In my attempt at being more of an Eco-warrior I have ditched my car in favour of cycling, training it in or if I have loads to carry then I jump in a taxi. Collectively this is all far better for the environment than my solo back and forth to work in a car.

The weather is filthy this morning – rain, rain and more rain.

So therefore bike was a no (have two client meetings today and need to look half decent)…

…because of the rain the roads are jammed with cars, so no to a taxi…

so the train it is…

Actually I ended up in a taxi…

The train drivers are on strike (as they don’t get overtime pay – who does these days?) resulting in only a 50 percent service.  This meant that that the trains are double full and you cannot get on them.

Commuters all look like they are going to blow up in anger or die in limp resignation.

So I high tailed it out of the hell.

However please don’t think I got off lightly. In my dash to the taxi from the dry station entrance a bus launched an avalanche of water on me (not quite the tidal wave that Bridget Jones got but quite close).

So I sit here in the back of my cab typing my post slowly steaming dry and lamenting the convenience and comfort of my car (climate control, leather seats, radio 4).

You gotta be tough to be an Eco-warrior – not sure that I will ever get an award for bravery – in fact I am totally sure :+)

I was due to go on holiday (to the Maldives) a couple of days later and while gathering up stuff for my suitcase I got my passport out of the filing cabinet and did the obligatory check of the photo page.  As I looked at it I thought ‘hell I look young’ and then I noticed with horror that it had expired months beforehand – which is why I looked ten years younger!

It was a Saturday morning (and in the days that I would even have considered having Internet access at home) so I dashed down to the post office in the centre of Bath (where I lived at the time) to find out what to do and get my photo taken in one of those booths.  I paid three times to get a set that I liked.  This in the was pre-digital days when you got the picture of yourself when the flash went (there was no option to ‘try again’) and it used to take five minutes for the photo to spit out (and then you had to be careful not to smudge it). 

I picked up the leaflet on ‘getting you passport really quickly’ and read up on how I was going to get a passport by Tuesday at 6 am when I had to be at the airport.  I discovered that the only way this was going to happen was to visit a passport office.  I worked in London (I was daft and did a three hour commute each way in those days) and therefore at the time the main passport office in London was on a street called Petty France.

So first thing on Monday I went to the passport office, with my preferred photo in hand, and got in the queue.  Annoyingly my preferred photo didn’t end up in my passport as the lady said that it didn’t look sufficiently like me! So I had to have another photo taken in the passport office official booth.  Anyway, two hours later I left with my shiny new maroon official document and while delighted that I was ‘job done’ on the passport front (and was actually going to be going on holiday after all) was feeling a bit stressed as I had lost a big chunk of my ‘day of work before you go on a two week holiday’ day. 

So I dashed to the Tube to get to the office and as I walked into the station I registered that there was an unfamiliar yet not unpleasant smell in the air.  I was then accosted by the very lovely Jane Elliot, BBC Online reporter, who was doing a piece on how London Underground were piloting the fragrancing of platforms (supposedly to sooth commuter stress).  So I answered her questions, let her take a photo of me, went on my hot under the collared way and thought no more of it.

Anyhow I went on my holiday, which was amazing – The Maldives totally rock (I spent nearly all the time scuba diving and snorkeling) and on my return to the office there was an email from Dad in my inbox.  He had forwarded on an email from a friend of his which was along the lines of ‘I think there is a comment from your son in this article’.  Dad had just written: ‘Typical :+)’ with a link to the article.

So here is the link to my ‘debut’ on the BBC (quote and photo towards the end of the piece) with my ‘insightful’ soundbite being: ‘It smells like flowers or pollen, but I think the best idea to get rid of the smells is to deodorize the people instead’.

Oh bless me and yes rather as father had denoted: ’Typical :+)’.

Now I am obsessed with the way things smell – I love the latest innovation in air fragrance technology.  I am the person that buys these heavily advertised advances in smell loveliness (Chad hates them). I am the air freshener marketers dream – I’ve been on the whole journey from gels, to sprays, to three-in-one, through mini fans and infra red, blar, blar, blar – you name it, I’ve bought it.  Currently I am obsessed with the over-priced sticks in the glass jar of perfume ‘home fragrance solution’. So I have to feel a bit guilty.. 

The Tube still smells revolting (the pilot clearly remained just that) and I cannot help but wonder if I had been a bit more positive, rather than facetious, in my soundbite then maybe my own nose, and the millions of other Londoners noses, wouldn’t be so assaulted on our ventures into the underground world.

I like to travel all over the world for pleasure (Australia for three weeks next year) and  I have to travel all over the world for work (Hong Kong in a week or so – very exciting).  However these airplane based activities are really terrible for my dirty black (carbon) footprint.

It’s such a difficult thing to sort out in my head.

If I recycle all our household waste (which we do) but I then take one return flight to Paris then that flight totally outstrips my recycling for probably more than a year (I haven’t done the exact sums by the way).  So you could think – what’s the point then?  I have to admit that five years ago I did think like this. Thankfully Chad is a lot wiser (and younger) than me on this, and he has re-educated me on the need to do our little bit and put in some effort.

My little olive roll up bag (the fabulous envirosax) has become a permanent feature in my life – it lives in my man-bag and I reckon I have, in the last nine months, used it nearly every day (often a couple of times a day).  I estimate that I have used 400 fewer plastic carrier bags that would by now be attempting to rot down for the next couple of hundred years in a land fill somewhere in this green and pleasant land.
Overall I think that it is just really important to think about what we are doing

• Is there an alternative?
• Could we reduce waste?
• Could we be less wasteful in our actions?

Some recent examples in the world of Crump:

• Can I travel to Paris from London on a train rather than fly – yes – CHECK (and the Eurostar is so much more civilised than Heathrow / BA hell)
• Could I cycle to work rather than take my car – yes – CHECK (although when it’s raining the spirit wavers)
• Could I turn off lights in a room that I’m not in – yes – CHECKISH (I’m in high performance training on this one)

So every little helps – we cannot be ostriches on this one – it’s too important.

Now where is my passport.  D’oh…  See what I mean!

Having totally failed at my recent gym visiting attempt (stats: three visits / seven months / £640 = £213 per visit [ouch]) I was inspired by a cyclist colleague in the office to get on a bike.  With the prompting of inspirational colleague my business has joined the government cycle scheme (you get to deduct the tax) and three of us have now bought bikes and have the all the paraphernalia that goes with it (and cost as much as the bike!).

Now as some of you may know I am a car lover and have been lucky enough to have to avoided the dreaded Tube to get to work for years now by driving.  I have been in my silver Merc bubble for a long time and get to indulge my other love of listening to BBC Radio 4 (especially Today in the morning and the comedy shows at 18:30).  This week I have been got in my car a total of zero times.

I have cycled to and from work through sunshine, wind and rain (we have been having a typical London summer).  I have huffed and puffed my way to and fro.  I have arrived at work with a weird pale and blotchy purple pallor, as well as slightly damp looking hair… I have absolutely loved it.

It takes exactly the same length of time to cycle the four and a half miles as it does to drive, and I think that with time as my sluggish (to non-existent) fitness improves I will be able to do it quicker.

Now cycling is dangerous and the cyclist is an unloved road user (check out this excellent post from willc.me), but given a bit of care and planning the risks and level of interaction with other traffic can be minimised.  Chad prompted me to look up a route on the Transport for London Journey Planner – you put in that you want to cycle from X to Y and hey presto a route is recommended.  I now have a lovely cycle to and from work through the quiet and very gentrified (totally untouched by the credit crunch) streets of St John’s Wood.

The Chad prompt was stimulated by the fact that on my trip back from the bike shop to home with my sparkly new bike and zero fitness I went via Swiss Cottage Roundabout.  Now if you know this delightful road intersection I appreciate that you will have just gasped at my stupidity.  If you don’t know the roundabout then think Arc de Triomphe in Paris (three /four lanes of fast crisscrossing vehicles) and you aren’t far off.

As I approached the roundabout I thought ‘this is a bad idea’ and guess what, it so totally was.  I pulled into the traffic as fast as I could and then started squealing as I attempted to cross two lanes with a car almost touching my back wheel with horn blaring.  Anyway, I lived to tell the tale and will not, under any circumstances, be doing that again.

So the bike looks like it is going to work out and hurrah and hurray I might have found a way to get exercise back in my life. Cyclists might be despised (especially by mean arse bus drivers) but the liberation that you feel on a bike is fantastic and is why so many people are revisiting life before they were seventeen and got their driving licence: when your bike was your escape pod to adventure.

Milan trip was good. I even managed to catch a bit of the old part of the city with a late night walk followed by an alfresco beer with Chair and our my lovely client. All very pleasant although it was pointed out that my eyes were blood shot and I looked like hell (the daily disposable contact lenses are very unforgiving after 18 hours of wear).

My Grumped moment relates to my flight out to Milan on Saturday.

I stupidly attempted to check in two bags. My micro suitcase and a laptop bag (doubling up as an ‘on-site event bag’). The latter contained scissors and all manner of other sharp pointy things that you cannot take through Security – and hence why I wanted to check it in.

Anyway I wasn’t allowed to without paying £35 pounds as my ticket only allowed one bag to be checked in. This was despite the fact that both bags together weighted less than my allowance.
Most annoying and out from my mouth popped the title of this post. This was met by a harsh look – batted back with my most smiley of smiles. ‘Frosty’ then couldn’t – I guessed faked – not being able to print me a receipt and inconvenienced me further with a trip to the baggage desk where ‘Incompetent’ was unable after 10 minutes to print me a receipt.

Learnings from experience:

• Don’t fly British Airways – I know they are our national carrier but they are expensive and don’t give you a better experience
• Remember to get your jumbo suitcase from storage before you fly
• Pay a few pounds to have your small case cocooned in 200 metres of security plastic wrapping. As the Spice Girls said “two becomes one” and you don’t pay the extra (as I did on my return journey)

So ziga zig argh BA. I hope the £35 compensates for my new BA avoidance strategy.

I was actually quite late to taking flight. The first time I went on a plane I was about ten on a family holiday to Greece (up until then we had always been on holiday to France in the car – three children in the back of a BMW – you can imagine the bickering that went on. Poor Mum and Dad!)

There are two great stories from that first flight…

STORY ONE: My sister Elaine (about nine years old at the time) and I boarded the flight with huge excitement and settled into our seats. We were fascinated by all the magazines, safety information card and I remember wanting to keep the sick bag as a memento. As the plane was at the start of the runway about to take off, Elaine turns to me and said really loudly “I thought airhostesses were meant to be pretty”.

A second later there was a loud cough from behind us. We both turn to look through the gap between the seats to see an airhostess in the jump seat glaring back at us! We then look at Mum who is across the aisle and giving us the famous death stare. Oh Lordy.

As if that wasn’t enough…

STORY TWO: Involves just little ten year old me. Half way through the flight I need to go to the loo. I had been watching everyone intently during the flight to try and work out the queuing protocol. So I had this sussed and I asked Mum for permission and she said “off you go then”. I waited for my turn in line.

On entering the cubicle I was totally fascinated by all the little compartments for the tissues, loo roll, bin etc. I even had a squirt of the hand cream. While settling down on the loo seat I spied this long red cord, that looked like a bathroom light pull. I was looking at it thinking “I wonder what that does?” So as any curious self-respecting ten year old sat on the loo would do I gave the cord a good hard yank. Disappointingly nothing happened for at least 15 seconds, but then all hell broke loose.

There was a pounding hand on the toilet door and cries of “are you OK in there?” I was frozen solid unable to move or speak. About five seconds later the door was flung open and there stood before me was none other than the ‘ugly’ airhostess, with about five passengers standing behind her all trying to get a view of the ‘emergency’ taking place. I still couldn’t speak at this point and the airhostess kindly closed the door with a sneer on her face.

I think I stayed in the loo for only a minute or so more – it felt like hours though. I finally plucked up the courage and exited the cubicle (having had another squirt of hand cream for good measure). It was the walk of shame back to my seat – everyone was looking at me and sniggering – I was so mortified. Elaine thought that the whole thing was hilarious and spent the rest of the flight carping at me – making that tuneful “wah, wah, wah, warrrrrrhhhh!” noise.

Anyway, I wasn’t put off flying and as a university student I actually worked at Gatwick airport during my ‘holidays’ as a passenger service agent or a PSA as were known (EVERYTHING to do with airports has a three letter acronym). So while flying is not always as eventful as that first flight, I do find the whole thing interesting having experienced airports from both sides of the fence.

This post has made me remember loads of hilarious working at the airport stories. I’m gonna write these up in the future. My prompts for these future posts are:

• Stage fright / first plane boarding announcement
• Two Americans / four tickets
• Waving in a flight
• The sweaty lady / foundation issue
• Italians / boarding by seat row number (or not!)
• The Adams Family goes on holiday to Bulgaria
• The Rastafarian and the hat
• Friend / carbon copy tickets / rude word / dismissal
• Old Indian lady / her patient six hour wait
• Family on the wrong coach with the England cricket team

PS: The ugly airhostess actually wasn’t that ugly – she just had really bad pink, blue AND orange eye shadow caked on her lids
PPS: Let’s not discuss my carbon footprint on the flying front – that would be too terrifying to consider

I have been to quite a few cities in Italy, Verona, Florence, Siena, and Rome (which rocks), but Venice totally wins for me. The city is so familiar to the new visitor as it has been used as the set for lots of movies and adverts.

As a child the advert for Walls Cornetto had a massive impact on me. When you are ten years old you LOVE ice cream (I still do) and this particular brand represented the height of totally sophistication for me. On family outings (mainly to stately homes or castles – of which we visited hundreds) my sister and I, as the offer of an ice cream presented itself, used to beg for a Cornetto*. I cannot remember the exact price but they were always the most expensive option from the ice cream van or the sliding glass topped deep freeze at the gift shop. I would estimate that sis and I had a success rate of only ten per cent on scoring the Cornetto. Poor dad would plead poverty and so ‘no, no they are too expensive’. But if he was feeling flush we used to get a Cornetto. I can actually recall a memory from more than 30 years ago of one such occasion when we ‘won’. I can remember how happy that mint Cornetto made me as I sat on the steps of a castle, wearing my Popeye the Sailor Man t-shirt and favourite grey Hi-Tec trainers in the baking sun. Bliss.

So with this deeply rooted association between ice cream / happy family holidays and Venice it is not really surprising that I got a lump in my throat as we got onto the beautiful wood clad water taxi to speed us to the airport. Venice is an amazing place that is at the top of my list of places to go back to.

The Crumpometer is in the Green – with pink tinges, cooing doves, violin stings and the lapping of the gondolier’s paddle in slightly sulphur smelling canal water.

*Baby brother Ian prefered a Mr Whippy which he used to smear over his angelic face

A trip to Brussels is more about the highlights: suddenly finding great stuff, little sparkles of joy, amongst the mire of total and utter crude. The whole city is full of truly grumpy people, far too many very scary and aggressive homeless people (I’d be hostile if I was homeless as well by the way), and generally a feeling that everyone, given the chance, would jump on the Eurostar, and like me experience the palpable sense of pleasure that grows proportionally in relation to the distance that you are sped away.

Now first of all, I must say that I feel quiet lucky this trip – I wasn’t robbed. A trip a few years back saw my laptop being nicked while waiting in a taxi queue. Not so for a colleague on this visit, who was accosted by some ‘drunks’ on his way back from a restaurant, only to find that they were in fact pickpockets who relieved him of his wallet. Poor Stuart.

On this trip there were some good bits; meeting up with two old work colleagues and going for a great dinner, as well as eating in two other fantastic restaurants with my super clients. One of these restaurants had a crazy menu of weird food combinations that were ace – amongst the choices were combinations of starter and main course that were billed to be ‘rejuvenating’, ‘detoxifying’ and ‘energising’. There was also a ‘pregnancy’ menu which I avoided.

But this is the thing about Brussels – the food is really good, excellent and I always enjoy it (and I am not a foodie), but pretty much everything else is well, rubbish, disappointing, irritating, or downright anger-inducing.

Other than being robbed which is never a good experience, elements that drove the Crumpometer into the red this trip were

• A range of smelly taxi drivers: you name the exudates and I seemed to get into a taxi honking of it – totally disgusting
• A range of taxi drivers who needed anger management therapy. I even had to shout at one to inform him of my displeasure as he steered me through a number of near death experiences
• The RUDEST and LAVIEST congress centre-employed staff EVER…

…They just did not want to be there. A piece of chewing gum on the sole of their shoes would have been more welcome in their lives. The exception was a lovely lady called Alyson who worked with my team on site who was ace but we hired here from a separate agency. An example of the staffing drudge happened for about the 50th time this week as I approached an information desk this morning. Lumpylo (I think that is what her name badge said) behind the desk had her back to me as I approached to ask her for some ‘information’. She was woofing her way through a croissant (or three), turned her head towards me (I still had the full view of her gargantuan butt) and talked to me firing crumbs out of her mouth while still skilfully maintaining a sneer from the corner of her mouth. She was totally unhelpful, did that shrug of the shoulders that so perfectly communicates: ‘I don’t give a bugger about you and I would in fact be delighted if you would move out of my sight, die and never darken my door ever again’. Aaarrrggghhhhhh

Another annoying, yet amusing, congress employed staff moment was with the audiovisual technician who fell asleep in full view of the audience of the meeting I was helping organise (he was literally slumped over the av equipment). Initially I panicked as I though he was dead but a sharp prod to the ribcage seemed to revive him!!!

Anyway must stop the grumbling now, Brussels was good in many ways. the congress was fun, clients were super, activities all went well, plus I am now back in Blighty having emerged from the Channel Tunnel and am on my way home to decorate the kitchen – oh bugger, maybe Brussels isn’t that bad and ugly after all…