train or bus packed with wet people is to be avoided, being infected with the dengue virus is as bad as it sounds, dead rats floating by can spoil your day, falling into a hidden hole in the road will have consequences. Anyway, in Mumbai, more than anywhere else in the world, life goes on, so why does anything need to change.

.. missing the last bus home.

There's nothing worse than missing the last bus home.  As you are approaching the bus stop you see it disappearing off into the night sky. Frantic waving is useless, the driver has no inclination to stop and wait for you, even if she/he is sure you aren't a terrorist, drunk or a troublemaker. You know it is the last bus, and curse yourself for ordering the tiramisu instead of taking a piece of Black Forest gateau from the dessert tray. Your first act is to stand at the bus stop and look as if you are expecting another bus to come, as a way of denying the truth. This waiting period is usually about fifteen minutes, and passes surprisingly quickly. There is no need to do or think of anything constructive during this period of time. Then comes a period of contemplation about your place in the world. If you were John Paul Getty (junior) or Oprah Winfrey you would not be in this predicament. Why you, what have you done to deserve this? Is this conclusive proof that you are, in fact, the worthless, dysfunctional individual that everyone thinks you are?