Three 22 year old females - two teachers and one undecided 1st class honours graduate. All horribly under dressed and horribly presentable. One is my daughter so is excused all attention but the two friends.....oh, ah, sacre-blooming-bleu.

One 55 year old female nurse. Also very well preserved.

Lots of drinkies and chat since midday.

One male (i.e. Foxwriter) then joins them at 6pm and after about an hour is thoroughly baffled but intruiged by many personal revelations and insights into the female mind.

Not to mention many glimpses of bosoms and assorted leg/thigh/undies.

Am I a perve or am I just lucky?

"Just when you thought it was safe to go into the water".

There was I, happily chugging along, imagining that the story is all safely tucked into bed (unlike their daughter) and we are now safe to read the papers and teletext and what happens?

Two 'headlines'

"Mcanns angry over Policias 'failures' to fully inform them".

and...

"Possible sighting of Maddy reported".

As I say above "arrrrggggggggggggggg"!

Please, no more. Let the whole sorry charade of the almost criminally irresponsible parents and their desperate attempts to obfuscate their appalling mistake and the subsequent nauseating collusion of the chattering classes fade away into media history.

Note to editors. (Upper case please Mr. Blog so even they can understand).

THE MCANNS ARE NOT NEWS. THE STORY IS OVER AND PLEASE TRY TO UNDERSTAND THAT SIMPLE FACT.

Everyone is conspiring to annoy me today.

Well, I will admit there is 'someone' who has cheered me up during today but let her remain incognito.

But as for work. When you appoint someone to do a job and they are a so-called 'professional' you do not expect to have to treat them like (a) a clueless schoolboy (b) a fly-by-night salesman or (c) Bob the Bent Builder.

These smart suited swine are all very well and fine at boasting about their qualifications, experience, integrity and high ethical standards but, having paid far too much money to these charalatans, these 'double glazing salesmen in wigs' as I have heard them called by other clients, I now find their 'top man' has been lying through his teeth for weeks.

"What do you mean, he no longer works for you? Is that the sum total of the service you provide?"

All the other 'experts' involved in this shambles are diving for cover as fast as their 'professional indemnity cover' encourages them, leaving me, silly sod that I am, to carry the can.

Why, oh why do I do it?

Money!

Currently involved in an irritating exchange of emails with a H&S person of the young, confident, pushy and annoying female variety.

An 'incident' happens on a site. No one hurt, nothing actually damaged. Only a possiblity of a problem. All resolved on site. Peace and harmony reigns on site.

Then, a snowstorm of emails and complaints erupts. Words like 'serious', 'worrying' and 'possible future action' abound. Tied me up all morning making several phone calls, sending copy emails and involving other people into wasting their time as well as mine. All so this blasted harpy can justify her salary and benefits.

What makes someone become a H&S 'expert'? Is it the lack of suitable employment opportunities, a sizeable inferiority complex, an overwhelming sense of self-importance or a strong desire to show other people how ill educated and unprofessional we are?

'Those who can do. Those who can't teach. Those who can't do either become H&S people'.

'Jan' has been in touch again.

Well, when I say 'in touch', what I really mean is her fingers have stumbled over the keys of her mobile and found me again.

This time, it's not too fruity.

"ok np bt wish u r wiv me cos i jst had anothr urge need u ere 2 do somfin abt it luv u lots an lots jan!"

My mobile number must be one digit out or one simple transposition from whomsoever is the satisfier of 'Jan's' urges to make this an easy repeat performance.

As on the previous occasion, I dithered between keeping quiet or reminding her of her error.

But, in a mood of self-preservation, I really need to keep such 'txts' from my wife. Can you imagine the trouble I would be in?

So, decision made and the text safely deleted, a further reminder was sent to 'Jan' about discretion, safe sex and to be careful what she does with her fingers!

Previous hopes about the Mcann case have finally come to fruition.

1. Portugese Policias have finally admitted defeat and pulled the investigation into the girl's disappearance and at the same time lifted the official status of 'arguidos' from the parents.

2. The first anniversary of the disappearance has passed.

3. The press now have lots of other topice for their readers to absorb.

4. The mystery may join the thousands of others, equally deserving but buried under this avalanche of middle class single-issue reporting.

4. I may be able to buy a newspaper without some mention of the case arousing my ire. (Not a pretty sight).

5. Foxwriter can now go and find other, less controversial topics. And people can stop sticking pins in his effigy.

(Have you ever had a sore effigy madam? Not pleasant I can assure you).

Looking for a copy of a reference book, which in my study is always a daunting task, I came across an old diary from 1998.

Week beginning 13 July 1998. What was in the news? What were the big events of July 1998. Well, an admission - I cannot for the life of me remember anything significant about that year, that month. Must have been a momentous time in history.

So - the week according to Foxwriter. Of necessity the diary is curt, factual and only related to work, however the entries open up a small gap in the mist that obscures my past.

Monday 13 July: 'Cardiff'.
Memories of a 2 hour drive, so often repeated, beginning with 11 miles of quiet country lanes, leaving the house at 8am. On to the M5 (busy) and M50 (very quiet). Why the M50 should always be so empty is beyond me but I never complain, even though it is 2 lane the lack of traffic meant that phase of my (fairly regular) trip was almost a pleasure. The following A roads - A40 and A449 were equally deserted and, especially on a spring or autumn morning were a real treat. Then - reality.

The M4.

No more should be said about the M4 in south Wales on a Monday morning. And the final trudge through the suburbs of Cardiff to 'The Office'. A dead 100 miles. At least I am spared a day's work, the monthly 'team meeting' which involves around 2 hours sitting in a crowded room, manfully trying to stay awake while the vacuous and dreary bursts forth. We sit at the feet of Great Men (!!) and are treated to many pearls of wisdom! Back in the car at mid-day and off to freedom!

Tuesday 14 July: 'Paignton'.
Site meeting 11am. One of the 'perks' of that job was the regular visits to rather nice places. Always made a rule to get there early and wander along the seafront, maybe down to the very edge of the sea for a while. Relax after the 3 hour drive and collect my thoughts. Then lunch somewhere quaint and a gentle drive back.

Wednesday 15 July. 'Cardiff':
Now, this entry has me baffled. Quite why I had to go back down to 'The Office' again I do not know. The only excuse I can think of is a 'Seminar'. The instruction, by the unintelligent of the uninterested. Oh my! So many seminars, conferences, courses...... If they had been of academic import by now I would have half a dozen Masters degrees and a couple of PhDs.
I admit defeat and cannot remember a thing about Wednesday 15 July.

Thursday 16 July. 'Exeter'.
The usual meeting with consultants. A 312 mile blast down almost the entire length of the M5 followed by a jolly jostle with the drivers of Exeter. Guarantee of excellent coffee and biscuits, 2 hours of enlightenment and entertainment (consultants NEVER give bad news to clients, I wonder why).
Drive back with a stop somwehere rural and bucolic for lunch.

Friday 17 July. A blank.
I'm sure SOMETHING happened this day. But, as nothing is written, then like this blog, it never existed.

I just had a strange text on my mobile.

Obviously (and unfortunately - as you will see) the text was not meant for me so someone has misdialled my number.

And if you are a blogger on here and sent the text - prepare to be embarassed!

I'm not one for 'txtspk' so I will transcribe as faithfully as I can:

"i didnt mnd lst nite ys it ws mssy an u soaked my knix but i washd thm whn i gt hm b4 mum cud fnd out! jan "

Now, my linguistic skills are stretched to the limit here, but I am fairly sure I understand what she is saying and what happened.

As indeed, can you!

Even with the curious mix of 'txt' and english!

Unfortunately for the (young?) lady in question, her number was attached to the message.

So, should I "txt" her back and wait for the screams of embarrasment or just ignore?

Monday ends the weekend.

Friday evening. Trench warfare in our friends' marriage. My sympathies, which had been for the female half of the duet have been swinging towards the male faction, primarily because of the vicious verbal battering he has to endure. Whilst admitting partial justification on her part due to his regime of sarcasm and cold logic, studied indifference and practiced control, some of the attacks go beyond mere gainsaying. Long standing cracks in their relationship are growing. Her acohol intake continues apace with intervals of self-denial that show an underlying strength of character (which we all know is there but ever more hidden), followed by savage bouts of drinking, and once the binges start.....

Saturday eldest daughter went off to a 'do' and reported a good time had by all even though some of the 'honoured guests' behaved dishonourably by smugglng in their own supplied of drink. How that can be justified is beyond me. Once all the county pubs and quirky hotels have closed down due to these indivuals' indifference by purchasing cheap supermarket booze to drink at home, drink driving laws, anti-smoking laws, planning laws etc. then the very same people will raise a storm of protest at the destruction of the 'traditional' and probably raise a campaing to 'bring back the village pub'. The very thing they have killed off. And don't get me started on the fate of rural and small filling stations, killed of by greedy retail giants and parsimonious drivers.... Calm. Be still.

Saturday evening off for a soiree of sparkling wit and conversation (of course you remember darling) including a 90 mile rain soaked round trip, sharing the motorways with several 'swoopers'.

Swoopers?

Have you not encountered this particular species? Perpetrators of the entertaining and often lethal practice of leaving the motorway in a daredevil and exuberant manner. The trick is to drive along in lane 3, usually well over the 70mph speed limit, wait until the last possible moment until arriving at (or even past) the 100 metre mark, and then dive across all 3 lanes, to join the off-slip as close as possible to the crash barriers. This demonstration of superior car control forces those of us, while admiring their maturity and expertise behind the wheel, to brake and/or swerve out of their way. Very reminiscent of the tale of Alex in 'A Clockwork Orange' where he "shared the road with other travellers of the night".

Sunday was wet wet and soggy. British Grand Prix bit of a disappointment, those that should have finished higher didn't because of poor service from their teams and the podium was therefore a bizzare confection of the over-rated and under performing. The television and press, of course, in a mood of jingoistic hysteria but no surprises there.

Hey ho, maybe Deutchland will offer a better spectacle.

Notes of a lecture prepared for the Royal College of Gastro-Nasal Consultants.

Chandibar. June 1904.

Spring and early summer. Time of growth, of colour, of joy, of the sap rising in ones...

Suffice to say it annoys the hell out of me because of the grass pollen.

That's right, hayfever. The Curse of Spring. The Rite of Nasal Passage. In Japanese ‘Kamikaze – The Divine Wind.

However the one only good aspects of the whole miserable process is szeezing.

One of the few natural, unregulated and frankly uninhibited pleasures left to Man.

I say ‘Man’, because, for some perverse reason, few Women seem to take delight in this simple, traditional and enduring ritual.

The inhalation, the delightful pause, seemingly forever teetering on the brink, between two states of being, followed by the orgasmic explosion.

Well, perhaps orgasmic is an unnecessarily crude analogy but perversely a sneeze was used to attempt to explain an orgasm to the 30 hairy male teenagers in my class. Ah, no hairy females?. If there were, perhaps we would not have needed the sneeze to stimulate our imaginations!

I well remember the teacher......no, I will leave that exposition for another blog, probably one hidden from delicate female eyes.

Back to the subject of my paper tonight.

The sneeze. This takes many forms.

A short bark. A loud, almost medieval scream. A stifled squeak – most common amongst Women and precursor to damaged ear drums and soiled raiments. And the common or garden Atishoo!

However, I have found that the most satisfying variation (or the very, very annoying version if you are any other person on the planet apart from me) is the sneeze that recreates exactly the war cry of a tribal chief from the old North West Frontier of the Raj, loudly exhorting his men to gird their loins, rush down from the mountains and wipe out the hated British soldiers.

The terrifying and justly infamous 'Khyber Pass' blast.

A sneeze of epic Victorian dimension.

Beginning quietly, the inhalation resonates to a mournful "Ahhh kaa saa ararararar" (repeat as necessary, ad nauseam, ad infinitum, ad tishoo), slowly but sonorously increase the in volume and pitch until the point of no return is reached. A brief moment for reflection and to choose a suitably open and pedestrian-free orientation. Then - take heart, believe in the integrity of ones underwear - and let rip with the time-honoured roar of "Khandaharibarrrrrrrrr"!

Ah, the simple pleasures.