Is there such a thing as "too good" customer service?

Tuesday, February 24th, 2015

Last week, to celebrate Gareth and I's first anniversary (or, in years together, 19th anniversary!), we retraced some of our steps from 2014 after we had the civil partnership ceremony. Our "honeymoon" (remember how I hate that word!) took place at Langley Castle in Northumbria, near Hexham, and we enjoyed it so much that we decided to mark our anniversary by returning to the scene.

It's a proper castle experience, with four poster beds and window seats and 6ft thick stone walls and passageways and turrets and flags and all that heraldic stuff that you want when you visit an English castle. It's not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but for a once a year treat, it suits us just fine.

But this blog isn't about how wonderful and happy we were in an expensive castle, that would be boring (not to say, repetitive!). No, I thought I'd talk about the hotel we went to after Langley, which for reasons which will become clear, will remain anonymous. Not because it was so bad, but because it was kind of too good - or rather, trying to be too good. Let me explain...

After Langley we traveled to North Yorkshire and stayed in a spa hotel not far from the beautiful seaside town of Whitby. Now, first things first, I can hardly blame myself for booking a hotel which offered services which I wouldn't ordinarily be interested in, but aside from that, the level of customer service kind of creeped me out a bit.

I have plenty of hotel experience, from the dirt cheap Ibis Budgets through to the aforementioned top of the range stately homes. But never have I come across the type of service which greeted us at this particular hotel.

We parked up and wandered into the lobby to try and check in, but were told we were just a little bit too early and could we wait 30 minutes or so. Absolutely fine. We were asked if we would like breakfast, and declined as we prefer to generally pay less, eat more healthily and find somewhere in the locale to invest in. It was at this stage that a suited gentleman appeared out of the ether to encourage us to partake in their breakfast - the best breakfast we would ever taste. We declined once more. So far so reasonably normal.

But then a barrage of in-your-face over-friendliness began which really put me on the back foot and sort of disturbed me a bit. The suited gentleman proceeded to refer to me as Mr Stratford constantly, almost at the end of every sentence (and there were many sentences). He also insisted that he should be given the keys to my car so that he could bring my car from the car park to the hotel entrance so our luggage could be unloaded.

I insisted that that would not be necessary and that we were happy to transport our own luggage, but the matter would not be dropped. He went on to say that he would like to drive us in a golf buggy to our car, so that we could fetch our own luggage back in the buggy. I said no, it would be fine, we would wait until the room was ready with our keys and we would fetch our luggage ourselves.

Not dissuaded from treating us like crown princes from some mega-rich Arabian province, the suited gentleman proceeded to insist we had a "hotel orientation session", which essentially consisted of a personalised tour of the entire spa complex so that we knew where everything was. Now, as I type this I realise this reads quite innocently, simply an example of good customer service on a level which perhaps isn't reached often enough these days. But it was the constant use of "Mr Stratford" and the unceasing insistence that everything I might want to do for myself could be done by a member of staff which perturbed me. When I go to a hotel I expect to be treated with respect, politely, and have any need I require to be met, within reason. But this gentleman was really overdoing it, acting as if we had paid an inordinate amount of money for a personalised service above and beyond the attentiveness of any staff I'd ever known before.

The "hotel orientation session" took Gareth and I on a tour of the restaurant ("In the evenings the tables will not be as bare as this, Mr Stratford, they will have candles and there will be low lighting. All very tasteful!"), then the wine cellar ("plenty to choose from there, Mr Stratford!"), then the conservatory, and then the gardens. Now, fair's fair, the gardens were beautifully landscaped and when Gareth and I escaped the suited gentleman's clutches later on, we did have a walk around the grounds and they were the best thing about the entire hotel. But I didn't need to be shown the gardens, I would've been happy to be told about them and to discover them myself at my leisure.

The orientation session had only just begun. We were then taken into the hotel bar lounge, marched to the very centre of the room and told where the bar was, what was on the food menu and what ales were being served. Everybody else in the room stopped what they were doing/ eating/ drinking/ saying and turned to look at the two interlopers being given a grand tour of the hotel. Who did they think they were? As all eyes stared at me, I realised that some of these customers might be thinking I was famous or rich in some way. Dressed in scuffed boots and leather jacket, I hardly felt the part.

That was the bar done. Next was the spa. "We don't take people all the way down to the spa on an orientation session, Mr Stratford, for, you know..." At this point the suited gentleman lost his words, and I interjected: "Privacy?". "Yes! Yes, Mr Stratford, quite right!", and then he proceeded to stand with us halfway down the steps to the spa and tell us which button to press in the lift, what we should wear between bedroom and spa, and what time the children's "splash times" were so we could avoid the kids. "Unless you're teachers, are you, Mr Stratford?" When I told him I was not a teacher, he replied: "Well, that's just as well, Mr Stratford, because children are the last thing you probably want around you during a half-term, aren't they?"

Our hotel orientation session was over... for the time being. Our room wasn't quite ready, so we were urged to take a bite or pint in the bar lounge as we waited, but after my experience as a bogus millionaire during the tour, I didn't feel I wanted to return to the scene just yet so we insisted on a walk around the grounds as we waited.

As it happens, following our walk we did decide to have a bite in the bar (though not the bite I might have preferred, as one of the barmen was lick-the-mirror handsome!) and as we tucked into our sandwiches and fries I was tapped on the shoulder by the suited gentleman to tell me my room was now ready and that when we'd finished eating he would help bring my car round with the luggage. ARGH!

We circumnavigated the luggage escort experience as the gentleman was blissfully absent when we went to check in proper, but before you could say "The Shopkeeper from Mr Benn", up he popped again to single-handedly carry all our luggage (one suitcase and two plastic carriers) over to the lift, into the lift, up in the lift, out of the lift, along the corridor and to our room.

When we reached the bedroom door, Gareth quite naturally attempted to open it using the electronic key card, but it was snatched from his hand by our guide. He showed us that we were wrong to take the key cards out of the slipcase we'd been given as all we had to do was wave the slipcase in front of the lock and the door would open. He demonstrated this with the pride usually seen in a parent's eyes when they watch their child's first steps. Boy, was he proud of those hands-free electronic door mechanisms!

You guessed it, he didn't leave us there. He proceeded to give us a "room orientation session", heaving our suitcase onto the bed and then giving us a five minute tour of the room and its facilities. "You'll find the TV remote control up here, Mr Stratford, and the tea and coffee-making facilities over here."

And then the mind-numbing: "Do you have any particular tea requirements?". Gareth and I looked at each other blankly for a few seconds, wondering what to say. Gareth said he had no particular requirements, but was then told that any type of tea he wanted could be obtained: flavoured teas, herbal teas, fruit teas. "We stock Yorkshire tea, but any brand can be obtained for you, Mr Stratford".

Note: NOT from the hotel in question

After reassuring him that regular tea was fine, we were then shown where the hairdryer lived, and the ironing board, how the bath taps worked, and where the bathrobes hung. We were shown how the patio doors opened and what was outside on the patio, and also given a bit of history about the building and what the special builder's marks were on the brickwork.

Back inside we were told that if we wanted to bring a bottle of wine of our own into the room - "or indeed any form of alcohol, Mr Stratford" - all we needed to do was ring room service and the "appropriate glassware" would be brought to our room, "free of charge!". I spied the two generous tumblers on the tea tray and considered they'd be appropriate for anything I'd be drinking in my room, wine or water.

And at that, he was off. I was just getting used to having a constant commentary in my ear about where I was and what I could do when he said he'd leave us in peace and swept out of the room backwards, closing the door behind him. I looked once more at a stunned Gareth, crossed over to the door and flicked the lock.

Now, all this sounds very nice, doesn't it? A polite man very politely giving us a polite tour of the hotel and its facilities and then politely leaving. But the intensity of this man's breathless determination to meet his customers' every needs was overwhelming and disconcerting. I felt like a child, incapable of doing anything myself. I mean, I didn't care where the hairdryer was, but if I did need it, I'm sure I was capable of opening a drawer and finding it there.

On the one hand, the level of customer service and care at this place was second to none. They meant well, and they did well. Every single member of staff, to a fault, was super-polite and professional and couldn't do enough for you. But it also kind of felt like we were in some sort of institution, some nightmarish holiday camp where everyone wears fake smiles and pretends nothing bad ever happens. A veneer of paradise which was in no way a sham, but which was forced, plastic, ersatz.

Sadly, we won't be returning. We felt uncomfortable every time we left our room as we would often be accosted by the suited gentleman, hovering in the lobby, and asked if we needed our car bringing round if we were going out for the evening. No. No! It's my car, I'll drive it, thank you very much!

What do you think? Would you revel in such over-attentive customer service? Or do you prefer the polite but hands-off unless asked kind of customer service that I do?

In Bruges (but sadly, no Colin Farrell)

Tuesday, May 27th, 2014

What a beautiful place Bruges is! I was so sorry to have to leave it last week because I felt so at home and at rest there, and also very welcome.
It's a quaint place, and there's a lot of history oozing out of every brick, so it's my kind of place. I suppose it might be said it's a bit too quaint in that it's pretty much stayed untouched and unchanged (and certainly unbombed) for hundreds of years, to the extent that it's almost become a theme park attraction for enthusiasts of medieval Europe.
Certainly during my stay I saw few of the trappings of your usual "city break" - I saw no golden arches or Starbucks logos. It didn't feel like a working city beyond the essential focus on catering for tourism - there were more coffee shops, restaurants and chocolate shops than Rolf Harris has had sleepless nights. But beyond that, I saw very little evidence of any other industry (except for a brewery, but then that is also catering for tourists in part).
So while I told my fellow travellers I could see myself living in Bruges, I've changed my mind. I'd love to live there, but to work there you'd have to be a waiter or a tour guide or something like that, and I'm not sure that is very me.

A view of Bruges and its markt from the top of the Belfry

Anyway, what did I like? I loved the people and the language. Most of the communication in Bruges was in English thankfully, both verbal and written, and even if the odd Flemish phrase popped up, it was rarely hard to decipher. Just take out a couple of extraneous a's and j's and you're halfway to getting an English word!
We did all the usual touristy things - a trip on the canal boat (and in doing so, seeing the famous Dog of Bruges dozing on his pillow in the window), a tour around the historic centre, a frankly exhausting climb up the 366 steps of the 83 metre high Belfry, a tour round the Half Moon Brewery with one of the most fantastic, funny, entertaining people I think I have ever met in person (Inge Vermeire, I salute you!).
One thing we didn't manage to do was the chocolate factory, because on the way there something awful happened - my mum was hit by a scooter. Bruges may be behind the times in the way it looks but it's certainly busy enough with motorised scooters, bicycles and horse and carriages.

Tyne Cot War Cemetery

We were warned from the outset to be careful of the roads as the bikes of Bruges basically own the place. Cyclists and riders take no prisoners as they speed around the city ringing their bells and peeping their horns - except one particular scooter rider who failed to peep his horn when my mum stepped into the road on the way to the chocolate shop and the two collided with force.
The scooter rider fell off his vehicle and landed at my feet, which shocked me at first, but little did I realise he'd bounced off my mother. She was on the other side of the road in agony, clutching her arm and in tears. To cut a long story short, she was essentially fine, but the impact was on her right side, which is the side most affected by her Parkinson's, so it really did not help at all. She has since blossomed with huge bruises (the bruises of Bruges!) and is a little achey, but it could have been a lot worse.
As the scooter rider said: "As long as the lady is OK... and my bike!"
Another trip we went on was the First World War day, first going to Tyne Cot memorial cemetery near Zonnebeke in West Flanders, a typical site festooned with what seems like acres of brilliant white headstones for those brave men who fell during the Great War.
We also went to Ypres to go round the In Flanders Fields museum, which was very well done, cavernously involving and also rather moving, especially when I watched a video of an actor recounting the personal tale of one Eric Hiscock and his unrequited love that dare not speak its name for his dying comrade. Hiscock's ill-fated friend told him his favourite poem was The Great Lover by Rupert Brooke, quoting the "rough male kiss of blankets". I admit I left the museum with dampened eyes.
One place I very much disliked and would recommend to nobody was Hill 62, a ramshackle museum owned and run by one of the richest (and to my mind most dispassionate) men in Belgium. His family has owned much of the land known as Passchendaele since just after the war, and since then has blatantly and outrageously cashed in on the memorial tourism that comes with it, especially now as four years of commemoration and remembrance are due to kick off.

Tyne Cot memorial

The museum is a dusty, dirty, pokey, musty hole with plenty of vaguely interesting exhibits picked from the battlefield and (sometimes quite horrifying) photos, but presented in such a disrespectful, uninvolving way that I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible - I literally felt grubby when I left.
One interesting aspect of the visit was the genuine, preserved original war trenches, the only ones to survive to this day, and it is humbling to see them. You can literally walk over them and through them, but they do get predictably swampy and muddy so many people don't follow in the footsteps of the fallen.
Hill 62 is a desperately sad place, where so many men died fighting for liberty, but it's also depressing because of the neglect and disrespect from the people who own the land and the museum. They take 10 euros per person, and it seems to me not a single cent has been invested back into the attraction for the best part of a century. Criminal.
Oh, and if you do go there, do not eat or drink any of the food in the cafe. You'll see why. And you'll see all the roaming, stray cats too...
But I was sorry to leave Bruges, it's cobbled streets and historic architecture, it's friendly people and straightforward cuisine. I am usually ready to come home after a few days away on holiday, but this time I was not, I wanted to stay. There was so much more to see and do, which means I'll definitely be back.
But next time I might well wear a hi-vis jacket to cross the road...

Me with Dave the giraffe. And why not?

Me with my lovely mum (the day before the scooter
 incident meant she had to wear long-sleeved tops)

Me with my lovely husband

The honeymoon (oh how I hate that word)

Thursday, February 27th, 2014

The first glimpse that a visitor gets of Langley Castle

It's been a while since my last blog entry, since when I've got married, been on "honeymoon", and returned to work. So while I impatiently await the pictures of the civil ceremony day itself, I thought I'd write something about the amazing few days we spent afterwards. The honeymoon...
Oh, how I hate that word. I'm not sure exactly why, it just sounds so twee and old-fashioned, like something people harped on about in 1970s sitcoms. I looked up the origins of the word, and it seems the etymology is confused, but one opinion says the word originates in the Middle Ages when a newlywed couple would be given a month's worth of mead as a gift by friends and family - a month's supply being sufficient for one full cycle of the moon, in which time it was expected the bride would fall pregnant. And, of course, mead is made with honey, and honey is proven to act as a powerful fertility booster, so there you go. Or rather, there we didn't go!
Anyway, the "honeymoon". After staying our first night betrothed in Chester, we travelled oop north (an old stalking ground of mine from my university days) to stay in York for a couple of nights. I love York, it groans with history and atmosphere and is a rare gem that hasn't been exploited by commercialism too much.

Complimentary chocs

We stayed at a Best Western hotel called the Monkbar, and although it is part of a national chain, you'd never know, because it is family-run, and it shows. Personal service, friendly and down-to-earth, you can just tell it's run by people and not policies. We weren't ten minutes in the room when the telephone rang and it was the receptionist ringing to check everything was OK with the room. Now, I've stayed in scores of hotels across the world in my time, but never in any of them have I had a call to the room to check it was OK.
We also got a little box of four complimentary chocolates, which naturally went down exceedingly well!

These dudes were very kind,
 they stood very still while I
 took my photo

We spent a lot of time taking literally hundreds of photos of York Minster, a vast and awesome spectacle which I had walked past and looked at countless times in the past, but never actually gone inside. The expense had put me off (£10 each), but that entry fee allows the holder to revisit the Minster for free as many times as they like for the next 12 months, which isn't a bad deal, especially if you're local.
I'm not a fan as such of ecclesiastical architecture - the extravagance and immodesty of Catholic church interiors in particular leaves me uneasy - but they are definitely good to photograph, so we had a ball.
Another good haunt in York is the Guy Fawkes Inn, just a hop, skip and jump from the Minster. They do excellent evening meals in a very subdued atmosphere of candlelight and authentic decor. Spooky, but not scary. Hot waiter, too...

The stalls of York Minster... Very M R James!

The awesome chapter house

After York we moved on to Northumberland, to stay in the 14th century castle at Langley, close to Hexham. We'd stayed there a couple of years ago on a press trip freebie and loved it so much that we vowed to return, and we considered a post-nup stay the ideal opportunity.

Looking through from the bathroom to the
 bedroom (see the spooky apparition
 in the chair?)

I've always wanted to stay inside a castle, a proper castle with turrets and 7ft thick walls and suits or armour and flags, and this is it. Last time we stayed in the converted barn lodge overlooking the castle. This time we were in the Greenwich suite inside the castle itself. Not cheap, but truly worth every extravagant penny.
Our room had a window seat overlooking the front of the castle, including a fountain and impressive topiary and a woodland seething with rabbits and birdsong. It was so relaxing, sitting drinking a morning cuppa overlooking such tranquil surroundings.
Langley is just off the A69, which runs roughly parallel to the original route of Hadrian's Wall, so there is a lot of history about this rugged moorland. Various Roman landmarks and tourist attractions pepper the route, so we called in to a couple and really enjoyed our time there. There's the remains of an impressive original Roman settlement at Vindolanda; you can walk around the actual settlement, which has been and continues to be painstakingly unearthed and preserved by archaeologists. There are no buildings left intact, but it's like walking around the foundations of the settlement, complete with doorways and butcher's slabs and the freshwater irrigation channels. A truly inspiring place.

Vindolanda, sozzled in sepia

At the Roman Army Museum seven miles away it's all indoors, but there is a 3D film you can watch recreating Roman Britain, following one handsome soldier on his journey from simple lackey to a full-on centurion (fact fans like me will appreciate the nugget that a centurion did not command 100 men, just 80).
And then it was off back home, but we had an amazing, rewarding and refreshing few days "honeymoon" which we will never forget. You're truly treated like a prince at Langley, and I've always loved York, so the entire trip was well-planned. And who doesn't love a Roman soldier?
Now, where the heck are those wedding photos... ?

The window seat at Langley Castle.
We spent a lot of our time while in the room here!

My first ever shelfie

Monday, January 20th, 2014

If you think you've seen something odd, you probably have

Never has one man been so proud of a set of new bookshelves. Well, that's probably not true, but it's close.
Over the weekend I helped my Dad (for "helped", read "watched and sometimes helped") put together the new Ikea shelves which had been lying dormant and untouched in a pile of boxes behind my sofa since before Christmas.
The shelves have transformed my front room. Beautiful floor to (almost) ceiling structures which house all of the books which were on the shelves previously, plus more (you will notice some empty shelves. Well, I need to get some more books out of storage to fill the space, it's not staying like that!).
The organisation and layout of the shelves is a work in progress but the basic fact remains - they look great. Or at least they do in comparison to what we had before, and sadly I didn't think to take a "before" pic to demonstrate. But trust me, these are better.
I never want to go out now, because I keep admiring my bookshelves, rearranging them or thinking of ideas for what to put on them. Sad, I know, but we're all bewitched by the mundane from time to time.
I'm sure it'll wear off...

EDIT: Some readers have expressed confusion over exactly whose shelves these are. They are mine, my Dad put them together in my house for me. And I watched.

Photo-set: Plastic bags I have known

Sunday, December 8th, 2013

I finally got round to sorting through the gazillion plastic carrier bags which were bursting out of my kitchen cupboard. The cupboard door was always slightly ajar because there were just so many bags that they wouldn't all fit. Living in Wales, these little beauties are valuable (well, they're actually worth 5p, but you get the point... and if you don't get the point, maybe you're reading this from England, but just you wait until Autumn 2015...).
Anyway, look at them all. They flooded across my kitchen floor like an ocean of plastic waves, all shapes, all sizes and all colours. All kept "just in case" we ever ran out, but as you can see, that was never likely to happen.
So I sorted through them all and recycled 75% of them, but put the ones I wanted to keep into two categories - normal size and bags for life.
Along the way I came across some bags which I was kind of sorry to see go, but nevertheless they did because at the end of the day, these things are just plastic bags! But I photographed them for posterity...
First up is this cool (non-plastic) bag from HMV marking the release of The Simpsons Movie on DVD. That was in 2007, which shows how long I've had this collection of bags...

Next we have a bag for Hermann's teddy collection, which is a bit of a mystery as I have never bought, and do not own, a Hermann's teddy bear. Plenty of other teddy bears, but not a Hermann one. Cute, though...

Next we have a bag from Macy's department store in New York City. I've been to NYC three times (get me!) so I'm not sure how long I've had this bag, but it's nice to have. Or not have now.

Another NYC-related bag next, although it's paper and not plastic, like those ubiquitous strong paper bags Americans carry groceries around in. This one is from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is cool, obvs.

Now this is a strange one. It's obviously from New York again, but at no point have I ever seen The Phantom of the Opera, on Broadway or anywhere else, so I'm not sure how I came to have this! It's for a shop called Phantom of Broadway, but I have no recollection of going there either.

I'm no cat fan - I'm definitely a dog person - but this Sainsbury's bag made me smile.

Are you bored yet? I bet you're finding this embarrassingly interesting, and I'd also wager it's made you think about rooting through your own plastic bag collection to see what "interesting" bags you have.

Next up is an arty bag from the Tate in London. Been there.

Plastic bags are like diaries of where you've been. Here we have two bags from the Tower of London. I stole a raven from the Tower in one of them.

Time for a bit of patriotism with this unidentified carrier sporting the Union flag. I had real doubts when I decided to throw this one!

And finally (I can sense the disappointment in you), a rather florid bag from the Victoria and Albert Museum. The colour palette reminds me of those disgusting chocolate lime sweets you can buy, which I despise, so I had no qualms about ditching this one.

And there you have it. Plastic carrier bags I have known. Now go and look at yours... ;o)

The old, abandoned house

Sunday, November 24th, 2013

While out for a Sunday morning walk today I noticed this rundown, boarded-up house just around the corner from where I live. Never seen it before, but it really does stick out like a sore thumb in its dilapidated state.
Seeing a house like this makes me sad. It was built however many years ago to be a home to someone, and has probably been a home to countless people over the years. But look at it now. Lost, forgotten and empty.
It's a shame that it has come to this. The story behind how this came about is probably a real tragedy: someone must own it, but why it's in this condition, I do not know. How it can be left like this is even more of a mystery to me.
At a time when housing is at a premium, places like this should not exist. This would make somebody a good home, but its dereliction is going unnoticed and unheeded. It's a damn shame.

I've often seen a cat without a grin, but never a grin without a cat!

Friday, November 22nd, 2013

This cheeky fella has recently been installed near the seafront round the corner from where I live. He's the Cheshire Cat from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. The author has a link to Llandudno in that he allegedly holidayed here with the Liddell family, and it was young Alice Liddell who inspired his fictional character.
This wooden sculpture is very photogenic and the perfect height for kids to jump on top and have their picture taken. I resisted the urge myself, but that's not to say I won't give it a go next time...

Today is tomorrow's yesterday

Sunday, November 10th, 2013

Put me in a branch of Ikea, and I'll come out the doors with various ingenious means of storage, such as these white beauties. They come as flatpacks but it doesn't take much effort to put them together to make easy and smart boxes for DVDs, CDs or, in this case, magazines.
It's amazing what you manage to collect over the years, and one glance inside our cupboards reveals that there are endless magazines, newspapers, books, folders and documents which all need sorting through and storing properly.
A lot of the stuff I throw away or recycle - things I forgot I had in the first place - while the stuff I want to keep gets boxed up and packed away. The litmus test I have for sorting through stuff is that if I haven't looked at it or thought about it for the last year, it goes. Why do I have it if I don't use it?
Some things you want to keep for sentimental value, but really, not very much. Whole swathes of junk from my school, college and uni days can go. That's not me any more, that me has gone. What matters today is the me from now, and I can't see myself wanting to look at old shorthand exam papers or second drafts of my degree dissertation ever again.
So, while the good stuff goes in the white boxes, much of the past gets thrown out. What is important is today, and tomorrow - yesterday is so old hat.

The beauty under my nose

Thursday, November 7th, 2013

Living in North Wales - or, I suppose, any other beautiful part of the United Kingdom - it's all too easy to overlook the splendour of your surroundings. I live in Llandudno and virtually have a great big bloody mountain in my back garden (the Great Orme); I have the Irish Sea lapping at the sandy shore 30 seconds from my front door; and I have the rolling green hills of the Conwy Valley just minutes away.
But do I see that every day? No. What I see is the drudgery of driving to work, filling up on petrol, nipping to the corner shop for some bread, and putting the rubbish out.
But as I do all of these mundane, everyday things, I forget that I am doing it in such beautiful, often breathtaking natural surroundings. North Wales is an inspiring place, and it is all too easy to ignore that fact by living here.
Today I noticed the sheer amazingness of the fact the ocean was just metres away from my shoes, just along a short cobbled pathway down to the beach near Conwy. Beyond it, the rest of the world, this beautiful planet Earth.
But we don't have to go too far to see a fraction of that beauty, here, in North Wales.

Time to tidy my drawers

Sunday, November 3rd, 2013

Look at this. Just look at it. It's my cutlery drawer. I'm pretty sure most people's cutlery drawers are as bad, if not worse, than this, but it's time to get this one sorted.
So many different knives and forks and spoons of differing designs and shapes that don't match, items I never needed and never use (a battery-operated Pot Noodle fork?) and wooden spoons and spatulas that just don't fit the space allocated to them.
There's also a stack of never-used-but-kept-just-in-case plastic knives and forks. Come on, we all have them. It's time for a clear-out.