Squash Club Championships

Having had squash lessons every fornight for the past six months it is time to cut the mustard. How good will I be in this year's squash club championships? Last year I finished 5th which I wasn't unhappy with, but this year I've spent money on improvement.

On the Saturday morning at eleven o'clock I find out I have a relatively easy draw. There are 32 people taking part in a mens knockout draw of five rounds. For the finalists three games on the Saturday and two on the Sunday.

The first couple of games are easy. It's always a surprise when you find out you can beat quite accomplished players easily, but squash is a game where players can be accurately grouped according to ability. There are very few real upsets. After winning the first two games 3-0 I'm cruising; feeling good and warmed up. If not actually in 'the zone', then certainly heading towards it. The only drawback with these tournaments is the waiting involved, not long enough to really go home and come back, but long enough to get bored between games.

The third round (quarter final) is on Saturday evening and against a player I regularly train with. We are evenly matched, but I usually end up winning, and so it turns out today. Having a referee and a prize to play for brings out both our competitive edges, there is a bit of bumping and pushing and some bad tempered moments but I end up winning 3-1. I cycle home at seven o'clock happy with the days work.

Sunday's semi-final starts at 12:30. I'm playing the number 1 in my squash team (I'm number 2, some might say appropriately). Again we're pretty equal so it'll be another tight game. Will my lessons pay off?

With Linda watching and in spite of a strong start, I lose the first game. I walk the second game 9-0 and then the agro starts. Arjan, my opponent, starts his dirty tricks. Arguing with the referee, a little push here, a little shove there. It's enough to break my concentration and I Iose the third game after making a number of mistakes, now 2-1 behind. The fourth game, unfortunately, goes the same way. My concentration and rhthym are once again broken up, and I can't get going. It's a frustrating way to lose.

We haven't got on to 'keeping your concentration when your opponent tries dirty tricks' in my squash lessons yet.

The 3/4 place play-off is a bit of a let down. I win easily, beating the loser from the other semi-final 3-0. So I end up third. Not bad, of course. Better than last year. But I could have done better I think.

The New Piano

Piano 1
Originally uploaded by shornbare.

Note the bad posture of the amateur piano player (and Glen Gould wannabes)

New Piano

Last Thursday saw a new arrival in our household. A Roland digital piano. 'The Rolls-Royce of digital pianos' the salesman assured us. And he could be right. Mum and Dad, concerned that they were favouring Helen and Rupert by buying them digital pianos for their wedding presents, finally sat down and did some maths and figured that they'd better buy me one now. So when they were over here we went off to the piano shop one rainy morning. The salesman entertained us for an hour or so and in the end I was left with a choice of two. The most popular model, or the best model. I took the best.

Five weeks later and it is finally here. But what to play first? The beginning bit from the Koln concert by Keith Jarrett? The Moonlight Sonata? Ain't Misbehaving? Imagine? That's where my repertoire ends so it wasn't really a difficult choice. Ain't Misbehaving.

And now I'm busy filling in the hazy bits of the songs I think I know, and discovering new songs to play. I'm currently working on Debussy's Claire de Lune. After a week of playing I've got the point where I'm hearing funny buzzes in the piano; little imperfections in the Rolls-Royce... or is it me? But the piano fingers are slowly coming back, and hopefully they'll be around for good this time.

Cycling along the Amalfi coast

This post comes from a youth hostel in Salerno. We're now five days into our cycling tour of the Amalfi coastline, south of Naples. After cycling 50km to Schiphol airport we flew into Naples and cycled another 15km from the airport to the port. Naples is chaotic: scooters and heated conversations everywhere. Linda got a slap on the bottom from a passer by. At the port we caught the ferry to the island of Ischia, about an hour and a half away. Another 10km or so completed the days cycling to a kind of resort sort of a place. When we arrived the man rolled his eyes. There were lots of people standing around, so we assumed that the management had gone wrong somewhere. No-one was being served for food! It turned out that everyone gets served at the same time (3 courses). The man said "do you want to heat". We said yes of course we want to heat. And what heating it was. Pasta followed by sea-bass and then fruit. Lovely. In the night the mosquitos attacked however, so that didn't go quite so well.

Day 2 We cycled around the island - heavily tourist oriented with every inch of beach space taken - to an exclusive place that Linda had found via the internet. La Scanella was only reachable on foot as it was down a sheer cliff face, nestling down by the clear blue water. There were a couple of swimming pools and of course the sea to swim into (if you could avoid the motor-launches). Heating was again exceptional, out on the terrace overlooking the sunset and (now empty) sea. Everything would have been perfect were it not for those damn mosquitos. More bites for Linda and me.

Day 3 Our plan depended on the ferrys. Our basic idea was to get to Sorrento, either via Naples or via the island of Capri. Only Naples turned out to be possible. We cycled the 20km to Ischia port climbing steeply around the island, and arrived just in time for the ferry to Naples. On arriving in the port of Naples it wasn't to clear whether we could catch a ferry to Sorrento with our bikes, so we decided to cycle. It was 1530 and Sorrento was 45km away. The going was flat, but tough. Over endless, over-crowded, cobbled streets. Buildings once grand but now faded. People and traffic everywhere. Then my bicycle chain snapped. Luckily I had brought the chain extractor tool with me, so I managed to fix it, but for a while there we were worried. Herculanium and then Pompeii slipped by unnoticed amongst the frenzied development and industrial wasteland. Eventually the urban sprawl began to diminish and we moved into the more cliffy landscape towards Sorrento, the views becoming ever more dramatic. We had booked a log cabin in a campsite for the night, which proved surprisingly good. Sorrento seemed like a cuise-liner stop off point - Italy for upwardly-mobile teenage Americans it seemed like at the restaurant - but was a nice relaxed place to spend an evening. We fell asleep to the sound of chattering Germans.

Day 4. The beginning of the Amalfi coast. Up early we headed out west from Sorrento, the roads becoming increasingly steeper. We stopped for a quick expresso before we his the Amalfi proper, and nothing can really prepare you for the text-book beauty of the place. Sheer cliffs descending to aqua-blue water, and tiny beaches only accessible by boat. And that's it for about 100 kilometres. The cliffs get more sheer (sheerer?) and the sea goes on getting bluer. By bike is the perfect way to view it; you can just glance over the small concrete barrier to the sea far below. After a long days cycling we stopped at Amalfi, and pretty place, but again a bit too Westward Ho! for my liking. We found a lovely wine bar in the evening and enjoyed personal service and fine wine, as we were the only two there the whole evening!

Day 5 (today). We headed inland, first up a steep hill to Ravello (the place where Wagner set some of Parsifal, so Linda was pleased) and then on into the back hills, rising to 1000m. In the heat of the day, we sweated and sweated, but to be able to drift back down to the coast again made it all worthwhile. We stopped at a few more places as the Amalfi coast trails off towards Salerno. The odd expresso here, the odd slice of pizza there. And then Salerno, a town\city of faded glory. Beautiful dishevelled buildings, and grand promenade out front. We book in to the Hotel Jolly - our first hotel with a mini-bar - shower off the sweat of the day and settle down to the Euro 2004 semi-final. Holland v Portugal. My bet is Holland.

Squash at 37

Last Saturday was a one-day squash tournament at the local club. After a few months of lessons from the world-ranked player / coach at our club I thought I'd chance my arm. He's brought me back to the basics. Keep still, follow through, accuracy. The stuff you get taught at lesson 2. It's given me more confidence if nothing else.

On Saturday morning I felt fit and ready to play. 10:15 was my first match. There were about 30 people in the draw: a 'B' level event according the official Dutch classification of squash players. I didn't really know what to expect about the standards, but it was clear after a minute of knocking up that the first opponent wasn't going to provide any problems. I beat him 9-0, 9-0, 9-0 even though, as I found out later, the first rounds were best of three.

Match two was at 11:15. A more stylish opponent, but with no real tactics. This time it was 9-2, 9-4. That meant I was through to the quarter-final and would have to play against my team-mate, Arjan, who plays on the number one spot (I play at two). 12:45 was our scheduled game. I decided to play low and fast to try and avoid Arjan's volleys into the nick from high balls. And it worked! I won 9-5, 9-7. I was in the semi-final.

The day before (Friday) I had watched Tim Henman lose in 4 sets to Coria in the French open semi-final. He'd played superbly to take the first set, then run out of steam for two and half sets, and then put in a late surge to almost claim the fourth set. Although it was an exciting match, he lost. My semi-final followed a similar pattern. My opponent, who looked a bit like a cross between a whippet and a chicken, was the number 1 seed from Utrecht.

The first game went fine, I hit a high tempo and he couldn't keep up. I came off court thinking this might be easy. Then I began to get tired, and Utrecht-man kept running, and running, and running. The second game he one 10-8, the third, after some poor refereeing decisions (I must have been tired because I started arguing with the referee in Dutch) he won 9-7, and the forth again 9-7. I lost the match 3-1. I came off court exhausted, feeling like I'd given everything.

In a way it was a nice feeling to be completely tired out after having performed quite well. I certainly think the lessons are having an effect. The number one seed went on to lose the final, I like to think I tired him out, but I'm not sure if that's true.

A day with Ian and Oliver

Monday was 'Pinksterdag' in Holland - pentecost I think - and another excuse for a national holiday. Ian and Oliver came up to Delft for the day. They are doing a weeks tandem bike-riding, based at a campsite in a place called Veere in the south of Holland. They could just about fit the tandem in the Renault Espace, so they brought it up to Delft. After getting lost on the way they arrived at midday. Oliver headed straight for our pond to study the activity - tadpoles just about developing legs now, newts larking about - while Ian brought us up to date with his latest technology, developments with the latest house, etc..

We headed into Delft for lunch on a boat and, after a few photo opportunities, hit the road for the 'countryside'. The nice Dutch people have created a new cycle path through some fields and lakes near to Delft which is proving hugely popular with the natives. Although half of Holland must have been out on their bikes the fact that you are away from the traffic makes it seem very peaceful and relaxed. It was a beautiful sunny day too, which always helps. We all had a go on the tandem, with Oliver on the back, which really does shift when you are both pedalling! After a cup of tea by a main canal we headed home. I had a squash lesson so had to say brief goodbyes. When I got back home, all was quiet again. Time for a nice glass of wine and a few peices of cheese on the deck. Lovely.

At the Inverness car boot sale

Easyjet, Amsterdam to Edinburgh. We pick up the Thrify rent-a-Ford-Transit-van at the Quality Inn just outside Edinburgh airport. The plan is firstly, to visit IKEA to buy furniture for Ratsmagic, Linda's holiday cottage in Aviemore. Secondly, to clear out her Edinburgh flat to prepare it for renting. Thirdly, to put the IKEA furniture into Ratsmagic and take the old furniture, together with the stuff from Edinburgh, to a still-to-be-determined car boot sale. We arrived on Friday at midday and had to leave on Tuesday morning. It was a scramble and it would have run like clockwork if we hadn't arrived at Aviemore to find water leaking through the house. So add to that: Fourthly, find a local plumber to fix leaking pipe.

I was determined to break the white-van-man stereotype by being courteous to pedestrians and other road users, but we soon found ourselves eating fish and chips out of newspaper while parked, so bang went that theory. Although Linda couldn't believe how much stuff she had accumulated in Edinburgh, the first phase of the operation went smoothly. After putting up curtains, buying blinds, painting here and there, and generally tidying up we left on Saturday evening. As the sun set we had a beautiful drive up to Aviemore through the Highlands, arriving at nine. We spent a couple of hours unloading and reloading and at about midnight we had a van full of stuff ready for the Inverness car boot sale starting at seven the following morning.

We got to the sale car-park in Inverness at about seven-thirty and are directed to a parking space. As soon as we open the back door of the van we have people peering inside asking us 'how much for this?' 'how much for that?'. We're not really ready for full-on selling. We thought we might not even sell anything. Our aim was to try and make it to a hundred pounds. A man is interested in the desk. I tell him it's 45 pounds, he offers 40 and I accept. Another man, looking at the table, shakes his head in disbelief, 'dear me' he mutters. Maybe I should have asked more? Anyway, we're in full swing now. The money is rolling in: ten pounds for the oil lamp, a fiver for the brass cake stand. I cut the price for the knackered old chairs: a fiver for three chairs. The man in the burger van next door is quick to react. He sends one of his serving staff over with the money. Later in the day I will hear over and over again 'what beautiful chairs', 'so cheap', 'oh they're lovely'. Damn, another mistake. The sewing machine was Linda's grandmother's, missing a few bits but still looking impressive. An amateur collector comes by and asks how much. 15 pounds I say, he offers 10. I hold firm, and he relents.

The books sell well which is a surprise to us both. They are the main draw for people to stop and browse, and at 50p each there are bargains to be had (particularly if you are a vegetarian or a feminist). The old electrical stuff goes: two fruit juicers, two telephones, an extension lead. Sometimes just writing what something is on a label makes a difference, although the garlic roaster doesn't end up with any takers at 50 pence.

At about midday the punters slacken off. The sun is still shining, and our stall is looking decidedly empty. There are a few books left, some lamps, a pair of shoes, cutlery, but nothing much. We pack it all into a box, put it in the back of the van and drive to a pub on the shores of Loch Ness for lunch. There we add up our total. One hundred and seventy two pounds! Within ten minutes the money is spent five times over. After lunch we drop off the table that we sold to someone's house in the middle of nowhere on the road to Fort Augustus. We make it home at three thirty and fall asleep within minutes.

A few times in the next couple of days we meet people who say: 'you sold the desk, oh that was lovely, I would have had that', or 'five pounds for three chairs, do you know how much people pay for chairs?', or 'that desk! I would have loved that desk', or 'oh I'd have given that juicer to my daughter'. We have the impression that we've got rid of the stuff too cheaply. But that, after all, is the point of car boot sales. There be bargains there. If I'd had a penny for everyone who'd said 'oh that's really cheap' but then walked on and not bought aforesaid cheap item I'd probably have about 10 pence.

On Monday morning Linda arranges for a plumber to come and fix the water leak. A broken ball-cock leads to a split copper pipe which needs replacing. The plumber is there for four hours. The bill comes to one hundred a seventy pounds. Ah well, we've got enough for Monday's Gaurdian and a packet of Pork Scratchings.

The beginning of a Blog

Quarter past four on Wednesday afternoon. A perfect May day in Delft, and the beginning of the Lloyd's Blogg. What will happen? Where will we go? These are questions that only Lloyds can answer. Tomorrow is ascension day, which is a public holiday in Holland, and Linda and I are off to Antwerp to see Steven Oke and his fine family. On Friday we fly to Scotland for a few days while Linda sorts out her various properties (the flat in Edinburgh, the cottage in Aviemore) for renting. That means hiring a van, trips to IKEA, etc.