Handforth Parish Council - a reminder that technology is not without its perils

https://youtu.be/lgGmYeAm0jk

It's not common for the deliberations of a Parish Council to go viral - in truth they're generally not that interesting. However, the unfortunate events during a Zoom meeting of Handforth Parish Council's Planning and Environment Committee have led to the video being watched more than a million times. Given that the population of Handforth was just over 6,000 in 2011, that's rather impressive.

Unfortunately for the Parish councillors concerned, their struggles with technology and, in some cases, basic courtesy, have made it look like a bit of a shambles (I paraphrase in order to protect the innocent). In the midst of the mayhem, the acting Clerk, Jackie Weaver, attempts to create some structure, whilst councillors walk away from their cameras, attempt to speak whilst muted, and talk over each other.

From an outsider's perspective, it does look as though the Parish Council requires the mediation skills of a senior United Nations diplomat, although once Jackie (who is the Chief Officer of the Cheshire Association of Local Councils) had started excluding those behaving badly, the meeting did seem to be rather more cordial.

But, regardless of the circumstances that surrounded the meeting, it is a reminder to those of us in a similar position that, when you're in a virtual meeting, especially one where there are opposing factions, you need to be on top of your game or, at the very least, paying attention to the picture of you that everyone else is seeing.

That can be a challenge, especially in areas where broadband speeds are less than optimal, and where you have councillors who are unfamiliar, or uncomfortable, with technology. And sometimes, people behave as though there is nobody watching, which can produce some rather bizarre moments, as Handforth councillors demonstrate vividly.

The role of the Chair is criticial. Not only do you have to steer the meeting in order to complete the business, but you need to watch the screen to ensure that people can contribute. And, for most of us, that's a relatively new challenge, one that most of us aren't trained for, and it's a real test of your skills as a Chair.

I'm very fortunate in that, having served on far more committees than is really healthy over the years, I have a reasonable sense of what does and does not work. My colleagues have re-elected me twice, so I'm hoping that that represents an endorsement. But I wouldn't call it easy, especially if it's what one might describe as an "open mic session", where it's necessary or useful to open the discussion beyond just the councillors.

For those with less committee experience, there is training available through your County Association of Local Councils, and I would strongly recommend it, although whether or not the training material is designed to cope with virtual meetings is a question I can't personally answer. The basic skills don't change, however.

The basic courtesies don't change either. Allowing people to finish before you speak, keeping your interventions brief and to the point, judicious use of humour and encouragement and staying muted unless you want to intervene, help the Chair and the Clerk in their roles.

I hope that Handforth Parish Council finds a resolution to the problems it clearly has, but when Parish Councils go sour, it can be a hard road back...

Sometimes, it’s one damned thing after another...

The power came back on just before 11 p.m... and went back off just after midnight. And then it came back on at some point in the middle of the night - my phone was plugged in to charge and suddenly sprang into life. At some point after that, it was off, but neighbours confirmed that it came on yet again at about 6 a.m. I slept through that.

Morning came and the power was on, so all was good. Except that we had no broadband. Word reached us that there had been a knock-on effect from the power failures and that we’d lost broadband. Openreach were working on it though which might have been fine had it not been for the small detail that I was supposed to be interviewing candidates for some vacancies HMRC has. A few frantic e-mails later, a substitute was arranged and my manager informed.

But we were promised restoration by noon. And, indeed, Openreach were as good as their word and all was well. That was, until the power was cut again. Apparently, this was caused by an emergency isolation that had been carried out for safety purposes, and we would be out of action for another four hours or so.

The location of the fault became apparent following a brief stroll - Pound Road was blocked just south of the bridge over the A14 by a clutch of large vehicles, one of which had a cherry picker on the back.

I settled back to wait. And wait. Perhaps a stroll would help... but, eventually, the power was restored. Would the broadband still work? Yes, it would.

And so, life returned to normal in Creeting St Peter. At least, for the time being...

The Battle of Wounded Elbow

One of the more unpleasant aspects of this “growing old” malarkey is that bits of me start to fail or, at least, work less effectively than they used to. And that’s only to be expected, I suppose, what with all of the wear and tear that accrues from not having always paid a terrible amount of attention to my personal wellbeing.

Losing some weight helped a bit - the back is less of a problem, as are the knees - but my eyesight continues to deteriorate slowly but surely, and my eye tests are something to be approached with, if not apprehension, then at least an expectation of expense.

But for the past few weeks, my hitherto uncomplaining left elbow has been, well, grumbling. It is stiff, or sore, or both. Sometimes, the pain is around the joint, sometimes part way down the forearm, and occasionally nearer the shoulder. My gut instinct, and it’s such a male thing to do, is to dose it with ibuprofen and leave it to mend itself.

Ros is not impressed. She thinks that I should at least have it looked at by a physiotherapist - after all, what harm can it do, and it might even do some good. Naturally, I was slow to acknowledge her usual good sense, and put it off for a week. “It will get better and I don’t need to waste my time or that of a physiotherapist.”, was my evasive reasoning.

But it still hurts, and whilst it won’t kill me, it is a distraction, and so I have made an appointment for my very first ever physiotherapy session, next week. And whilst I fully expect to be told that I need to rest it, and possibly even do some exercises, what’s the worst that can happen...

Becoming stranded in Valletta

So, I had got back to Valletta having retrieved my debit card, taking the ferry from Birgu and thought that it might be nice to cross Valletta and catch the ferry over to Sliema as a more interesting route to San Giljan.

That meant a ride up the lift at Barrakka, and a stroll past the old opera house and down the slope to the ferry terminal. When I arrived, I discovered that there were no ferries operating until 4 p.m., so I trudged back up the hill, thinking that I could simply catch a bus.

It was only when I reached the bus station at the gateway to Valletta that I discovered one of the quirky features of Malta. Lunch on New Year’s Day is a big thing. So big, indeed, that public transport shuts down completely for about four hours. That’s fine if you know about it, but not so great for tourists like me.

I was thus forced to get a taxi, and the local drivers had naturally concluded that supply and demand was very much in their favour. I suspect that I was lucky to get as cheap a fare as I did, merely paying a 50% mark-up on the usual fare.

So, a valuable lesson learnt, and a happy cab driver. And, should I be here for Christmas in future, apparently Christmas Eve is the same...

Svalbard Diary, Day 1: 'Twas on the Monday morning, just as the sun was rising...

Dawn broke, somewhere near Stansted Airport. It was fearfully early, not a time of day I am familiar with, but the flight was scheduled for a 7 a.m. departure, and there really wasn't an option of taking a later one and having a lie-in.

And so, I hauled myself somewhat unenthusiastically out of bed, into (and out of) the shower and into some clothes. Thanks to Ros's enthusiasm for being early, we took a gentle stroll around the hotel to ease my daily quest for my ten thousand steps, before boarding the coach to the Inflite Corporate Jet Terminal, tucked away on the far side of Stansted Airport.

On arrival, it was clear that there was a problem. The absence of an aircraft should have been a giveaway, really. Apparently, a part was needed, and we weren't going anywhere until it was found and fitted. What this meant was that our scheduled afternoon explore of Longyearbyen, Svalbard's capital, was likely to be lost, and with it the walking opportunity I had been counting on. There was no choice but to walk laps of the rather small lounge. Lots of laps...

But we did eventually set off on the four hour flight. It is slightly hard to credit that, in such a short time, you can be somewhere so remote, but that's the wonder of modern flight, I guess.

Longyearbyen Airport is not a thing of beauty. Interestingly though, there is no customs or immigration check - you collect your luggage from the carousel and go. We were bussed to the ship and welcomed aboard with a glass of something sparkling and vaguely grape flavoured. It was going to be alright...

An Ipswich Tory has a social media misadventure...

I have to admit, I don't pay as much attention to local politics in Ipswich, our county town, as I might. Whilst I work in the heart of the town, and thus am there five days of each week, I can't say that I have an attachment to it which is anything other than functional. The shopping isn't as good as that of Norwich, or even Bury St Edmunds, and you just sense that it hasn't always been well-served by a County administration that is dominated by people who don't live there.

And, in truth, those of the town's politicians who are on social media often come across as unnecessarily aggressive and confrontational. It's the sort of politics that I was happy to leave behind when I left London nearly a decade ago.

But, bits and pieces of the online debate do cross my timeline, and, on Friday, I noticed that Nadia Cenci, the leader of the Conservative Group on Ipswich Borough Council, had made a comment about the survivors of the Grenfell Tower disaster which was, at best, grossly insensitive and, at worst, downright unpleasant.

Reaction was instantaneous - it tends to be when there's blood in the water - and hostile too. Nadia defended herself. It was a mistake, she'd meant to refer to the left-wing activists causing trouble, an interpretation which didn't have much to commend it. And then, she was gone. Six years of tweets deleted at a stroke.

Given that in her Twitter bio, she described herself as "outspoken female", it seemed odd that she'd simply bolted for the hills like that. After all, if you are outspoken, you stand by your comments, unless they're factually inaccurate, I'd have thought. Admittedly, 'outspoken' is a word used instead of the more accurate 'rude', 'unpleasant', or even 'callous', and whilst it may not reflect who Nadia really is (and I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here, Nadia), I was reminded that, surprisingly often, Twitter is a window into people's souls.

Nadia had a series of choices to make when this incident blew up. First, to apologise or stand by her initial thought. She did neither, instead trying to weasel out of it with the old "it was badly worded and I meant something completely different" routine. It seldom works. And then, once the explanation had failed to convince, a credible apology might have dealt with the matter. Unfortunately, deleting your whole Twitter oeuvre leads the more cynical to wonder what else was there.

And now, the story has reached the Daily Mail at a time when the Conservative Party leadership appear desperate to be loved. You wouldn't be optimistic for Nadia's future, even after her fulsome apology. It may be time for her to do some good works by way of rehabilitation. And maybe reintegrate back into social media society over the coming months... with a little more caution this time, perhaps, Nadia?

Is this the next social care scandal?

The report in yesterday's Daily Telegraph, suggesting that expats living in Spain are being recruited for short-term live-in care work without much training or, it is alleged, active supervision, raises a number of warning flags.

One of the many agencies supplying care staff is apparently recruiting heavily amongst the retirement communities, offering quite lucrative (£800 per week) packages designed to "fit neatly with the expat lifestyle" and to attract those whose income has been affected by the fall in the value of sterling. They admit that many of those on their books don't want to look after the vulnerable, but were driven by the cash.

That doesn't sound promising, does it? But these are ex-nurses and the like, right?

Wrong. Many of them have no relevant experience or professional training, undergoing a short "induction course" and are then sent into people's homes without even a physical health and safety inspection of the property. Worse still, in the case of one of the significant agencies, these transient carers are treated as self-employed and thus not subject to regulation by the Care Quality Commission.

Are you really comfortable about leaving your granny in the hands of such people? Yes, they might be perfectly decent people, but their motivation isn't promising and their skill levels aren't likely to be sufficient to deal with the range of problems that might potentially arise.

They'll have support though, won't they? If you consider having someone theoretically at the end of a telephone line as support, then yes. Frankly, I don't, and you can be pretty confident that, if something does go wrong, it'll be the NHS that is the first port of call.

And, returning to the fact that these people will be self-employed, who is accountable if something goes wrong? Is there insurance and who supplies it, or is responsible for doing so? An agency might be insured for acts carried out by their staff, but these aren't staff, they're contractors - unless, of course, such status is merely a pretense to avoid having to administer PAYE and to pay employer's National Insurance Contributions.

No, this will probably end badly, at which point "something must be done". If I was the Care Quality Commission, that point would be sooner rather than later...

Europe and the United Kingdom - a pause to reflect

It seems fair to suggest that we've just experienced one of the most depressing and disturbing campaigns in our nation's history. Ironically, the result is one of the least of my concerns in that sense, grim though it is if you're a liberal, internationalist sort of person.

No, with a 52-48 split, you can at least hold on to the possibility of 'buyer's remorse', although I personally wouldn't count on it. You can even entertain the hope that, when push comes to shove, either the European Union will panic and offer the United Kingdom concessions, or that the prime movers of Brexit will blink. Frankly, I'm not getting my hopes up there either. Gove and Johnson have painted themselves into a corner here, and whilst they may think that they can intellectualise their way out, the people they've persuaded aren't likely to be as forgiving, especially with Farage goading them to go further, move faster.

For me, there are worse developments from this campaign.

1. Migration and the re-emergence of 'acceptable racism'

Is migration an unalloyed good thing? Probably not, if you live in, say, Wisbech. Probably yes, if you live in a multicultural society where there is rather more opportunity, mobility and education. However, the political debate has been couched in terms of dealing with a problem, rather than taking a holistic view of the pluses and minuses. It was understandable that the Conservatives would treat it that way, after all, there has always been a minority in their ranks who see outsiders as the enemy. And, of course, they've spent more and more time trying to fend off the UKIP threat, perhaps not understanding that, by pandering to the extremists, you merely legitimise them.

But, increasingly, Labour have gone the same way. And yes, they risk losing a chunk of their support to UKIP too, given that they've similarly pandered, as the likes of Yvette Cooper and Andy Burnham have demonstrated in their responses to yesterday's result. The old Labour Party might have seen it as an opportunity to call for an expansion of council house building, or for higher taxes to build new facilities, or a redistribution of public spending to achieve the same ends. But oh no, it's talking about 'what we do about migration'.

Nobody, well nobody relevant anyway, is talking about unrestricted migration. They never did, which is why we have immigration rules, vast swathes of them, that impact on individuals, on families, on business. Heavens, there are times when it seems like Parliament talks of little else.

But the whole idea of freedom of movement within the European Union was that it would be multi-directional, that economies that were doing well would be able to attract people from across Europe to do jobs that needed doing, skilled or unskilled. The expectation was that, as the emerging European economies grew through access to this huge market, their standards of living would improve making it less likely that they would travel and more likely that they could afford to buy our goods and services. A rising tide lifting all boats, if you like. It was about removing barriers and increasing freedom, something that liberals across Europe could support.

The British people have indicated what they think of that as a concept, one must assume. But then, they were given every reason to look darkly upon the idea, by the media, by politicians looking for popular support at the cost of their principles. In that sense, it feels good to be a Liberal Democrat this morning.

It doesn't feel anywhere near as good to be a foreigner in the United Kingdom this morning, I suspect. On my flight to Luxembourg this morning, one young woman said that she'd already been told to go home, doubtless related to her darker skin. And, whilst not all Leave supporters are racist, the ones that are have been emboldened by the result of the referendum to believe that their view is mainstream and, accordingly, acceptable. Outside of our urban centres, there will be a sense of unease amongst our minority communities, and even where voters opted to remain, there will still be an undercurrent of tension. And, for all of Boris's talk of confronting racism, he is a poster child for the easy option, and has to accept his share of the blame for what happens next in terms of community relations.

2. The Advertising Standards Authority isn't going to help you here...

£350 million per week for the NHS? No, that was never promised, says Nigel Farage, confronted with a picture of Boris Johnson standing next to a poster saying that, if you voted to leave, that's what you'd get. And, of course, Nigel never did promise that. He was happy not to deny it until after the vote, but then he wasn't part of the official Vote Leave campaign. It was Boris and Michael who promised that, even though they knew it not to be true.

Heavy restrictions on immigration? No, that isn't going to happen, says Dan Hannan. And, after all, he was promising the Asian community that it would be easier for family members in India, or Pakistan, or Bangladesh, to come here to visit them. Dan believes that. Strange that he's a member of a political party that doesn't, but nonetheless, he does believe that. Nigel doesn't. He wants you to be scared of them, millions, billions of them coming here, taking your jobs, that sort of thing. He was, of course, lying about that. There is no credible prospect of Turkey joining the European Union, and given developments in Ankara, what prospects there ever were are diminishing fast.

No, we've learnt a valuable lesson here. If you tell enough lies, and you can find enough people willing to believe them, you can win an election, even when it is demonstrated that you've lied. And it's not because people are stupid, it's more that they're ill-informed or, more likely, uninformed. After all, who knew that this stuff mattered?

And how could you campaign against such seductive lies? The truth was multi-layered, complex, not conducive to Twitter-sized rebuttal. Let's be clear here, many pro-Europeans support the concept, not necessarily the actuality. Many of us wanted more democracy, more transparency, more accountability. Ironically, it was British Prime Ministers, amongst others, lest it be forgotten, who stood in the way of a more credible European body politic - subsidiarity was only ever words for too many national leaders. No, the lies, so easily told, were most effective. Winning mattered, apparently, rather more than what might happen next.

So, we are where we are. It's not necessarily where we thought we'd be, and one has a growing sense that it isn't where the Vote Leave leadership thought they would be either. The calls for informal talks (with whom exactly, over what precisely?) prior to submitting an Article 50 request, smack of bet hedging. Perhaps they always meant to use a Leave vote as a bargaining chip? But did those who voted Leave see it the same way? You'll pardon me if I'm unconvinced...

I'm a long marcher. I didn't join the Liberal Party in the expectation that it would sweep to power, nor do I expect the liberal cause to sweep the country in response to this referendum result. But change is often not what those driving it intend, so I'm going to wait and see how this plays out. And when the dust clears, we can start to fight for what we believe in.

In the meantime, we need some core principles to articulate. Here are my thoughts.

1. We believe that the United Kingdom is better off working with others to solve our common problems. That means being part of multinational groupings and, as necessary, pooling sovereignty to do so.

2. We believe in opportunity and freedom, and that in order to advance that, we may have to offer the same to others.

3. We believe that change has to come with consent, and that this means properly explaining what is being done in the name of the people.

I'm sure that other, cleverer, people can come up with something better, more thorough. But it feels right to me at this point, and it offers something for most people, which is better than the Punch and Judy stuff that seems so prevalent at the moment.

A night to forget for @officialUKMail...

I had ordered something to be delivered to the house. Not such a complex task, I thought, although I acknowledge that our home isn't as easy to find as it could be. You see, we live in a village where most houses have names, not numbers. To make matters worse, our house is set back from the road, behind other houses. Accordingly, I give pretty good directions, and always supply my mobile phone number so that the person making the delivery can call me if all else fails.

I'm not an ogre, after all...

And so, when I received a voice mail yesterday afternoon, asking for more information about my address, I wasn't entirely surprised. I called back, in a spirit of helpfulness - I wanted my delivery to arrive safely - to be told that the goods had been delivered already. "So why was I being asked for more information?", I asked. "I don't know,", was the reply, "but I'll find out and get back to you.". So far, so not entirely impressive, but these things do happen.

It was mid-morning when Ros called. Apparently, the delivery had been made. At 1.45 a.m. To our next door neighbour.

It would be fair to say that she was not impressed. I can't say that I was either. I rang the number in Ayr that had contacted me the day before. They were somewhat surprised, but were keen to wash their hands of the matter, suggesting that I talk to the supplier of the goods. Luckily, Ros had already done that. I, meanwhile, expressed a degree of dismay that the person making the delivery should choose to do so at such an ill-judged time, to a village without street lights. Explanation was there none.

It seems that someone at UK Mail is under the impression that they can deliver whenever they feel like it, and that if that means waking up random strangers unconnected to their task in the process, so be it.

Perhaps I am supposed to be impressed that someone could find my next-door neighbour's house at 1.45 a.m. in pitch darkness, walk across the gravel, wake them up and set off their security lights. It could, of course, all be part of their service.

Somehow, I suspect that it isn't...

When retailers fail: feeling a little bit like a vulture (a slightly better dressed vulture, but nonetheless...)

I was reading my newspaper yesterday, perusing the business section, when I came across an article which noted that all of the Austin Reed stores would be closing. Now, I admit, I've never shopped there, but it was a chain that I knew of, albeit the prices were above what I'd normally pay - I've never been extravagant when it comes to my wardrobe.

And my first thought was, "there'll be some decent savings to be had". I noted my diary to drop into the Ipswich store midweek to see what might be had, especially as I need a few new things what with my recent weight loss and all.

However, today, I had an unexpected opportunity to do a little shopping, as I was in London anyway, with a little time to kill. So, I made my way to the Austin Reed at the bottom of Regent Street, emblazoned with closing down posters, and had a look around.

As I did so, I encountered an employee, possibly a little older than myself, who looked somewhat glum, and it reminded me that, when a large company fails, it's the ordinary workers who suffer the worst blow. I felt a mite guilty, coming into the store in search of a bargain.

Now, it is true that, by buying goods, even those marked down, I am helping to generate funds that might go towards redundancy payments, and might even help a potential rescuer by giving them cause to salvage something, some jobs, from the wreckage. It might not be much consolation for the employee.

Of course, it could be that Austin Reed never stood a chance. Britons buy more online than the citizens of other European countries, and retail outlets reliant on in-store purchases are competing in a shrinking market. But I'm an old-fashioned soul, I like to see and feel the merchandise before I buy. I like shops.

The market is often cyclical though. As supermarkets moved away from personal service in the 1970s and 1980s, so they returned to cheese counters and fishmongers in the last decade. Perhaps we'll see a similar cycle in our purchases of clothes. One can only hope...

Campaign Diary: Day 18 - when things go wrong (fortunately, not just for me)

I've already noted that, in the heat of a campaign, when everyone is trying to do a whole bunch of things at once, there is room for error. Using an out leaflet which, whilst it has a nice picture of you on it, doesn't actually say who you are, is the sort of thing that can go wrong, which is why proof-reading is so important.

It was that moment when one of my work colleagues noted the typo in our leaflet when your heart sinks slightly, and you wonder who else noticed. Apparently, if they did, they've been kind enough not to say anything.

There but for the grace of God...
take a close look at the contact details...

My Conservative opponent, however, has not been quite so fortunate...

My guess is that the leaflet is a recycled one, in that it is based on one used previously with some personalized content dropped in. I also don't know how much campaign experience Jemma has, or how actively engaged in the leaflet design she is. In that sense, I'm lucky. As a Liberal Democrat, I don't have access to paid staff to help run my campaign, and I've had to learn all sorts of new things in order to make sure that things happen - leaflet design, database management, for example - and whilst I have help, it is best to be as self-sufficient as possible in the medium and long term.

Let's just say though that my proof-reading has become a bit more rigorous as polling day approaches...

Missing the point, and possibly missing the target, but still...

I've had a somewhat frustrating day at the office. And, given how it started, that wasn't a phrase I might have expected to type within twelve hours. But, you ask, why?

It has been a trying year in some ways, doing a job that, in truth, I might not be entirely suited to. Don't get me wrong, I can do it, and perform at an acceptable level in the process. But, perhaps, it isn't the most effective use of my skill set, and it runs somewhat contrary to my view of the world (a mostly optimistic one). That's how life is sometimes.

But, this morning started well. I was productive, focussed, almost inspired to achieve my goals. Indeed, I was making good progress until my manager wandered over and passed on some news. It was as if someone had let all of the air out of a child's balloon, for a missive had come from on high that more statistics and reporting were required. Why? Because our targets for the year are in jeopardy. The apparent solution? Take us away from our work to review why we might not meet them. And that, in a nutshell, explains why bureaucracy is a dirty word.

There has been one benefit, admittedly not one that is intended. I have developed a sneaking regard for my increasingly put-upon manager, whose desire to manage us as individuals is swamped by the increasingly volume of data that she is expected to gather, analyse and report. She appears to see her role as one of removing obstacles that stand between us and achievement, and of developing our skills so that we are more effective. It will, I fear, never catch on...

As our year end approaches, the concept of crisis management mutates into managing to cause a crisis, as senior managers begin to realise that, if their targets aren't met, they will be criticised. And, as they have no direct impact over key statistical measures, it becomes time to look as though they are managing the situation. As the real problems are long-term in nature, and difficult to resolve, quick wins are sought, primarily by harassing more junior managers to focus their attention on specific goals, regardless of their relative importance.

Me, I'm just a minion, increasingly expected to follow specified, rigid process maps, complete vast amounts of records to vouch that I have done so and deliver more for less, regardless of the holistic cost. I have nobody to devolve responsibility to, but I do know that I can only achieve what I can with the resources available. I am, ironically, where the sophistry ends.

And, because I am a sanguine kind of person, I shrug my shoulders, gather and present my data, and go home at night without fretting about it or taking it personally. If I was in a position of authority, however, I might be wondering what effect I was having on those of a less resilient ilk...

A day out to the East of England Regional Conference...

So, off to Cambridge for Regional Conference, starring a medley of Party Presidents - Ros, Tim Farron and Sal Brinton. And, for a change, I had work to do, as I had been asked to chair a session.

An early start, fortified by bacon, was necessary, and we even made it to Churchill College on time (that would be Ros's doing) for the Chairs and Aides briefing (don't do anything stupid, here's some guidance to read, turn up on time, that sort of thing...).

Conference was opened by Norman Lamb, who started by overrunning a bit - I suspect that he'd been given some relaxed timings as the next item was likely to be shorter than had been allowed for. And yes, we do debate policy at our Regional Conference, with a motion on DWP statistics on deaths of those who had been assessed as being fit for work. I admit to being less angry than some, as I tend to be cautious about statistics as a justification for outrage, even as I accept the need to look very closely at how claimants are assessed, and the targets (sorry, expectations) given to DWP staff (do not start me on the target culture within the bureaucracy).

Next up were the reports from the Commons and the Lords, followed by a nice young man from the North, who came to inspire us to action. Tim, for it was he, got a standing ovation simply for turning up - we don't tend to get a lot of Party Leaders in these parts - and justified it with a really excellent, impassioned speech, with particular emphasis on housing (with the London fringes and Cambridge in our patch, we see the problems caused to those not already on the housing ladder here).

The speech was punctuated with enthusiastic applause, and gained another standing ovation at its end. Sadly, Tim was off to High Wycombe for the South Central equivalent, a journey which would have been made far easier had the East West line from Oxford to Cambridge been in place...

A very good lunch left me time to head to the hall for my session, a motion on East West rail (see what I did there?) and a business motion on One Member One Vote. The rail debate was straight forward. Unfortunately, the business motion became somewhat messier. Over the lunch interval, it was indicated that one of the Party's Compliance Officers had declared the motion to be unconstitutional. Accordingly, a partial reference back was to be moved. Time to read the standing orders, I thought.

As it turned out, they weren't entirely helpful, so it was time to wing it. I decided that we would have the motion and amendment moved, have the debate, then take the reference back, the amendment and the motion in that order. Fine, except that it was then suggested that the amendment would, if passed, convert the motion into a constitutional amendment, which would require a two-thirds majority to be passed. Oh, and one shouldn't forget, there was an either/or option to be taken.

Reference back on a constitutional motion being moved at East #ldconf but still no @markpack appearance. The summoning spell does not work.

— Nick Barlow (@nickjbarlow) October 17, 2015

So, what happened?

Firstly, the amendment, proposing an interim step for 2016 pending the Federal party finally getting all of their ducks in a row (effectively granting every Local Party one voting representative at the Regional Conference for every two members) was lost, albeit not by much. The reference back was lost quite clearly, and Option A, replacing the current electorate with all members of the Region who are paid up twenty-one days before the Regional Conference, was overwhelming preferred to a rather more bureaucratically complex Option B. And then, the motion was overwhelmingly carried.

All that we need now is for the Federal Party to get its act together...

At that point, I fled. I wonder if I'll be invited for another turn next year?...

Mild Irritation Against the Machine - a bureaucrat rebels (a little)

As a bureaucrat, I come with an innate flaw - a nagging scepticism of mechanistic process as a means of governance. Don't get me wrong, process matters, as I've often noted here, but process designed seemingly for the purposes of measuring outputs of dubious value does trouble me.

An awful lot of modern governance is about attempting to set targets, monitoring them and then wondering why things aren't getting any better. Sometimes, it's about setting targets and denying that you've done so. And, because you've set targets, you do have to put in place the means by which they might be measured. That means bureaucracy - the sort that leadens the heart and depresses the spirit.

Often, targets are set by people who have little experience of what it really means to deliver a particular service, in response to others who have even less, but feel the need to demonstrate that they are doing something (the "something must be done, this is something, ergo it must be done" school of thought, if you will). Seldom are the people delivering the service consulted on whether or not the target has value, let alone the tools supplied to measure achievement against it.

Indeed, it often isn't made clear why a target has been set, assuming that the people setting it are clear on the matter. On one occasion, a team I was working in was told that a particular target was core to our work. The catch was that they hadn't actually crystallised what the target was, nor had they concluded how they would determine it. Unfortunate, to say the least, when performance related pay was at stake...

An effective targeting strategy has context, and is most successful when you explain that concept to the people trying to deliver it. Perhaps, one day, someone in the upper echelons of my organisation will try it...

#busride - Cambridge to Ely, the indirect way...

Final score from the Abbey Stadium,
Cambridge United 1, Luton Town 3!

So, my scheduled connection lost, what was I to do? There was another number 9 to Ely an hour away, but I wanted to keep moving. Luckily, Stagecoach offer another means of getting to Ely, albeit somewhat counterintuitively via Newmarket (for the geographically challenged, Ely is north of Cambridge, and Newmarket is east of it. But, it was due in twenty minutes, so I settled down with my good book, a history of the Peninsular War (we won, the French didn't) and waited.

And, sure enough, another shiny double decker arrived, ready to whisk me off. An on-time departure, and we were on the road, past the Abbey Stadium where, coincidentally, my beloved Luton Town (come on you Hatters!) were locked in mortal conflict with the locals on the football field (we seem to play Cambridge United quite a lot). I was reassured that it was 2-1 to us, that Cambridge were down to ten men, and that we might win a game.

The Rowley Mile is further back...

The route to Newmarket is, once you've escaped the Cambridge suburbs, a fairly quick one, with little in the way of population to serve. Unlike Mid Suffolk, West Suffolk is predominantly heathland, and doesn't support quite such so many people. It is, however, famous for horse racing, and the route took us past the end of the July Course, with excellent views from the top deck.

I've never been wild on Newmarket itself, as like too many Suffolk towns, the planners and developers have conspired to obliterate much of its charms. The bus has no time for architecture though, as we're off to the north-west.

The only significant stop en route to Ely is Soham, which is reliant on buses despite having an active railway pass through the town. The line from Ely to Bury St Edmunds, with its two-hourly service between Ipswich and Peterborough, hasn't stopped here for years, although it was the scene of one of the most famous instances of railway heroism.

On 2 June 1944, the leading wagon of a train carrying high explosive bombs caught fire, and the driver and fireman managed to detach the burning wagon (itself loaded with ten tons of general purpose bombs) and hauled it about 140 yards before it exploded in the station itself, killing the fireman and a signalman as well as badly injuring the driver.

It has to be said, Soham isn't that exciting now, and it was soon behind us.

Finally, the approach to Ely. The thing about Ely is, it has an incredible cathedral which dominates the skyline. Pictures were required, I thought...

#busride - isn't Saffron Walden pretty?

As I've already noted, I've never been to Saffron Walden before yesterday. And, as it turns out, that's something of a misfortune, as the town centre is very pretty indeed.

There's a market, which has a Giggly Pig stall for those in search of rather good sausages (hmmm... pork...), and other fine things, the shopping is quite good (I picked up a couple of bottles of Mr Fitzpatrick's cordials from the Adnams shop) and the architecture is thoroughly charming.

Sadly, I did have a bus to catch. As it turned out, that wasn't going so well...

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...

Alright, I've been away. So, where have I been?

Readers with a long memory may recall that, on polling day, I fled the country, possibly never to return (well, you never know, do you?). I was bound for Oslo, for a meeting of the ALDE Party Council (here's my report, since you ask...).

What I didn't mention was that my plans involved staying on in Norway for a few days and, initially, all went well. I enjoyed a scenic train ride through the snow-covered centre of the country, travelling from Oslo to Bergen via Finse (the highest mainline railway station in Europe, I'm told).

Ros was waiting there to meet me, and we had the afternoon and most of the next day to see Bergen, meeting Svein, one of her former colleagues on the North Sea Commission, and his partner. And yes, the weather in Bergen wasn't great, but the company was good and we were rather enjoying ourselves.

Which, as you might have feared, is when things started going wrong.

Ros has always wanted to take the Hurtigruten (the coastal express ferry) up the Norwegian coast from Bergen to Kirkenes, on the Russian border. And so, I had booked us into a suite on the MS Finnmarken, scheduled to leave on the Monday evening. It was at the point that we returned to our hotel to meet Svein for some afternoon sightseeing that the hotel receptionist noted that there appeared to be a problem with our ship.

Svein kindly drove us to the harbour, where it was confirmed that the sailing had been postponed due to a mechanical failure. We were to report to a hotel in the city, where things would be explained and arrangements made.

"We're sorry, but the Finnmarken won't be sailing tonight. Repairs are being made and we expect it to sail tomorrow. In the meantime, we have arranged accommodation for you here, and meals will be provided.", said the Hurtigruten representative. "The ship will make up time and you will arrive at Kirkenes as scheduled."

That wasn't entirely the point, given that the whole idea was to enjoy the journey but...

The next morning, we awoke, only to receive the news that the repairs to the Finnmarken had been successful, only to uncover another problem, this time with one of the propellors. We weren't going anywhere, at least, not soon. We were offered a full refund and flights home so, after some discussion, we opted to head back to Suffolk.

I will not bore you with details of our return but, back in our cottage, it was time to regroup...

If attempting to catch your flight, do not, I repeat, do not, try this yourself...

Onwards to Mumbai, on the 13.30 IndiGo flight from Terminal 1 at Delhi Airport. So, naturally, one should aim to be the airport well in advance, right? And, if travelling in a city you don't know particularly well, you would make sure of your route first, wouldn't you?

I am not a huge fan of airports, so I left my hotel at 11.15 after a leisurely breakfast (of which, more later), allowing an hour and a quarter to get to the airport, with the intention of arriving an hour before flight time. It was one of those days, however, when everything seemed to travel in slow motion, and it was 12.35 by the time I reached Delhi Aerocity to catch the shuttle bus to the domestic terminal. Ten minutes until close of check-in (45 minutes before departure) so still hope maybe?

That hope was quickly extinguished, as I was confronted with an elderly bus with a missing driver, so my ten minutes was down to three, with the bus ride ahead. As it turned out, it was a circuitous bus ride and it was 12.57 when I reached check-in. With the air of a condemned man, I approached an IndiGo staff member who pointed me to check-in zone G, where I could be helped. I was not optimistic...

And then, to my surprise, hope. An IndiGo staff member saw me, brought me to the right desk, bypassing the queue, to a man who looked at the booking on my iPhone. It was 12.59. Without batting an eyelid, he said yes, printed off a boarding pass and handed me back to his colleague.

The world then became a blur, as the queue for security was ignored, my briefcase was placed on the screening belt and I was escorted to a seemingly express gate for personal screening. I was then led to my gate. From arrival to gate in ten minutes, in India of all places, and a flight caught against the odds. And, at the end of it, an exit row seat with extra legroom (which I hadn't paid for).

And so, I am in Mumbai, in another hotel room. Next stop, Eagle's Nest...

Chest x-ray all clear... I aten't dead yet!

I rang my doctor's surgery today, as it was the sixth working day after last week's adventure in NHS care. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't worried about the outcome (after all, what's the use of worrying?), but family and friends were asking (I love you all too...). The result - I have a chest, there are no unexpected presences or absences, and I can resume coughing as I see fit. There is no suggestion that I should return and have anything else done, or administered, so I had better get on with it.

A fellow work colleague has suggested some time in a hot, dry climate, which sounds very inviting. However, I am bound, in less than a fortnight, for a hot, polluted climate, which may not be very helpful.

I'd better pack some cough sweets...