Make it stop

It has finally come to this. I had a previous rant about work-related issues, and that supposedly should have got things out of my system. But alas, that was not to be.

My job stinks. Without going into details, because I operate a deliberate moratorium  on discussing work-related material, I’m so utterly fed up with it that I’m chucking it all in. I’m exhausted, completely burned out, and I lack the thick, waterproof skin necessary to shrug off all the grief. There are limits to the amount of work-related stress someone can handle, and I long ago passed that limit. Assuming I’m not already there, I’m heading for what used to be called a nervous breakdown.

Something must change. A new job is possible, whereas the jury’s still out on the possibility of a new life. So the job has to change. I can’t stay in Qatar, and even if I could I wouldn’t. The employer might change but the client wouldn’t, and that is another part of the problem. So here is where I raise my white flag and run away and hide.

It will be difficult, of course, not least in either shipping all my stuff back to Dubai or selling it in the early summer when half the population of Doha is leaving to escape the heat. And I have to deal with everything in the correct order so that I don’t lack the relevant piece of officialdom to do any particular task.

]}:-{>

Blossoms and bathtubs

Hanami is an important Japanese custom and is held all over Japan in spring. Hanami literally means ‘viewing flowers,’ but it generally indicates looking at and enjoying the cherry blossom.

Beloved Wife dictated the time for the recent trip to Japan around the requirements of academia, and was hugely delighted to learn that the hanami festival would probably occur when she and the Goat were present. As it turned out the first brave blossoms were blown away by some foul weather, but later in the week more appeared and it was possible to enjoy the very Japanese pastime of walking in the park, eating and drinking outdoors under the trees, and taking far too many photographs of small, pink flowers. The picnicking and photographs continued all week, and all over that little bit of Japan that Goat and his Beloved Wife had time to visit.

Picnics under the blossoms

Drums

Yoyogi Park was extremely well attended on the first Sunday. All the Tokyo locals plus many visitors seemed to have descended en masse and pitched their picnic spots beneath the largely blossomless trees. Eating and drinking aside, there were tightrope walkers, drummers, and even a Japanese bagpiper. He’d not worn appropriate unbifurcated garb, however, unlike the Goat.

Pipes

Port and Starboard

And speaking of garb, some cosplayers came out to dance under the trees in their outlandish outfits, and the rockabilly rebels entertained themselves and the onlookers to loud 1950s style music.

Cosplay and choreography

 D'ya wanna be in my gang?

Whilst denim, leather, and winkle-pickers might have been OK, the tattoos would almost certainly keep the rockers out of the public baths. There seems to be a blanket ‘no tats’ rule.



The rocker with the rather splendid dragon tattoo



Beloved Wife had arranged a couple of days in Kinosaki Onsen, a spa town on the north coast, but had found an entry in the Lonely Planet guide indicating a mixed-bathing facility in Tokyo, and within reasonable range of the metro. Figuring that her Goat had never done the hot public bath thing before, at least not in Japan, she opined that this would perhaps offer an opportunity to show him the ropes.

The place turned out to be up a long, steep hill. As the directions in the guide book weren’t very helpful, a series of “Sumimasen…Gomen nasai…erm…Onsen? Sento?” followed. By the time BW and Goat had found the place it was almost chucking-out time and they decided to return the following evening.

Having deposited shoes in lockers and been issued with towels and minuscule pyjamas to wear whilst not actually bathing, they headed upstairs to separate changing rooms. Japanese custom and practice is that the communal bathing is done naked. Also, the bather soaps up and rinses off in a sitting position before entering the bath. Dirt and soap are not allowed in a Japanese bath, which is maintained at around 42C or 108F. This is monkey temperature: you lower yourself into the hot water and fail to suppress shouts of “Oooh! Oooh! Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!” The whole environment is hot, steamy, and echoey.

The Goat headed to the outdoor male-only bath, and noted the sign that said to put on some Speedos before heading down the steps to the outdoor mixed bath. There he met Beloved Wife, and they spent an hour getting dishpan hands and looking up at the celestial canopy. Unfortunately the poolside bar was closed, but there was one of the ubiquitous vending machines available for anyone who’d brought some cash and not left it in his locker.

After turning into lobsters, BW and Goat headed back to their respective changing rooms, became dry as well as very clean, and were delighted to discover the complimentary minibus back to the metro station.

Kinosaki Onsen is a town several hours’ train ride away from Tokyo. As onsen refers to natural hot springs, as opposed to sento, which are simply public baths, it may be inferred that Kinosaki is devoted to bathing in volcanically-heated spring water. In a fit of good taste, Beloved Wife had booked a night in a traditional hotel: tatami mats; paper screen doors; sleeping on futons. 

The sitting room. And bedroom.

The hotel provided ID cards to prove that BW and Goat were bona fide customers, and these would allow free access to any of the onsen in town. It’s encouraged to walk the streets in yukata (dressing gown) and geta (wooden flipflops) on an onsen crawl. In addition to the bath houses, hot foot spas are dotted all around, wherein the water is sulphurous and unbelievably hot. A small café was selling eggs cooked in one of them. The Goat managed to scald himself to above his hocks. Owch, owch, owch!

Kinosaki by day

Several baths and lots of photographs of trees and lanterns later, it was time for food and booze. 

For goodness sake

Sitting inside a little bar with sake (rice wine, served hot) and edemame (peas, served salty), the sound outside was reminiscent perhaps of Victorian London. The constant clip-clopping of hooves on asphalt was of course geta, the wearers of which were heading between baths.

Between baths

As a private hour had been booked at the hotel’s own onsen for later that evening, Beloved Wife and Goat didn’t have to bathe separately all the time. But the combination of travel, hot baths, food and drink ensured a very deep night’s sleep.

Kinosaki by night

The Goat is convinced: a Japanese bath in the Cyprus dream home is now on the ‘must have’ list.

]}:-{>

Rio? Ja!

The campsite

Here, as promised back in November, is the ‘warts-and-all’ update about Rio after half a year.

Beloved Wife made positive, albeit feminine, remarks along the lines of “Cute,” and expressed further unkind opinions involving hairdressers. But she had to acknowledge the efficacy with which Rio provided sufficient shoulder and elbow room, and carried three adults and their luggage. Rio is also easy to park, being only 4.1m long and with a 10m turning circle. Such a shame that after six months, she’s already showing wear and tear courtesy of inconsiderate sods who open their adjacent car doors with reckless abandon.

Rio, in bright red, looks not entirely unlike one of the Lekhwiya (Internal Security) cars that somehow shrank in the wash.

Around town, the automatic gearbox is prone to getting confused as it hunts for a suitable gear. Over the first thousand kilometres, while the Goat was under strict instructions not to exceed 4000rpm, this was less of an issue as he was being very gentle. Now that running her in is over and the first service has been completed, a less gentle right hoof has the 1500cc engine spinning thrashily away from the traffic lights. The important thing to remember is that the engine should be fully warmed up before doing anything stressful. This is the same advice given to motorcyclists, and with chain-driven DOHC and sixteen bucket-and-shim valves, the Terios engine is very like one from a Japanese motorcycle. Basically, warm it up first, don’t over-rev it, use decent oil and change it regularly, and the motor should be pretty much indestructible. The rather short gearing makes cruising at over 120km/h a rather noisy process, but not so that listening to the in-car entertainment or conversation actually becomes difficult. Especially at speed, the cabin is nowhere near as quiet as a BMW 528, but what is?

Around town, Rio can be a lot of fun. What is lost in outright performance is won back in roadholding. Full-time 4WD helps her to stick to the corners, even on rare wet occasions. The suspension is rather stiff and bouncy, especially when there’s no luggage on board, so bumpy corners can be a little bit interesting with Rio’s rather basic solid axle and Panhard rod rear suspension. One problem is that Rio stood in the showroom for over two years before purchase, and all four road tyres have developed flat spots that cause a vibration at 100km/h. Wheel balancing didn’t solve the problem, and when each wheel was on the balancing machine the wobbly tyres were obvious. If these don’t sort themselves out by the 5000km service, the Goat will be aiming for replacement tyres under warranty.

Fuel consumption is rather disappointing. Within Doha, the Goat generally achieves around 11 litres/100km (25 miles per imperial gallon). Extended stops at red traffic lights followed by harsh acceleration are largely responsible. On the open road, rather better 8 litres/100km (35mpg) is realistically achievable. Not that the Goat really gives a stuff about the cost of motor fuel. It’s 85 dirhams a litre; equivalent to UK 15p/litre or $0.88 per US gallon. Fuel consumption is only of interest when considering the tank range of between 450km and 625km.

The Goat reckons that the air conditioning could be better. Plenty of cold air gets squirted into the cabin, but it takes a while for the interior to cool after being parked in the sun for several hours. The black upholstery probably doesn’t help to keep the temperature down. But it does help to show the dirt.

There’s a reasonable number of whistles and bells to entertain the driver. The basic radio and CD player will only do one CD at a time, and there’s no short wave band and no cassette player. A useful socket provides a convenient place to jack in the iPod. Twin trip meters and clock, plus fuel computer and outside temperature are all available in the instrument panel. Unfortunately there’s no temperature gauge; just a blue light when the engine is cold and a red one if it overheats. Electric windows, central locking and keyless entry all come as standard, as does a pathetic, weight-saving 35dB mouse-fart horn. There’s fag-lighter socket in the front and another just inside the tailgate to power camping accessories. Maximum 120W, according to the owner’s handbook.

Desert Terios

Now on to the subject of camping, and the Goat went down to the Inland Sea last weekend. Rio performed very much as advertised, dancing on the sand despite being full of camping gear. The central differential is locked by punching a button on the dashboard, and a fair amount of revving is necessary to release all 105 ponies. She even successfully scaled a couple of steep dunes without fuss, where a younger and less experienced Goat sometimes used to have trouble in his old Galloper, Cherokee, and occasionally Patrol. The Goat suspects that this is the experience of years showing, rather than a Terios being the best dune car in this list. As the Goat actually arrived at the campsite after dark, he’s pleased to note that the headlights are excellent.

With both sides of the asymmetrical rear seat folded, the load bed looks cavernous. It’s significantly larger in all three dimensions than a Jeep Wrangler’s with the back seat removed.  Of course, the load area isn’t a patch on those in bigger 4x4s, but there was room for all the Goat’s camping gear and provisions and plenty of space left over.

Where the Terios falls down is in build quality. Everything fits, and everything works, but it all feels thin, plasticky, and apt to break if it’s Goathandled roughly. So “Gently, gently” is the motto. Gently with the interior fittings, and the Goat must remind himself that this tiny car, notwithstanding its delusions, is not a Land Cruiser.

]}:-{>

Sumimasen, gomen nasai, wakarimasen

Is it unreasonable to suggest that the Japanese and the English are similar? I rather think they are in certain ways, and I suspect that this is borne of both being island nations. Both cultures developed independently on relatively small, crowded islands, and this resulted in cultures that are desperate not to offend. Kate Fox, anthropologist, in her book Watching the English, noted the frankly bizarre way in which English people will immediately apologise after being bumped into. Most other cultures would respond with some variant on a theme of “Oi! Watch your step, buddy!” but not the English. Nor the Japanese. “Gomen nasai,” (“I am so sorry…”) is very common in Japan.

It’s a consequence of living on a small and overcrowded island. To fail to defuse tensions after offending someone is a great way for fights to break out. The Japanese were rather better at that, with an entire level of society devoted to wielding murderously sharp swords at anyone who wasn’t sufficiently apologetic.

The other ‘Englishness” of the Japanese is the resistance to learning foreign languages. English language is pretty widespread, but it was extremely easy to encounter people who had no English, or French, or German. My absolute inability with the writing system didn’t help either. I can now identify “Tokyo”, “Ladies”, “Gents”, “Kyoto”, “Fire”, “Forest”, and “Forbidden”. And that’s about my lot. How useful, provided I only want to write a note about how smoking in forests in Tokyo is not allowed. We were able to get by, through a mixture of very broken Japanese, apologising, sign language, bowing, and apologising.

Ah, the bowing. Everybody bows. I greeted the chambermaid as we checked out of one of the hotels, bowed, and she returned by almost prostrating herself, much to my embarrassment.

Left-handed chopsticks actually do exist

In other respects, I found Japan and the Japanese extremely foreign unto the point of being almost alien.

Beloved Wife was in Japan a year or so ago, and she’d reported to me that in Tokyo's Electricity Street there was a multi-storey adult store. Now returned with her lawfully-wedded husband, we could explore all the floors. Basement and ground were merely videos and books, with selected movies shown on small screens to tempt the purchaser. Presumably, the purchased product would not feature pixelated images. Higher floors got progressively kinkier. Marital aids were followed by costumes, and then the S and M stuff. I spotted these, that might provide an amusing diversion on St George’s Day.

Fun and games on St George's Day

Muggins was blundering around this small but rather crowded emporium wearing a backpack. And being a bit of a lardarse, I kept blundering into the shelves and sending stock asunder. I can confirm that I was nearly thrown out of a sex shop for being too big. "Gomen nasai..."

Back outside, and  another Tokyo delight is the vending machines. Almost anything can be and is dispensed by a vending machine, including change so there’s no worry about not having the right money. Hot and cold drinks, chocolate bars, and crisps are easy. Rail tickets similarly. Used undergarments are now a memory following government efforts to clean up the industry. But what about the coin-op restaurant? That’s just beyond weird. 

And now we get on to the main point of this blog post: the food.

A proper restaurant. Order food and drink by referring to
the useful labels hanging around

In a normal restaurant, you enter and sit, and the waitress takes your order. You eat; you pay; you leave. Sometimes it was a culinary mystery tour of wondering what we’d just ordered. Al least “Birru” sounds like “Beer”, so that’s easy to remember, and I like “Sake”. In MuckDonalds (where I never eat), you order; you pay; you eat.

Cooked to order

In a coin-op, you make your selection from a vending machine. It takes your dosh, spits out a ticket, and you hand this over the counter and receive food from an actual person. Except that each of the fifty or so buttons on the machine only has a Japanese character (no, not Ponyo nor a Power Ranger).

Comprehensive choice of, erm, food

Vending machine in the corner, and food cooked to order

Time to accost a restaurant patron: “Sumimasen, gomen nasai, erm…breaded pork cutlet?” (Bow, apologise some more, etc). The only really important thing was to avoid seafood. Beloved Wife even set her husband up with a traditional Japanese breakfast one morning. A big rectangular room with tatami mats, low tables, and a whole selection of pickles, tofu, soup, vegetables, and fruit. The raw fish fillet was easy to identify and avoid. “Fish are friends; not food.”

Street food. Steamed, stuffed buns offer something that is
not entirely unlike steak and kidney pudding

Not that any of this put us off eating the local food. I recall the only really non-Japanese meal we ate was on the last day. We were waiting for our train to the airport, and a German-style restaurant was offering Bavarian lager and a big pile of assorted sausages.

Okonomiyaki. Anything you want here,
provided it's this one thing

My final Parthian shot was to buy a box of wacky Japanese sweeties to treat my colleagues back in Doha. When I got back, I was reliably informed that mochigashi are easily available from trendy shops in Doha.

]}:-{>

Clockwork trains

Beloved Wife and Goat didn’t go to Paris for BW’s birthday treat. Instead, she spent her birthday surrounded by immature children of all ages, screaming: “He’s behind you!” at the Doha Players’ pantomime, in which production the Goat had a part.

So when BW’s employer decreed a two-week holiday on the run up to Easter (so that it wouldn’t clash with the Easter holidays and allow parents and children to have the same fortnight off) the Goat booked a week’s annual leave and set about finding flights to and from Japan.

Beloved Wife used to live and work in the Land of the Rising Sun, way back in the previous millennium. She loves the place, and assured the Goat that he would too. A quick surf of the interwebs revealed that Qatar Airways would be by a huge margin the cheapest way to get between Dubai and Tokyo. That’s Qatar Airways; the airline that uses Doha as a hub. If the Goat simply booked Doha to Tokyo, his ticket would be almost double the price. That’s right: $1700 as opposed to $900. The airline pays each passenger $350 to fly between Dubai and Doha. It was therefore cheaper for the Goat to buy a separate Doha-Dubai return and spend a day in Dubai at each end of the holiday, and to hell with the carbon footprint.

The hop across the Gulf left Dubai on time, but the plane was left hanging in the air by Air Traffic Control for half an hour. By the time the passengers had disembarked and been driven around the airport in the slowest shuttle bus ever, the connecting flight to Tokyo was due to take off. Beloved Wife and Goat ran the entire length of Doha Terminal 1 (because the flight left from gate 37, which is naturally as far as possible from where the bus stops) and then everyone sat for a further half an hour in a packed Boeing 777 to await the leisurely transfer of checked bags. There was such a rush that airport security was completely bypassed. 

The Qatar Airways flight doesn’t go straight to Tokyo. It stops first at Osaka, where all passengers disembark, go through airport security, walk around the block, and then re-board the same aircraft for a further hour of air travel. The ticket costs more for anyone who wants to get off at Osaka. Or else the airline pays people to fly KIX-NRT.

Narita International Airport, at last. And there are trains to Tokyo City Centre. Beloved Wife had applied for a thing called a JR Pass, issued by Japan Rail. This entitles the bearer to a week of unlimited rail travel anywhere on the JR network. But in order not to have it expire a day early, BW decreed that separate Narita Express tickets would be purchased for the trip into Tokyo. The Goat doesn’t generally do rail travel; he’s been conditioned by UK rail practices that include missing a train where the ticket cost a fiver, catching the next one ten minutes later and being fined because he didn’t have a valid fifty-quid ticket.

The railway station was spotless; the train – with allocated, pre-booked seats, no less – was likewise, and it left to schedule. On the dot. To the second. The Goat was impressed.

Metro at Speed

Less impressive was a map at the destination that failed to show the hotel. An embarrassingly short taxi ride later (in the rain and in the dark), and it was time to hit the world’s narrowest double bed and become unconscious.

Travelling around Tokyo by train is eminently sensible. There is a comprehensive metro network. Confusingly, several metro companies operate in the same area, and Japan Rail criss-crosses too. Irritatingly, the JR Passes didn’t work on the metro, and it was necessary to decipher the Japanese script to figure out how much cash to stick into a machine to get a ticket. Of course, it had to be the machine appropriate for the metro system to be ridden. Some, but not all, maps had English as well as Japanese, and some, but not all, trains had video displays to let passengers know the current and next station.

Orderly Queue

To the Goat’s delight, not only do the trains stop at marked positions on the station platforms, but at each one an orderly queue forms. And yes, everyone does let passengers off first. Inane electric glockenspiel jingles play. When the music stops, someone will snap the doors shut and take the train away.

The primary purpose of obtaining JR passes was to use the Shinkansen. This is the famous bullet train that gets between Tokyo and Kyoto (which is near Osaka) rather faster than an aircraft once security and being at the airport at least two hours before your flight are taken into consideration. The Shinkansen belts along at 300kph or so. Sadly, Mount Fuji was obscured by low cloud. On the return journey, night had fallen.

Shinkansen

Once again, pre-booking at no additional cost produced allocated seating in a quiet, clean carriage. And by now it goes without saying that the trains do indeed run on time. Not so much like clockwork; more like an atomic clock. The only really tricky bit is in deciphering the scarily alien information boards.

Alien Sign

A slower express from Kyoto took Beloved Wife and Goat through the mountains on a picturesque journey to Kinosaki Onsen, a hot-spring spa town just inland from the Sea of Japan. “Slower express” reads like oxymoron, but after the Shinkansen, everything seems slow.

Near Kinosaki

A day later, amid the foul windy and rainy tai-fun weather brought on by a low-pressure weather system, Beloved Wife and Goat headed back to a very wet Kyoto. As it turned out, the hotel was literally (yes, really literally) a stone’s throw from the railway station, and there was a lot of embarrassed apologising to the taxi driver. According to the local news, some trains were actually delayed. Being less than absolutely punctual appears to be outwith the Japanese psyche. One can only imagine the shamefaced bowing and apologising being repeated umpteen times all over Japan.

As the weather had cleared up by the following morning, the Goat decreed that a trip to Osaka Castle was required. Yet more rail travel. What a splendid thing is the JR pass!

Osaka Castle

And more sightseeing back in Kyoto later that day, specifically Kiyamizu-Dera temple followed by Culture in Gyon. The bus trip was extremely crowded, and as it was Pay On Exit, the Goat can only imagine some destitute beggar starving to death and unable ever to get off. The bus system was exactly the opposite to other bus systems. In Kyoto, you get on at the back, and off at the front, paying the driver upon exit. It was a single standard fee. Frankly, the metro back to Kyoto Central Station was a lot more comfortable, and at least the maps showed where the train was going to go. Unlike the Magical Mystery Bus Tour.

Kiyamizu-Dera

Gyon illuminations

Having got some idea about how the bus system worked, on Thursday the Goat obtained “ride as many buses as you like for one day” passes, mainly because the Golden Temple of Kinkaku-ji is nowhere near a metro station. Just as well, really, for the weather turned cold and wet, and buses were all packed. It really was a case of grabbing the first one and riding it until it ceased to go in a useful direction. The bus passes made getting off without fumbling for change so much more convenient, and cheaper to boot.

Golden Temple of Kinkaku-ji

When it finally became necessary to head for the airport, it occurred to Beloved Wife that the JR passes could buy tickets for the Narita Express, and having got to Narita, it was even possible to obtain a refund for the unused return N-EX tickets. Only at this point was it revealed that the cards handed over a week previously were pre-credited smart cards that could have been used all over the Tokyo metro system, instead of rummaging for change. D’oh! But Japan Rail was quite happy to refund the unused metro rail credit, much to the Goat’s astonishment.

As for the return flight, it took off to schedule. Additional passengers boarded at Osaka so the aircraft was packed back to Doha. And guess what. The flight was delayed in the air for half an hour, so there was a huge mad rush to go through transit security in order to catch the flight to Dubai. Unlike on the outbound leg, this time Beloved Wife and Goat were obliged to remove all their metalwork and be X-rayed. It would be unthinkable to allow anything illicit from a Qatar Airways flight into the transit lounge of Doha International Airport.

Fair enough that Qatar Airways held flights for incoming connecting passengers and their checked bags, but it’s not a patch on the precision ballet of rail timing that seems to occur all over Japan, tai-fun excepted.

This blog post has dealt mainly with Japan's generally impressive public transportation systems. More will follow once the Goat has further meshed his detritus.

]}:-{>

Tyred of this

Large and virile motorcycles destroy tyres. Getting 10,000km out of the rear rubber can be quite an achievement, and the weight of the Goatcycle causes the front one to wear out at an alarming rate too. The local Pirelli agent carries a tiny selection of very expensive bike tyres. Part of the reason for the expense is that they’re actually street-legal racing rubber: exceptionally grippy and incredibly soft. I don’t want racing tyres on a sports-tourer. Being the Stig’s slow, fat cousin, I’ve little need for excessive grip. I only want enough so that the bike won’t go slideways on roundabouts. Tyres that don’t immediately wear down to the cords after riding in a straight line would be good too; Qatar doesn’t have very many bendy roads. The perfect solution is a multiple-compound tyre, which is rock hard in the middle and soft and sticky at the edges.

The local Continental Tyres dealer carries such tyres, but not in my sizes, and no he doesn’t know when he’s going to get some Road Attacks. “Maybe April. Insha’Allah.”

Kawasaki does have some original equipment Bridgestones, but I don’t want those. I know from experience that they are less than confidence-inspiring, and are the only tyres I’ve ever encountered where the front wears out faster than the rear. It must take some extra special design expertise to achieve this, at the same time delivering soft rubber that doesn’t grip very well. Either Pirelli or Metzeler suit me and the bike very well, but suitable sizes are Not Coming In Doha™.

The Michelin agent promised that he’d call me. Much as anticipated, he hasn’t, so the apparently wonderful dual-compound Pilot Road 2s aren’t going to happen to a bike near me any time soon.

So it seems as if I’m unable to give my free money to the local agents, and instead eBay and Aramex Shop-n-Schlepp will get the business. Now probably in the autumn because I’ll not do much riding over the summer months, and the current tyres still have some realistic life.

It’s not just motorcycle tyres. I’m trying and failing to locate replacement rubber for Rio, the Tear-Arse. I’d like something slightly more knobbly than the stock tyres, and maybe just a teeny bit bigger. Naturally, nobody has my size in stock, especially the alleged purveyor of my favourites, Cooper Discoverer ATRs. “Maybe April. Insha’Allah.”

Actually, I did find one. I need five. Unfortunately the teeny bit oversize would prevent me from using the hard spare-wheel cover, which is a bit disappointing. And I’m not paying QAR3,900 after discount (which is £650 in old money). The Goatmobile cost no more than QAR2,500 to re-boot, and those were much, much bigger. After the man in the tyre shop removed the QAR850 sticky label and discovered a QAR625 label underneath, he still wouldn’t go below QAR2,900.

Part of the tyre supply problem is that a newish law in Qatar forbids anyone from selling tyres that are more than a specified age, which may be three years. After that, new stock has to be destroyed. Surprise, surprise: dealers minimise their stock levels and only carry the fast-moving lines. There’s also a rule that all after-market tyres must be rated Temperature A. This is sensible, given the ludicrously high temperatures the region attains during the summer. Yet vehicles are imported and sold as merchantable with Temperature B tyres fitted. Might it not be a good idea to legislate for the higher rating to be supplied to consumers when they buy new cars? And while we’re obsessing with rules to protect us from dodgy tyres, how about doing something about the appalling state of truck tyres on most HGVs? The legal minimum tread depth is not “It’s OK if it stays inflated.”

Why am I looking to replace car tyres already? Well, my new Daihatsu has been standing in the showroom since 2009 and the tyres have all developed flat spots. This was very obvious when I had the wheels balanced. I’ve argued the toss with the Daihatsu workshop, citing words like “merchantable quality” and “warranty”, but the manager sent me away and suggested that the flat spots would go away by 5,000km. I suspect the only true bit is the sending away. There is precisely zero evidence so far that the flat spots are disappearing.

]}:-{>

Mid-life crisis

I’ve managed to avoid the desire for a two-seater open-top sports car. The bike doesn’t count because I’ve owned large motorcycles since I was a teenager.

The other thing I’ve been doing since my teenage years is engineering. First, science O and A levels, then a civil engineering degree. After graduating with a Desmond (Gaudeamus igitur), I spent six months as a motorcycle courier before finding a proper job in the civil engineering profession. And I’ve been more-or-less continually employed ever since. Twenty-six years: you don’t get that for murder.

Regrettably, this is now how I feel about it. Instead of actual engineering, which a colleague described as “an industry which needs a couple of big buckets of common sense,” I find myself being inexorably tractor-beamed into the Death Star of Financial Management and Quality Assurance. There seem to be ever-increasing layers and layers of Business Bollocks between me and actually Getting Things Done.

I’m driven to wonder how anything ever got built before the post-war introduction of Gantt charts and Quality Plans; before Construction Design Management. Are all those Victorian and older structures merely figments of my diseased imagination? Was the universe created yesterday, complete with false memories? The oldest bridge in the world is the Pons Fabricius in Rome, which was built in 62BC. How did the Romans build that?

“They had massive whips, Rimmer. Massive, massive whips.”

The engineering industry has openings for Planning Engineers and Quality Assurance Specialists. If I wanted an electrical sub-station designing, I’d get an electrical engineer. Why then am I expected to be a master of all trades where planning and QA are concerned? 

My point is that I’ve become completely disillusioned with everything I do for a living. It pays well, but I only continue to do it so that one day I’ll have enough saved up so that I don’t have to do it any more. Ten more years. A decade. Not so much a word as a sentence.

So I need a change. Changing employer would only exchange frying pan for fire. And because of employment laws in Qatar I’d need a No Objection Certificate from my current employer or be banned from working in Qatar for two years. NOCs are Not Coming In Doha, Mr Goat.

What else could I do, assuming a career rather than merely a country change? Having done engineering for so long, I have a very narrow set of skills. What I do, I do very well. And I must be good at it; feelings of self-doubt are logically unfounded because if I were a fraud I’d surely have been found out in under 26 years.

·     Barring the vanishingly unlikely chance of making it big on Britain’s Got [not very much] Talent, any alleged ability I may have as an actor or singer isn’t enough to make a living.

·     Writing bestsellers? Read Alexander’s blog about self-publishing and marketing his book. All I need is an original idea, a plot, and some protagonists. “The first in the Phuqinora trilogy from a major new talent.” Yeah, right. I can just see that happening.

·     Driving, perhaps? I can do that, and I even earned some money once for piloting a car in a TV advert. It’s a small and irregular income stream. I don’t need to do motorcycle courier work again, and I don’t have nearly enough tattoos to qualify as a proper White Van Man.

·     Scuba instructing sounds like a great idea, and it’s something I can actually do. Getting paid to dive every day in the tropics? Getting paid a pittance, more like, until my abused middle-aged body gave up in disgust.

·     Retraining as a teacher? Frankly, notwithstanding any ability I may have as a teacher, the mere concept of standing in front of a class in order to put food on the table fills me with abject horror. Full marks for anyone who does it!

So I’m stuffed. I can’t stand doing what I’m doing for much longer; certainly not for ten more years,  and I can’t not do it for fear of never being able to afford to retire.

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