I appear to have become a grandfather...

Those of you who know me well will, perhaps, be slightly surprised by this news given my evident lack of children. But then, that's the thing about "second time around". Not only are you hopefully a bit better for the lessons you learned from a previous failure (in my case), but you benefit from the experiences of your new life partner.

Apart from the obvious general loveliness that is Ros, there are my two stepchildren, to whom I have become the evil stepfather they never knew they needed. In fairness, they've been generous and welcoming, which is not always how these things go. And now, there is a granddaughter.

And, despite my total lack of experience of small children - and at this point, I ought to reflect that I wasn't the best of uncles to my nephew and nieces (it's a long story which gains little value in the telling) - I have been surprised at how much fun this grandfathering has been.

It is early days, I acknowledge, and having spent six days with her, I suspect that it won't always be quite so blissful, but it is amazing how quickly you feel a sense of protectiveness towards a small person. It was certainly worth travelling more than three thousand miles for.

I even have my official grandfathering mug, designed so that I have tea whilst administering valuable advice on which way up to hold up a plastic star so that it fits through the hole in the top of the box it is stored in, or whether raspberries are more appropriate to the season than blueberries (the answer, by the way, appears to be "hardly ever"). It also has my official "grandfather name" on it, which will remind me who am I as I am overtaken by the inevitable "senior moments".

It is, I guess, a factor of modern life that with families more far flung than hitherto, that more grandparenting is in two dimensions rather than three, something which at least comes more naturally to me, with a family scattered across twenty time zones on four continents. But, it must be said, it's better in person...

3 January - a look through the archives...

It is occasionally hard to believe that I’ve been writing this blog for more than fifteen years now. I was, at the beginning, decidedly single, having concluded that this was likely to be the case forever. So much for predictions, eh? And perhaps it’s time to, occasionally, take a look at what was happening in retrospective to see if I learned much...

Fifteen years ago, I was in India, attending a family wedding. That was a part of my life that had fallen into abeyance for the previous decade and a half, given that my then relationship didn’t leave much room for my extended family scattered across the globe. Pretty much the first thing I did once I’d somewhat straightened my head out was to set out on a world tour to find out what uncles, aunts, cousins and second cousins were up to - from Mumbai to Toronto, from Auckland to Edmonton.

Having been asked to give one of the readings at the service, I did have some misgivings, especially with a failed marriage so recently behind me (well, mostly behind even if some of the most depressing parts were still to come). But it’s hard to feel depressed for long in the midst of my Indian family, and you end up unable to resist the urge to relax and enjoy the craziness.

We’re all a bit older and, in my case, rather greyer (although I’m about the same weight, curiously) but we still seem able to relax with each other no matter how long we’ve been apart. And, in Ros, I have someone who is happy to share in it, even to encourage it, which is hugely appreciated.

We remain utterly scattered, with twenty time zones between Walter and Felba in San Francisco and Windsor, Beryl, Warren, Tanya and Kim in Auckland, but we keep in touch after a fashion thanks to the wonders of modern technology which allows me to talk to Kim via Facebook Messenger, or be updated on Arlene and Ryan’s progress in Bahrain.

I ought to be better at marking birthdays and anniversaries, and maybe I might aspire to do a little more in 2021. After all, as the oldest of the generation (and we are curiously hierarchical), there are some vague obligations...

Viva La Revolución! A day of Cuban bookends...

It's been a rather pleasant day, all in all.

I don't, as a rule, have an awful lot of business in London these days, but the need to sort out our visitor cards for our upcoming holiday in Cuba required my personal attention, so I was up bright and relatively early to catch a train from Needham Market on an idyllic winter's morn for the journey to the big city.

Abellio Greater Anglia having graciously supplied not one but two trains on time, I made it to High Holborn, where I was made to feel very welcome by the staff at the Cuban Embassy, and it wasn't long before I was heading off for my next engagement, lunch with an old friend, Daniel Brown, near his office at Canary Wharf.

Daniel and I go way back, nearly thirty years indeed, to our days in the Brent and Harrow Young Liberals, and we were Treasurer and Secretary respectively of the Young Liberal Democrats of England, immediately after the merger of the Liberals and the Social Democrats. But you know how life is, families and work and everything else gets in the way, and suddenly you haven't seen each other for, really, is it that long? So, lunch was a wonderful opportunity to catch up.

But Daniel was working, and time was limited (not unreasonably), and so we promised to do this again, and I headed back into Zone 1 to see my younger (taller and rather better looking) brother over a beer. Kirk very graciously produced children (the lovely Natasha, the equally lovely Imogen, and the surprisingly bouncy Lucas), presumably so that I didn't have to (this is a joke, by the way...). Later, our father joined us for a catch up, which was nice.

Next stop, Westminster, for a bite of dinner before the last engagement of the day, at the residence of the Cuban Ambassador, to celebrate Cuba's National Day, the anniversary of the birth of Cuba's revolutionary hero, José Martí, who was born on this day in 1853. We were greeted by the Ambassador, who seems very friendly, before a leader of the Cuban community here in Britain made a stirring speech to commemorate the 1959 Revolution, with much 'Viva-ing' to follow.

The band played some suitable music, and we mingled a bit at an event that one might describe as a bit 'Corbynista' but a lot of fun. I think that we're going to enjoy our trip...

Another reminder that things aren't like they used to be...

I like to joke at gathering of my cousins that, as the eldest, I am our generation's guinea pig, testing concepts so that others might learn from the experience. Divorce and (relative) old age are my main areas of expertise and, whilst both are better avoided, only one can be put off permanently.

Since having to resort to reading classes two years ago, there has been a constant, albeit slow, deterioration in the quality of my eyesight, coming to a point whilst Ros and I were in the US whereby I could go into a coffee shop and not be able to read the menu either with reading glasses or without. There is, suddenly, a visual range where I need more help.

Luckily, I have become rather better at spotting the signs, and had taken the precaution of booking an eye test for this morning. And so, I wandered in, expecting bad news.

Yes, my eyesight has deteriorated, introducing a requirement for distance glasses - distance defined as anything beyond arms length (news to me too, I admit). However, it is easily remedied with new glasses and so, I have arranged for some to be made for collection next Monday. The only problem was that I was left to choose frames without the benefit of Ros's good sense.

I did look at these, but concluded that they didn't really give the inquisitorial look that I perhaps ought to have - albeit that I prefer to peer benevolently over them as a rule. Maybe next time...

So, in the end, I picked two frames that were vaguely sensible, looked smart and were comfortable to wear. And that, for the benefit of my cousins, is another one of the things about getting older - you become a little more conservative in your choices...

"A second cousin is a person in your neighbourhood" - a gentle mid-morning in Brooklyn

Saturday morning, the sun was shining, and it was time for a trip on the subway. Our destination - Brooklyn or, to be more precise, Clinton Hill, a long-established residential suburb, for brunch with Leon, Patti, Vayden and Finley.

We walked across Times Square in search of an ATM, withdrew some spending money and purchased two 7-day Metrocards - pretty good value at $31 each (never let it be said that you don't learn anything here at "Liberal Bureaucracy"), before heading into the underworld. It is, it must be said, just as hot as Hades down there. However, we eventually located the C train platforms, arriving just in time to catch a train.

One of the quirky things about the New York subway is that lines aren't necessarily fixed, and we suddenly, rather unexpectedly, found ourselves on the F line, heading for Jay Street/Metro Tech where, we were reassured, would revert to the C line, due to weekend engineering works (where have I heard that phrase before).

Having left Times Square, which is truly raucous and chaotic, we were slightly surprised to emerge into the sunshine at Clinton/Washington Streets to a scene of tranquillity. It is twenty minutes from Times Square, yet the peaceful streets betray no sense that Manhattan is so close. Tree-lined streets, interesting nineteenth century architecture, in short the sort of place where a bureaucrat could live if obliged to return to the city.

Abandoning my jacket - it was a very comfortable twenty-five degrees - we set off for a stroll around the neighbourhood. Clinton Hill has long been a middle-class enclave amongst some slightly dicey locales - Bedford-Stuyvescent to the east inspired the 1980 Billy Joel lyric "I’ve been stranded in the combat zone/I walked through Bedford-Stuy alone.” - but is now a place where some rather good restaurants compete for trade. We stopped for an excellent brunch at "Ici", which describes itself as a French country kitchen. I'm not sure about the French, but the food was very good, and a witbier from Nantucket went down very well with it.

Strolling on, we headed for Fort Greene Park, so that Vayden and Finlay could run around a bit, before having a look at the farmers' market and picking up some provisions. We returned to Leon and Patti's place via a different route, stopping at the Brooklyn Flea, an organised flea market held on the playground of a local high school. All sorts of things can be obtained, but my eye was drawn to some outsize metal letters. If only luggage restrictions weren't so onerous...

It was, all in all, a very pleasant way to pass a few hours, catching up on events, just hanging out in the neighbourhood. And, hopefully, we'll see my second cousin and his family rather sooner next time...

Technology really can be your best friend sometimes

I have been somewhat distracted of late. The unexpected loss of an uncle in Mumbai, combined with a pre-planned break, meant that I was absent for a fortnight in total, covering the initial stages on a General Election campaign. As a result, I don't really feel attuned to what's happening around me, which in itself feels a bit odd.

Nonetheless, life goes on. So, what have I been up to?

Last week was about travel, but the week before was all about family. I've already covered the key events in sufficient detail, but having reflected a little, I should note how technology has made life in the diaspora slightly less isolated.

My family is just one of untold families who, for economic opportunities, have left their homeland and scattered across the globe, leaving an older generation behind them. In the past, distance made personal contact difficult and expensive, and with international telephone calls expensive and unreliable, it was difficult to keep in touch, both actually and emotionally. If a loved one at home died, or was seriously ill, you needed to be wealthy and extremely well-organised, if not a bit lucky, to be able to return home in time.

Now, with Skype and Facebook and all of the other media that enable easy contact at low, or no, cost, you can share experiences across the globe in a way that we are in danger of taking for granted. So, when I was sitting at my computer seventeen days ago, I got a message from my cousin, Kim, in Auckland, telling me that my uncle, in Mumbai, was in hospital and then, soon afterwards, that he wasn't going to make it.

Thirty years ago, that would have meant finding a travel agent, organising a visa via the High Commission, finding somewhere to stay, getting currency, all of which would have involved journeys to do things in person, assuming that you could find out what you needed to prepare.

Now, I was able to book the flight online, pay for it with a credit card, arrange a hotel, tell everyone what I was doing and how, all in less than an hour. Yes, it wasn't cheap - immediate, last minute arrangements seldom are - but it was easy enough. Meanwhile, in London and Toronto, Auckland and Boston, similar arrangements were being made and within sixty-five hours, everyone had arrived in Mumbai.

It is, on reflection, quite remarkable, and a reminder that whilst we may be far apart, technology offers us, and every diaspora community, the means to maintain those connections of kin and community that are so core to our very being...

Of loss and of memory, a family gathers to mourn and recollect

It's mid-afternoon on a typically sultry day in the Mumbai suburbs, and most of my family are taking an afternoon nap. And, given the circumstances, it is good that they are, for it has been a difficult week for the Valladares family.

On Saturday, news reached us that Sinclair, my father's younger brother, had been seriously injured in a traffic accident - he had been crossing the busy road between Mahim and Bandra and had been struck by a motor-cyclist. Tragically, it quickly became apparent that he wasn't going to make it.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, in Auckland and Toronto, London and Boston, passports were being unearthed, emergency visa applications completed and flight tickets booked, as the implications of diaspora came into sharp focus. My cousins, Sinclair's sons, Clyne and Clint, live in Canada and the US, his elder brothers, Windsor and my father, live in New Zealand and London. As for me, I was booked on the evening flight.

By the time I arrived on Sunday afternoon, the house was already filled with a stream of neighbours and friends, there to express their condolences and to tell stories of how Sinclair had touched their lives. Fortunately, my Aunt was already visiting, and Daphne, his sister, who lives across town, had arrived to take control of things.

The funeral was arranged for Tuesday evening, and as sons and nephews, brothers and cousins arrived, we sat and retold stories from our shared past. A stream of friends, neighbours and those whose lives Sinclair had touched came to the house to tell us their stories too, of generosity and support, of favours done and lives changed, of redemption and heroism.

Three hours before the funeral mass, the coffin was brought to the house - open, as is the way here - and prayers said over the body, both by the priest and by a nun - we are never short of the latter here - before a small New Orleans-style band turned up to play some tunes. Eventually, the coffin was carried to St Michael's, the band leading the way, the rest of us following along behind.

I admit to being a less than entirely devout Catholic - I am guilty, rather than practicing, but not so guilty that I feel I should be practicing. But it was a very nice mass, nonetheless, with friends of the family, plus Clyne and Clint, performing some songs as part of the service. It was only when I got up to read a eulogy on behalf of the family that I realised that the church was full, a thousand or more people there, filling the pews, up in the mezzanine, looking through the windows. It was a deeply touching demonstration of his place in the community and the affection in which he was held.

Afterwards, a blur of condolences and reintroductions, as the coffin was interred into the family plot and rose petals scattered, before we returned to Eagle's Nest to talk and eat and reflect.

Such an event in the life of a family is strangely terrible yet moving in equal measure. When that family is as far flung as ours is, it is however an opportunity to reconnect, to strengthen the bonds that tie, regardless of how tenuous they might have become through age and remoteness. Whilst I mourn the passing of my uncle, I am grateful to have had the time with my family here.

Another day in the City of Dreams...

So, having settled in, visited Eagle's Nest and the Creados in Santa Cruz, it's time to head into the city for some light shopping and a visit to my aunt and uncle in Colaba, at the southern tip of the peninsula that is downtown Mumbai.

I could take an air-conditioned car from my hotel but, instead, I've taken the slightly more complex and rather cheaper route of walking to Santa Cruz station and catching bus number 83 to Hutatma Chowk. When I was younger, and before the local Marathi nationalists (think "North Indians go home!" and you'll get the idea...) started renaming the city, it was universally known as Flora Fountain, after the fountain commemorating Sir Bartle Frere, who did so much to create the modern city by infilling the gaps between the original seven islands.

But, as I mentioned, I'm here to shop - first stop the Khadi and Village Emporium, an exquisite caricature of what shopping must have been like in the last century, with a three-stage purchasing process, select in one place, take receipt to another to pay, then take the slip that remains to collection where your purchase has been wrapped for you. A batik style cotton shirt in deepest purple costs about £4 (you may wonder how I can be so precise about that... sorry, Ros...), and I picked up a relatively sober summer shirt for about £2.

Next stop, Chimanlals for paper goods. Sadly, they don't sell the wonderful notebooks they used to have, but for exotic thank you cards, they can't be beaten.

A quick stop for hydration in a bar with a desire to play Madonna's back catalogue, and it's off to Colaba. It's nice to catch up with my aunt and uncle, and my cousin Julian comes home from work, so the two of us head off to the Catholic Gymkhana for dinner and a couple of drinks whilst we talk about travel - he works at a travel agency and is an experienced traveller too.

But, eventually, it's time to head back to the suburbs. Julian walks me back to Charni Road station for a train journey back to Santa Cruz. Luckily, my body clock still thinks that it's about 9.30 p.m. when I arrive back at the hotel at midnight...

A transport of delight, Mumbai style...

Those of you who remember Flanders and Swann will doubtless recall one of their best-known songs, all about a scarlet-painted, diesel-engined, ninty-seven horsepower omnibus. But, whilst they may now be but a distant memory in London, not much has changed in Mumbai, with some glorious old boneshakers still dominating the streets.

Mostly single decker these days, they are utterly disabled unfriendly, with steep steps and narrow doorways (assuming that the bus actually stops) to be negotiated. The conductor operates predominantly with one hand on the cord operating the bell but, in fairness, they do have some kind of Oystercard system, so he now has a computerised ticket machine. The ride is uniformly awful, the seats uncomfortable (or am I getting old?) but the fare is cheap, despite today's exorbitant fare rises - I paid 13 rupees (about 14p) to get from Mahim to Santa Cruz today.

It is, in truth, a throwback to my childhood forty years ago, travelling the city from uncle to aunt and back again to Nana in Eagle's Nest.

Tomorrow, I'm heading into the Fort area, the old commercial hub of the city, with a little shopping in mind, and, whilst I could simply catch a train from Santa Cruz to Churchgate, that would be too easy, although almost as much of an adventure. I think that I've worked out the bus routes so, keep your fingers crossed...

For all the signs of my impending mortality, I'm a long way yet from a pine box

I am, officially, fifty (and five days). That, apparently, is the bad news, although I can't help feeling that I'm still a long way away from a pipe and slippers (the fact that I don't smoke is probably a factor, and as for slippers... why?).

Luckily, my health is generally good, although it would be nice to shift the persistent, hacking cough that has bedevilled me for the past two or three months, and emotionally I feel as though I'm in my mid-thirties. It is only life that keeps reminding me that this might not actually be the case. Surveys ask for my age, my employer sends me documents about my pension and people insist on asking how it went. I'm sure that they really care, but...

Nonetheless, it has been a pleasant few days to mark my occasionally erratic half-century (made off seventy-two deliveries, four fours and a six for the statisticians out there). And yes, I've offered the odd chance but reckon that I've been pretty good value for it.

I took Thursday off, and spent the day riding buses and trains around Suffolk - we have buses, you know... we're very up to date in the East of England. Stowmarket to Bury St Edmnunds via Tostock and Thurston on route 384, on a bus held up by geese on the road at Beyton, followed by route 86 from Bury to Brandon (don't bother, it isn't worth stopping) and then a train to Norwich where lunch was taken, before a quick return to Lowestoft and back and then to Stowmarket for dinner with Ros.

Saturday was a family day, as my families gathered in Norton for lunch. It was nice that my parents and Jamie and Liam (my stepson and nethew respectively) all came from London to join Sally (my stepdaughter), her husband Brij, Ann (my sister-in-law) and Ros and I for good food and lively conversation.

Sunday was the surprise element, and one that Ros kept very well. A cross-county drive brought us to Holy Trinity Church at Long Melford, where a concert of Tudor and Elizabethan music was taking place, one of my recently discovered loves. The Cambridge Renaissance Voices were excellent in a venue that really complements the complex vocal harmonies of the likes of Byrd, Gibbons and Dowland.

All in all, a splendid few days. And now, I have stuff to do - after all, the next half-century has to start somewhere...

A day at the races, and a profitable one at that...

Buying gifts for my parents has become increasingly difficult as the years have passed - they presumably now have everything that they want, and have never wanted that much anyway, so when Ros suggested that I take them to a race meeting at Newmarket, my problem was solved (at least for one year).

So, having agreed a date, I booked a VIP package for the four of us and kept my fingers crossed for the weather.

Three days out, I was not optimistic, as the forecast predicted a series of vicious thunderstorms over west Suffolk but, as Saturday drew closer, things looked more hopeful.

The July Course at Newmarket

That hope was somewhat dampened by the heavy rain that fell as Ros and I drove along the A14 towards Newmarket but, as we arrived at the July Course, the rain had stopped. Driving across the grass as directed by the car park stewards, Ros said, "Isn't that your mother?". It was, and by amazing good fortune, we had arrived within seconds of each other and were parked with just one vehicle between us.

It did begin to rain lightly as we waited for the gates to open but, at 11.50 sharp, we were invited to enter and the rain stopped.

The VIP package is not cheap, but it includes car parking, close to the Premier Enclosure, racecards for each person, entry to the premier enclosure, a table in the Summer House Restaurant all day, champagne and canapes on arrival, a four course dinner, afternoon tea, a hostess to look after you and a nice lady from the Tote to take your bets at your table (and pay out if you win), so we sat down and caught up with each other.

Meanwhile, the sun had come out, and the predicted thunderstorms were holding off. It was time to give some thought to picking horses...

My mother has a tendency to pick horses whose jockeys have green in their colours. As a theory, it apparently works because most of the serious Arab owners include green in their colours, and they can afford good horses. It certainly worked in the first race, as the 16/1 outsider, Balty Boys, came in to win handily. My father, on the other hand, likes to look at the available data. In the second race, he picked Noble Protector, who promptly won at 12/1.

That meant that they would be taking home a profit, regardless of their success or otherwise during the rest of the day. Ros and I weren't being as successful, sadly. I'm like my father - I like to look at the data, even though I understand that it is only guidance - but it wasn't working for me until the fourth, when Athenian won at 5/1. Ros's choice, Lady Horatia, came third, and as we were placing 'each way' bets - half our stake to win, the other half to place - we had now all won something.

It was at this point that I departed from usual practice. In the sixth race, the horse I had initially chosen was scratched, leaving me to pick a replacement at short notice. So, I picked a horse with a liberal theme. And, lo and behold, Liberty Jack romped home at 7/1, before Gold Trail came second in the final race at 4/1, leaving me some £40 up on the day.

My only regret is that I didn't find my theme earlier - What A Party came third at a starting price of 100/1...

Winning always makes a day a little better, but even had our luck not been so good, it was huge fun to spend the day with my parents, and to have the time to chat about a whole range of topics in a relaxed environment. We're going to have to do this again, some time...

My brother, Kirk, explores the dilemma of how to educate your children

I am childless, entirely by choice, I might add, but in my role as evil stepfather and hapless uncle, I do have to. occasionally, give some thought to the next generation. But not as much thought as my younger, taller and generally more handsome younger brother, Kirk.

He blogs too, and I like to, from time to time, read what he publishes. His life is different to mine in all sorts of ways, but he is a good father and an all around decent human being (is one allowed to say that about one's kid brother?). Recently, he has been dealing with the question of his daughter's education, and the choices available.

He isn't political, takes little interest in politics, but writes interestingly and well of the issues that face him in his choice here.

Ros in the Lords: City of Bradford Metropolitan District

In the course, of Ros's research into her family roots, it has become apparent that her father's side of the family are properly Northern, and in linking up with the far flung strands of family, the notion of Bradford as the base for a renaissance in British textile manufacture has been mooted as a 'good thing' - it's amazing what emerges from family discussions. And so, when Baroness Eaton, whom Ros knows from her days in the Local Government Association, sought a debate on the future of Bradford, Ros was keen to contribute...

Baroness Scott of Needham Market (LD): My Lords, the Committee may be wondering why a woman from deepest Suffolk is speaking in a debate on Bradford. The answer lies in the genes: my father was a Bradford man and, thanks to the wonderful work of the West Yorkshire Archive Service, I know that generations of my ancestors, going back over 300 years, came from the area around Bradford, Leeds, Halifax and Huddersfield. These towns were part of the backbone of the industrial revolution, and in the case of my ancestors it was the textile industry that occupied them. In my ancestry are wool combers, sorters, cloth dressers, weavers, dyers, spinners, carders, warp dressers and weft men, and this continued right up to the death of my uncle in the early 1970s. During the 1940s and 1950s, these jobs were done increasingly by immigrants from the Indian subcontinent who were prepared to tolerate the low wages and poor conditions in the industry. By the 1970s and 1980, instead of the people coming to the jobs, the jobs went to the people—most of the textile and garment industry moved to the Far East, where labour was cheap.

I mention that because there is growing evidence that we should be rethinking all this. The textile industry can now be almost totally automated; fewer people are required, and those who are required are highly skilled. Every process, from design to manufacture and packaging, can be computerised and automated. Digital connections mean that small start-up businesses can almost instantly be connected to markets, research and suppliers from right across the globe.

The competitive advantage of cheap labour does not necessarily exist anymore. If noble Lords are not convinced, I can point to Apple and General Electric, both of which are bringing their manufacturing capability back to the United States. Reshoring, the opposite of offshoring, is a growing reality, and I can point noble Lords to the recent work by our colleague, the noble Lord, Lord Giddens. In the textile industry, Jaeger has restarted UK production, having ceased in 2000. The fact is that wages in Asia have risen while they have stagnated in Europe and the US. The head of a company manufacturing household textiles in both the UK and China recently commented that it is his UK plant that is more productive, due to the highly skilled workforce and the fluctuations in currencies.

Transport costs are going up all the time, which makes reshoring increasingly viable. Producing closer to the markets also has the advantage of shortening order times, giving a flexibility that many big retailers particularly welcome. Customers and businesses are becoming more aware of sustainability arguments and the ethical considerations, which were so graphically highlighted by the terrible loss of life in the garment factory in Bangladesh. The UK is currently still uncompetitive in cheap mass-produced markets but has a big advantage in quality.

In Seoul, John Lewis is now one of the most popular stores in the city. Its quilts and bedding are being made in Lancashire, and the managing director points to the design, quality and overall value that are leading to their success. The “Made in Britain” label is definitely seen as a plus, and retailers such as Marks & Spencer are committed to promoting it. The textile trade body is promoting UK manufacture under its Let’s Make it Here initiative, which links companies at all stages of the supply chain.

Vince Cable has talked about the growth of reshoring. The textile industry is ripe for this, and I would appreciate assurances from the Minister that its importance is being taken seriously. The Government have a role in promotional activities, helping start-ups and ensuring that capital, and the right skills, are available. Bradford still has a small but thriving textile sector, but it could do so much more. How magnificent it would be if Bradford, with all its industrial heritage, could once again become a thriving centre for textile manufacturing.

On being reminded that, perhaps, one should count one's blessings more often...

I read Jennie Rigg's blog post today with a sense of disquiet. Not, as one might think, with a sense of disbelief, or disgust, or disappointment, but disquiet. It does bother me somewhat when people I like are disturbed to the point when they take actions which, in my mind, are injurious to themselves and/or others, or are made unhappy by the actions of others or even sheer randomness. Sometimes I note from their Twitter feeds, or from third parties, that life is dealing out lemons today.

I find myself thinking, "there, but for the grace of God, go I", but seldom do I take the next step of reflecting upon that. So, by way of making amends, perhaps I should tempt fate by doing just that.

I am, in many ways, extraordinary in my ordinariness. I had an uneventful childhood, raised by two people who cared for me, in a community where I felt safe, and schooled by people who took sufficient interest in me as an individual to want to encourage me to explore the possibilities open to me.

I never experienced poverty or suffering in the way that, as it turned out, so many other people have done, never had people tell me that I couldn't do things, never been treated as a persecuted minority, never felt that I have to justify my existence. Clearly, being a mixed-race, middle-class male comes with certain advantages. And to the extent that I am in a minority, it is one that goes almost entirely unnoticed, even if it is something that I am inordinately proud of.

I have had opportunities denied to many, and even taken some of them, and when bad things have happened, I have been blessed by friends and family who generously given their love and time to support me. And I am married to someone who I love and, I think, loves me back.

In short, the fates have been generous thus far, a view reinforced by the dilemmas faced by my friends and associates on a day by day basis. I can only admire the grace and good humour with which they face them.

And so I say to Jennie, and to so many others, I am proud and honoured to be your friend, and I take strength and solace from your bravery and honesty.

And, in turn, I give thanks for the good fortune that I have had over nearly half a century, and promise not to take it for granted quite so much in future...

Life in the big city...

So, I've been in London for the day, and the sun was shining, which was nice. Best of all, I wasn't in a hurry, which meant that I could ride the bus from place to place, a much more pleasant means of transport than the Tube.

Lunch with my father and my kid brother was very nice, especially as I don't see as much of them as I would like. The chosen pub serves Timothy Taylor's Landlord, which is always a bonus, and my weight loss has not gone unnoticed, which puts me in a good mood.

However, they have to go to work, so time for a bit of light shopping. I'm a bit of a random shopper in that, when I'm up for it, I'm really up for it - the shirt collection is evidence of that - but when the muse is not with me, the credit card is safe. And, in a sartorial sense, I'm safe for another month, although I now possess more Monteverdi madrigals than one could reasonably listen to in a sitting.

And that is the minor drawback of living far from the madding crowd, the lack of certain types of shopping. For example, buying classical music CDs is not really an option, unless I go to Snape for a concert, and even then my choice is a bit limited. On the other hand, I am less likely to purchase things that I don't need, and therefore spend less on a day to day basis (sorry guys, if you're counting on me to spend the kind of money that would save the British economy, I fear you will be disappointed).

Of course, London is less than ninety minutes away by fast train (alright, National Express East Anglia train, it would probably be seventy minutes by real train), so if there's something I really want, it's hardly like a trek across the Gobi Desert (Essex really isn't that bad, you know).

The evening was spent with friends, exchanging tales of campaigns past, over an excellent meal and good wine. One disadvantage of living in the countryside is that, if you throw, or attend, a dinner party, one of you has to drive, and not drink. In that sense, public transport makes you free. Ah well, when I raise enough money for the Mid-Suffolk Light Railway...

And so to bed...

Oh no, I'm in danger of becoming serious!

Perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration. I do know that my family are making 'worried' noises like, "You've sounded a bit miserable lately, why don't you lighten up a bit?", and, "Are you tired, your blog gives that impression?". Family, aren't they wonderful?

And perhaps they're right. The blog has been a bit serious of late, call it sombre. I've allowed the people around me to define my mood, and that isn't necessarily a good thing. These politician types are so serious, and it matters so much to them that it hurts. Most of my favourite moments revolve around the more frivolous (when I grow up, I want to be a wildly coloured butterfly...) and I operate so much better when I'm smiling (or ill, but that's a different matter...).

So, an open invitation to my colleagues. Try and make me happy, don't waste my time with stuff that isn't that important and do try and look as though you're enjoying it. In return, I'll be the eccentric bureaucrat that you actually need, crack jokes when they'll help and hum something cheerful even though I won't be aware that I'm doing it (it's a sign that I'm happy).

If I stop enjoying it, I'll find something else to do. Because, believe it or not, there is a world beyond politics, and most people outside seem to rub along somehow... if anyone has any ideas for things I could do (culture would be nice), why not let me know?

There really isn't any escape, you know...

A conscience is a terrible thing. It makes you want to sit by a swimming pool on a sunny day and read the Selection Rules for Parliamentary candidate selections so that you understand them. It makes you spend time thinking about internal communications strategies instead of focussing on your evening card school.

On the other hand, it prevents you from feeling guilty about not doing these things when you promised that you would. Besides, lying in the sun all day can get terribly wearing... although it is raining as I 'write'. Invitations to meetings, details about Annual General Meetings, plotting, scheming, arranging the assassination of political enemies, all the usual day to day stuff, doesn't stop just because you do. Besides, it's easier to do it properly than try to catch up on your return.

And it is nice to have time to stop and think. There are so many other things going on in my life, and I'm so bad at saying, "You know, I really don't have time to do that, perhaps you ought to find someone else?", that the absence of telephone calls and work really helps me to put things into proper context. Also, given my family's comparative lack of interest in politics, they have an alarming tendancy to ask questions like, "Why is that important?", or, "Why can't someone else do that?". My response? "Good question, don't know, perhaps I ought to find out..."

Ah well, back out into the unreal world for a few more hours...

En vacances avec la famille Valladares

Curiously, although perhaps unsurprisingly, I'm away again, this time deep in the Indian Ocean on the island of Mauritius. It's a long story, so I won't bore you with the details, although fortunately, our flight left before London's latest terrorist scare (but only just, it would seem).

This time, I'm with my family, mother, father, kid brother, his wife, their three lovely children and my cousin, Kim. Apparently, this is something that they've been doing for years and now that I'm single again, I can come too (I'm assuming that Rachelle and I were too busy before - and in fairness, that was a pretty safe assumption).

Kim and I have been doing some comparisons and we reckon that Mauritius is a lot like Goa, and Fiji is also similar in many ways (large Indian population, sugar cane, island in the Southern Hemisphere...). The resort that we're staying in is very nice, and because we were there last year, the staff recognise us - a nice touch, I think.

Far from the beaten track though we are, Mauritius is very connected to the outside world. Tonight, there is an anti-war demonstration in Port Louis, the capital, although I won't be doing any reportage on the event, and the African Athletic Championships are taking place between our resort at Flic en Flac on the west coast and Port Louis. It's the last day of competition tomorrow so I may yet drop in.

Otherwise, this is an idyllic spot to spend some time. The pace of life is fairly gentle, the island is big enough to have variety but small enough to allow exploration of its furthest corners, and the climate at this time of year is well nigh perfect (highs in the low eighties, occasional showers to freshen the air, and gentle breezes, especially here in the central plateau (this message comes to you from Curepipe, the country's second city).

But enough blogging for the time being, I'm off in search of a haircut (it hasn't been done since Fiji and I'm looking a little ragged). There might even be a cold beer involved...

Blown away in the City of Sails

I woke up this morning and sleepily grabbed the television controls to catch the end of the Angola vs. Portugal game. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Still nothing. And then I noticed that the clock in my room was flashing 12:10. I can't have overslept that badly, can I? Look out of the window, rain is blowing sideways against the glass and the wind is gusting at speeds above 60 mph... and I'm on the 27th floor...

Ring reception. "Oh yes, Mr Valladares, there's just been a city wide power failure. We've turned the generators on but nothing else will work until the problem is fixed." Oh, that's alright then. And everyhting is still down, except, curiously, this computer.

Rotorua was as much fun as I suspected it would be. I had my day at the spa (twice), enjoying a mud wrap on Thursday and a pumice exfoliation/Aix massage on Friday, followed by a lazy soak in the thermal pools. Having discovered the joy of spa, I'm amazed that women got away with keeping this secret for so long. What could be better than being mindlessly pampered for a few hours (and no, that isn't intended to be a challenge!)?

Saturday saw me at the top of the zorb slope and I now have a DVD of my first two rolls (isn't technology wonderful?). I really have got a taste for zorbing and would recommend it to virtually anyone. Check out www.zorb.com for more information...

Yesterday was a travel day and I made it safely to Auckland, got to the hotel and snagged an upgrade to the Crowne Plaza Club floor (free continental breakfast, free computer access, free drinks and nibbles in the evening...). But, yet again, I find myself sharing the hotel with rugby players. Last year, the Wests Tigers rugby league team were staying here, led by their star player, Benji Marshall. He's not very big, but when you see him in lycra, you understand why he's so popular (if you know what I mean). What there is is all muscle and he's certainly powerful for his size.

This time, the hotel is inhabited by the Irish rugby union squad, fresh from their 34-23 defeat by the All Blacks in Hamilton. Their scrum was pushed all over the park by the men in black in that game, but they pluckily fought for the full eighty minutes. I don't hold out a lot of hope for them in the second game though.

Finally, I got to meet the newest member of the Valladares family, Georgia, who is just 37 days old. She's kind of cute in a "small baby, can't tell who she takes after yet" sort of way. I'll add some pictures at some point...

It ain't 'arf hot, Mum!

It's 93 degrees, humidity is at about 70%, and I'm sheltering in an internet cafe near Eagle's Nest, the family manse here in Mahim, one of Mumbai's now inner suburbs - it's entirely relative, I know.

Having conquered my jetlag, I ventured into the city by bus to do a little shopping and to reacquaint myself with the sort of conditions that will be commonplace on this part of my journey (Vietnam will be very similar). The traffic was surprisingly free-flowing (if England's midfield is equally uncongested, we've got a chance) and I made very good time.

Mumbai is still one of the most vibrant cities I've ever visited, full of life, cattle, noise and street drama, and it is good to be 'home'. The next few days will be a whirl of family, and it's nice to be surrounded by familiar faces for part of this trip.

Tomorrow, I'll be hoping to rediscover the days of the colonial Raj, so more news then...