Personal Blogs

A man visits a second hand car dealer and sees a car he likes priced at £20,000.

He offers £18,000.

The salesman says he can do the deal for £19,000. Not a penny less. 

The man says he'll think about it and goes away.

Two days later the salesman telephones him and says he can have the car for £18,500.

The man hesitates, but he reckons he can get the car for £18,000 if he holds out so he says he'll think about it some more.

Another two days later the salesman calls him again and says he's discussed it with his boss and he can accept £18,000.

The man scents blood and promptly lowers his offer to £17,000.

The price falls to £17,500.

A week later the man buys the car for £16,000.

True story? Who knows. But it's been doing the rounds in one form or another for the last 20 years or longer. And it illustrates Goodhart's Law which states that: 

"When a measure becomes a target, it ceases to be a good measure."

In other words, if you give people an incentive to meet a target, they will often meet the target by bending the rules.

If you reward a car salesman by giving him a bonus for selling a certain number of cars in a month, he will meet the target to get his bonus regardless of the profit margins - since he is being rewarded on sales not revenue. (Sometimes the best time to buy a car is near the end of the month, or just before the new registration plates come in.)

Goodhart's Law is a compelling reason for investors to examine a company's income statements and balance sheets with plenty of cynicism, especially with regard to EPS (earnings per share). If the management board of a company is rewarded by EPS - as is often the case - they will often do whatever is necessary to inflate the EPS by various accounting tricks. Some people call it creative accounting, others just call it fraud. Enron was a great example of this sort of accounting.

Hermione: Well?

Imogen: Well what?

Hermione: How did it go?

Imogen: How did what go?

Hermione: You know.

Imogen: I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.

Hermione: Jory.

Imogen: Oh. That. I’d really prefer not to talk about it. I’ve got to have my hair done and I’m late. Please excuse me.

Hermione: You have your hair done on Thursday afternoons. It’s Tuesday today.

Imogen: I mean my nails. I can’t keep the manicurist waiting. She gets terribly booked up. Heavens above! Is that the time?

Hermione: Let me give you a lift then you won’t have to worry about parking.

Imogen: That won’t be necessary. One has a chauffeur.

Hermione: Oh. I hadn’t realised. When did you get him... ah! I see. I thought you’d just lent him the car.

Imogen: He keeps it clean and fills it with diesel. Chauffeurs are quite indispensible. Every woman should have one.

Hermione: Like butlers?

Imogen: Quite.

Hermione: And wood cutters?

Imogen: Now you really must excuse me.

Hermione: Please tell me. It’s not fair to keep me in suspense. I promise not to tell. I swear it on the bones of my ancestors.

Imogen: Were they people of importance?

Hermione: For goodness sake. It doesn’t matter. They were decent ordinary folk. But important to me. Now please tell me. Please, please, please.

Imogen: Oh, very well. I think we might need to open a bottle of something first.

Hermione: Pol Roger?

Imogen: Only if it’s a 2002.

Hermione: 2009?

Imogen: Close enough.

Pol Roger: ‘Pop’

Hermione: OK?

Imogen: It will do nicely.

Hermione: Now tell me.

Imogen: You won’t tell a soul.

Hermione: Cross my heart. Cut my throat. Guide’s honour. Let them bury me alive like a Vestal Virgin.

Imogen: He was a beast. You don’t really want to know about it.

Hermione: Did he play hard to get?

Imogen: Not after I explained about Droit de Seigneur.

Hermione: What?

Imogen: Surely you’ve heard of that.

Hermione: Yes, I saw Braveheart but isn’t that rather mediaeval?

Imogen: Cornwall is full of ancient traditions.

Hermione: That’s a new one on me.

Imogen: On the night before my wedding I had to pay a visit to Lord Hamptonshire.

Hermione: Wasn’t Vere a little upset about that?

Imogen: One did not inform Vere. But he’d have approved. He’s very strong on tradition.

Hermione: I thought it was Droit de Seigneur, not de Seigneureuse.

Imogen: I see it as my duty to women. Did Emily Davison die for nothing?

Hermione: I hadn’t realised Emily Davison died for that.

Imogen: Let us not forget Greer or the Pankhursts.

Hermione: One digresses. What happened with Jory?

Imogen: This is rather nice. Does one perchance have a second bottle?

Hermione: Not until all has been revealed.

Imogen: He drove me out to one of those vile noisy places full of the most unimaginably horrific common people with a car park full of ancient wrecks that looked abandoned by travellers.

Hermione: A pub?

Imogen: He talked and drank cider whilst I had four large gin and tonics.

Hermione: What did he say?

Imogen: I wasn’t listening. Something about waiting round the back of supermarkets for out of date produce. After that I lost interest.

Hermione: And after the four large gin and tonics?

Imogen: He drove me to a disused shepherd’s hovel on Lord Hamptonshire’s estate.

Hermione: And?

Imogen: I wore a blindfold.

Hermione: And?

Imogen: Very little else. I stood with my hands on the kitchen table.

Hermione: You had your back to him?

Imogen: One should never be too familiar with servants.

Hermione: And?

Imogen: It was bitterly cold and the electricity was cut off. He hadn't even thought of visiting the place and lighting a fire in the hearth.

Hermione: And?

Imogen: I thought of Cornwall, and tradition, and duty.

Hermione: Was that it?

Imogen: He was a beast. It was hideous. He took his time. I nearly froze to death. His hands were like sandpaper.

Hermione: Did you give him the two hundred pounds?

Imogen: No. I thought he was meant to give me two hundred pounds.

Hermione: He hasn’t got two hundred pounds.

Imogen: How on earth did you know? That’s exactly what he said.

Hermione: So you didn’t give him two hundred pounds?

Imogen: I paid for the drinks. He appeared not to have his wallet on him.

Hermione: But surely you initiated everything with all that talk of Droit de Seigneureuse?

Imogen: Perhaps. But one expects a gentleman to be a gentleman... although I now realise just how far short Jory is from being a gentleman.

Hermione: He’ll be a gentleman’s gentleman one day.

Imogen: Hmmm. I’ve often wondered about Vere... did you say something about a second bottle?

Hermione: I thought you had to have your nails done.

Imogen: That’s tomorrow now you mention it.

Imogen: Come quickly Hermione. Look out of the window. Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.

Hermione: Relax. It’s fine. It’s Jory the out of work tin miner. You met him in church at the carol service.

Imogen: I feared as much. I knew I’d seen him recently.

Vere: Ah! Hello girls. Did one hear excited voices?

Imogen: Vere. Turn the hounds loose at once, Vere. We have an intruder in the grounds.

Vere: Isn’t that a bit nineteenth century Russian, old girl?

Hermione: More like Ivan the Terrible I think. You can’t...

Imogen: Some pre-Revolution Russian ideas are worth adopting. Please do it at once.

Hermione: Stop! It’s Jory. You can’t turn the dogs on him.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Jory eh? He’s not an intruder. Splendid chap. I invited him here.

Imogen: You’re going soft in the head Vere. What on earth are you thinking? He’s not our type of person at all. I insist you set the dogs loose at once.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! You’re over reacting old girl. Magnificent fellow. Played in goal for Penzance Magpies. They’ve still got a photo of me in their clubhouse.

Imogen: Why’ve you invited him here? Do you want Jasper and Seraphima listening to his hideous mangled English?

Vere: I’ve asked him to put up some goal posts in the garden for Jasper.

Imogen: Somewhere out of sight I hope.

Vere: Where I can see them from my study window. I’ve arranged for his son to come round and play football with Jasper.

Imogen: This is just too awful. But I suppose if it’s just the goal posts and he goes away afterwards never to be seen again, I can cope with that. So long as his boy doesn't expect to come inside the house.

Vere: Actually I’ve got a rather nice surprise for you darling.

Imogen: I hope it’s not like your nice last surprise. I really didn’t enjoy sleeping beside an open sewer surrounded by drug dealers and hypodermic needles.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Not quite how I'd describe Glastonbury.

Hermione: And it was worth it for Bruce Springsteen.

Vere: Mansions of glory in suicide machines. Don’t write them like that anymore.

Imogen: You’re in on this, aren’t you Hermione?

Hermione: Me? Whatever...

Vere: You know you’ve always been going on about our needing a butler and housekeeper.

Imogen: Yes Vere. Be careful how you break this to me.

Hermione: You’ll love this one Imogen.

Imogen: Why is one not convinced?

Vere: I’ve persuaded Jory and his wife to be our butler and housekeeper.

Imogen: You’ve done what?

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! I knew you’d be thrilled.

Imogen: One means mortified surely. He’ll be as much use as a donkey at the Derby. And as for that slattern...

Vere: No listen. They’re going to be apprentices. Hugo’s sorted it all out for us. He’ll be trained by someone who used to work at Buckingham Palace.  Minimum wage for three years. We get a government grant and Charles will cough up a few quid from one of his charities.  It’s hardly going to cost us a penny. Hwah! Hwah!

Hermione: Please say yes Imogen. He’s been out of work for a year and he’s desperate for a job. And he’s a lovely man.

Imogen: Let me put on my spectacles. Ah that’s better. Perhaps he’ll look all right in white shirt and tails and gloves... and it will be nice to have someone to polish the silver and clean the Aga. He can come round when I’m shopping so I don’t have to see him.

Vere: And we can do proper dinner parties darling. All the trimmings. Someone to take the hats and coats.

Imogen: It doesn’t look as if I’m going to have any say in this. Very well. He’s on trial for one week and if I don’t like him he goes. Grant or no grant.

Hermione: Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!

Imogen: Please control yourself. You’re ruining my make-up.

So far I've resisted the temptation to do my supermarket shopping online. Some of the stories of online shopping over Christmas have further convinced me that it's better to do one's shopping in person. My favourite cautionary tale involves a Tesco customer who ordered a walnut loaf and received instead a whole octopus.  It worries me that someone who sees little difference between an octopus and a walnut loaf is at loose in society and possibly driving a car.

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/weird-news/tesco-replace-customers-bread-ordered-4208890

Imogen: Well this is it, family, done to perfection though I say so myself. Nigella would be proud of me.

Vere: Splendid bird. A wonderful shade of bronze. Hwah! Hwah! Congratters old girl! Hwah! Hwah!

Hugo: Oh! Well done mater. You’ve done it again. Bravo! Come on Jasper and Seraphima. A round of applause is called for.

Jasper and Seraphima: Clap! Clap! For one’s a jolly good fellow! Three cheers for grandmater Imogen. Ra! Ra! Ra!

Hugo and Vere: Ra! Ra! Ra!

Hermione: Clap! Clap! Hear! Hear! What an amazing shape! Nigella certainly would be proud of you. Er, Ra! Ra! Ra!

Imogen: Deboned of course and stuffed with widgeon, teal and ostrich. Marinated in cider for two days. Flavoured with a smidge of sage and a hint of Andalucian orange from the estate of the late Duchess of Alba – or Cayetana as we called her when we went over to stay with her.

Hermione: Ooh! My mouth’s watering. I’m amazed you can cram so much into a turkey.

Imogen: I beg your pardon.

Hermione: I said I’m amazed…

Imogen: Did one hear the word turkey?

Hermione: Yes.

Imogen: Does it have the appearance of a turkey?

Hermione: It’s not quite typical.

Imogen: So what do you think it is?

Hermione: I was thinking it must be a rare species of Cornwall turkey served in the traditional Cornish way. You did say it was deboned.

Imogen: Do we look like the sort of people who eat turkey at Christmas?

Hermione: Erm. Perhaps not every Christmas.

Imogen: Not ever. The turkey is just a large battery chicken designed by grockels for grockels. Tasteless and disease laden. Thankfully we keep well clear of such atrocities.

Hermione: Oh. That’s ever so slightly extreme isn’t it?

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Imogen doesn’t mince her words does she? Hwah! Hwah! But you’re right about one thing, it’s a rare species.

Hermione: But if it’s rare, surely it’s protected.

Vere: Technically yes. There’s only one breeding pair left in the country.

Hugo: Correction pater. There was only one breeding pair left in the country.

Vere: Lord Hamptonshire should have taken the other bird too. Singleton’s no use by itself.

Hermione: Poor goose. Did Lord Hamptonshire run it over accidentally?

Imogen: Certainly not. We don’t served road kill here.

Vere: Lord Hamptonshire shot it on that swamp up the road.

Hermione: But that’s the National Trust Nature Reserve.

Vere: It belongs to Lord H.

Hermione: Oh I suppose that makes it all right.

Imogen: Of course it does. The half of Cornwall that doesn’t belong to Charles belongs to him.

Hermione: I see.

Vere: Great character Lord H. Loves shooting. Doesn’t see too well these days, but he’ll have a crack at anything that moves.

Hugo: Yes he tried to shoot some grockels having a picnic on the beach. Reckoned they were trespassing. Had to take the gun off him. Going a bit far really. Some of them were children.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Little grockels grow into big grockels. Always remember that Jasper and Seraphima.

Seraphima: Yes, grandpater.

Jasper: Bang! Bang! Another one bites the dust.

Vere: That’s the spirit Jasper. Hwah! Hwah!

Hermione: I can’t help feeling sorry for the one that’s left behind. It must be so lonely.

Hugo: It won’t be lonely for long.

Hermione: That’s nice. Is Lord Hamptonshire going to try and find it a mate to make up for what he’s done?

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Hwah! Such a sweet girl! Hugo’s a lucky chap to have you.

Hermione: You don’t mean…

Imogen: Come, come Hermione. No room for sentiment in the country.

Jasper: Bang! Bang! Another one bites the dust.

Imogen: Do you believe in God?

Hermione: That’s a really interesting question, Imogen. I think some of the things in the Bible aren’t very convincing. Like the miracles. On the other hand, it’s difficult to see how the world could be so beautiful without the hand of a divine creator. I mean you can’t say the human eye just created itself although Richard Dawkins... 

Imogen: Yes or no.

Hermione: Definitely maybe. What about you?

Imogen: Of course. Vere's family have believed in God since the Flood. Anyway, we've decided you're coming to the carol service with us this afternoon at St Piran’s.

Hermione: I didn’t know you were church goers. Hugo never said.

Imogen: We’re not. One can end up sitting beside the kind of person one would normally avoid

Hermione: Then why are you going to church?

Imogen: Lord Hamptonshire has invited us.

Hermione: Surely you could make an excuse.

Imogen: Not at Christmas. He’s invited us to share the Hamptonshire family pew which has been reserved for his family since 1372, with the exception of those few years when that hideous egalitarian Cromwell ran the country.

Hermione: I suppose if we can share Lord Hamptonshire’s family pew that’s fine.

Imogen: It is made from carved rosewood. Henry VIII and Good Queen Bess have sat in it.

Hermione: How fabulous. I love history.

Imogen: And it’s nicely boxed in so you don’t have the great unwashed getting too close.

Hermione: Another USP.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! I love all those modern terms you keep using.

Hermione: Does Lord Hamptonshire believe in God?

Vere: If he doesn’t, at least he identifies closely with him. Hwah! Hwah!

Hermione: So we don’t need to get to the church too early. Carol services are usually terribly crowded.

Imogen: This service won’t be too crowded.

Hermione: How can you be so sure?

Imogen: All the carols are sung in Latin or Cornish Gaelic.

Hermione: Isn’t that a bit exclusive?

Imogen: A necessary evil. But you should be grateful.

Hermione: Why?

Imogen: Because you’ll be sitting in the ordinary pews.

Hermione: I thought I was going to share the Lord Hamptonshire family pew.

Vere: Not quite enough places, old girl.

Imogen: You’ll be with Jasper and Seraphima. You can’t expect them to sit all by themselves.

Hermione: Surely we can all squeeze in.

Imogen: One does not play sardines at St Piran’s.

Vere: However, Lord Hamptonshire wants you to come to Hamptonshire Court for mulled wine and mince pies afterwards.

Hermione: That’s gracious of him.

Vere: The old boy’s taken quite a shine to you.

Hermione: As he demonstrated during lunch at the races.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Great character Lord H. Enjoys his Krug. Always notices a pretty girl.

Imogen: Which reminds me, he’s going to sing a solo and he wants you to turn the pages of the music book.

Hermione: What a terrific honour. What’s he going to sing?

Vere: Regis olim urbe David.

Hermione: What?

Imogen: Once in royal David’s city.

Hermione: I don’t imagine anyone will notice if he gets the words wrong.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Very witty. Lucky chap Hugo.

Hermione: Who will of course be joining me in the yokel pews.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Hwah! Hwah! Sharp as mustard. Hwah! Hwah!

Note: Hermione apologises for her recent absence but Imogen has been staying in Claridge's to do her Christmas shopping. She and Imogen will be publishing three conversations next week for the benefit of those who need to escape from the harsh realities of Christmas. W

Imogen:  Well that was fun wasn’t it Imogen?

Hermione: Can’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up. My ears are ringing.

Imogen:  DIDN’T WE HAVE FUN?

Hermione: That isn’t quite how I’d describe it.

Imogen: You’ll need to get used to going on shoots. Hugo loves shooting.

Hermione: I think I’d rather stay at home and learn how to use the Aga.

Imogen: No. We women have to give support. We bring the fruit cake, ham sandwiches and flasks of tea for the beaters. And proper food for the shooters – champagne, caviar and Krug.

Hermione: I’m surprised anyone can eat anything after seeing those piles of dead birds.

Imogen: You’ll get used to it.

Hermione: I don’t think so. I’m not really cut out for this sort of thing.

Imogen: Give it time.

Hermione: But we killed so many living things. And some of them didn’t die at once. I’m sure they suffered.

Imogen: A necessary cull. It preserves the countryside the way it’s meant to be.

Hermione: I don’t understand. The final bag was 1,471 pheasants, two wood pigeon, a crow, two rabbits and a cat. How does that help to preserve the countryside?

Imogen: It brings in the right sort of people like Lord Hamptonshire.

Hermione:  Erm, right sort of person? Didn’t he shoot one of the beaters?

Imogen: The man shouldn’t have been wearing that stupid cap. He looked like a deer.

Hermione: Not from where I was standing.

Imogen: Lord H does get a little over-excited. His monocle gets steamed up. Anyway, no real harm done. The doctor reckons the man will retain over 50% vision in his right eye.

Hermione: I hope there will be some generous compensation.

Imogen: We’ll send him a couple of brace of pheasant for Christmas.

Hermione: Surely he merits a rather more than that.

Imogen: Remember one is running a shoot not a charity, Hermione.

Hermione: Hmmm.

Vere: Hallo you two girls. Chewing the fat eh? Hwah. Hwah. Jolly good shoot what?

Hermione: We were concerned about the beater.

Vere: Lord Hamptonshire is a little flamboyant isn’t he? Hwah. Hwah.

Hermione: A little careless I think.

Vere: Hwah. Hwah.  Great character. He loved it when you called his Purdey a rifle.

Hermione: I’m still not quite sure what the difference is.

Vere: About twenty thousand pounds. Hwah. Hwah.

Hermione: Perhaps he should give the Purdey to the beater.

Vere: Hwah. Hwah. Very quick eh? Hugo’s a lucky boy to have a girl like you. Hwah. Hwah.

Imogen: What are we wearing on our head today Hermione?

Hermione: I think it’s loosely called a hat, Imogen. I bought it especially for the races.

Imogen: It looks like giant butterfly that’s just overdosed on pesticide.

Hermione: It’s meant to be floppy.

Imogen: But not deceased. I’m afraid you’ll need to change it.

Hermione: They told me in the shop that it would be perfect for a day at the races.

Imogen: Sadly Monsoon are not an authority on racing attire. Neither are Next.

Hermione: I bought it at Debenhams.

Imogen: I rest my case. You can have one of my hats. And if you give me the poisoned insect I’ll shred it and put it in the organic – it is made of natural fibres, isn’t it?

***

Imogen: Ah, now, that’s so much better. Nothing quite like red lace and velvet is there? And doesn’t that old dress of mine fit you perfectly?

Hermione: Yes and no. Er, I mean no and yes.

Imogen: Ah. Here comes Vere. Are we ready to go darling?

Hermione: Good morning Vere.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Just heard about the butterfly hat. Hwah! Hwah! Polyester. Hwah! Hwah!

Hermione: I like your aftershave. It’s very unusual.

Vere: Hwah! Hwah! I’m not wearing aftershave. Hwah! Hwah!

Imogen: Vere always has a small glass of Armagnac before he goes to the races. Don’t you darling? An old MacMillan tradition.

Vere: Better get the motor out of the garage. Hwah! Hwah!

***

Hermione: Vere’s always so friendly and cheerful, isn’t he?

Imogen: Yes. Now have we worked out what to say at lunch?

Hermione: I don’t normally plan what to say at lunch.

Imogen: You’ll need to today. You’re sitting beside Lord Hamptonshire.

Hermione: I’m sure we’ll get along fine if he’s anything like Vere.

Imogen: There are similarities, but he’s more probing.

Hermione: I don’t follow. In what way more probing?

Imogen: He’ll expect you to know about racing?

Hermione: I think I understand the broad principles. The horses run round a course and try to come first and you shoot them if they break a leg.

Imogen: What’s your favourite racecourse?

Hermione: I don’t have a favourite.

Imogen: How many have you visited?

Hermione: This will be my first visit to a race course.

Imogen: How many race horses can you name?

Hermione: My grandmother used to talk about Red Rum, but I don’t suppose he’s still running?

Imogen: Apart from Red Rum?

Hermione: It’s on the tip of my tongue. Sh... Sh...

Imogen: Apart from Shergar and Red Rum? Hmmm. This is not good Hermione. I think one needs a crash course.

Hermione: I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll get shot if I break a leg.

Imogen: Haha.

Like all diligent creative writing students I'm constantly listening for snippets of dialogue and unusual facts for my notebook.

This morning at work I heard the dramatic account of a near death experience in a six and a half stone Old English Sheepdog. The dog managed to find a container of drinking chocolate in some unattended shopping. After forcing off the lid it contrived to stick its nose through the protective layer of foil and snort most of the contents. The dog then went completely wild, running around yelping and trying to eat anything it could find. By the time it got to the vet, its respiratory rate was 120 breaths a minute and its eyeballs were almost bulging out of their sockets. The vet administered large quantities of diazepam and after the 24 hours the dog was back to normal. There was a large vet's bill.

The dog's owner was both wiser and poorer as a consequence. According to the vet the dog was fortunate to be alive.

The lesson is that chocolate is poisonous for dogs. It contains substances similar to caffeine that cause overexcitement, hyperventilation and death in large doses. If the container had contained cocoa powder instead of drinking chocolate the dog would have been dead.

It seems safer for dogs to snort cocaine rather than chocolate (although this is not recommended).

A few years ago I came across this classic joke. Normally I don't really do jokes. They're usually best reserved for pubs or dinner parties when everyone's too drunk to make proper conversation. However this one makes good use of misunderstanding.

Two gentlemen on a shooting expedition are traversing the Yorkshire moors with twelve bores tucked under their arms. They're miles from anywhere. One collapses to the ground, turns a nasty shade of grey, convulses a few times and lies absolutely still, not breathing. His companion pulls out his mobile and calls emergency services.

999: Which service do you require?

Sportsman: Ambulance. You might need a helicopter. My friend's had a funny turn.

999: Can you give us more information please?

Sportsman: I think he's dead.

999: Why do you think he's dead?

Sportsman: He's gone a funny colour and he's not breathing and he's not moving. I can't feel a pulse. Probably his heart.

999: I'm afraid he might be dead. But it's vital we know if he's dead or alive so we can respond appropriately. Please can you check him out again and make sure he's absolutely dead.

Longish silence followed by two loud bangs in quick succession.

Sportsman: Yes. I've made sure. He's absolutely dead.

Please can I make it absolutely clear that both Hermione and Imogen are completely fictitious characters. Any resemblance between them and any living person is entirely coincidental.

The story so far: Hermione is a well brought-up girl from a modest background. Her boyfriend Hugo MacMillan is from a not so modest background.

Hugo's parents own a sea side property in Cornwall where they often go for weekends in summer. They also own substantial properties in Norfolk, Surrey and France. Imogen is Hugo's mother.

Bathroom scene at the property in Cornwell: Imogen has  just detected a spillage of water on the green marble surround to the wash basin. She is horrified.

Imogen: Hermione, please come here immediately.

Hermione: How may I be of assistance Imogen?

Imogen: What is this Hermione?

Hermione: It looks like a spot of water to me.

Imogen: And do you see what it is upon?

Hermione: It's on the surround of the washbasin.

Imogen: And what is the surround made of?

Hermione: Marble, I think, although it might be a granite composite.

Imogen: No, Hermione, it is not a granite composite. It is marble.

Hermione: I thought so.

Imogen: But it is not ordinary marble. It's Irish marble from Connemara. You can tell by the green colour.

Hermione: it's very nice Imogen. I didn't know marble came from Ireland.

Imogen: The best marble in the world comes from Ireland and it's very expensive.

Hermione: It is very beautiful, I agree.

Imogen: But what must we never put on Connemara marble Hermione?

Hermione: Hot frying pans?

Imogen: Water.

Hermione: But you've used it to surround a wash basin?

Imogen: One should only have the very best in one's house.

Hermione: I thought water was all right on marble. I assumed it was put around the wash basin because it was able to handle splashes of water.

Imogen: It will handle water perfectly well so long as you wipe it off immediately. Otherwise ti will mark.

Hermione: I see.

Imogen: So what you do it take a towel like this, and rub the water off like this, but without pressing too hard and no harm will be done.

Hermione: I've learnt something new. Thank you so much for explaining.

Imogen: So we won't leave any water on the Connemara in future, will we?

Hermione: I shall never leave water on the Connemara again Imogen.

Note: Although the characters are fictitious, the above conversation took place word for word almost... some time within the last couple of years.

Me: Hello and welcome to my blog Mr Dai Rees. Congratulations on becoming the first Welsh MP to represent UKIP.

Dai: Hallo William. Diolch. Siwt ich chi?

Me: Niawn diolch.  Please feel free to continue smoking and drinking.

Dai: Lechyd da, boyo!

Me: So you resigned from Plaid Cymru to stand for UKIP at the by-election?

Dai: Correct.

Me: Was it jumping on the band wagon, naked opportunism or idealism?

Dai: It was patriotism.

Me: Ah. Patriotism. Johnson calls patriotism the last refuge of the scoundrel.

Dai: That Boris doesn't know what he's talking about. He's the scoundrel.

Me: I was referring to Samuel Johnson.

Dai: No, it's definitely Boris.

Me: I mean the one who wrote the dictionary.

Dai: You've got the wrong person. Boris didn't do any dictionary. He was editor of the Spectator. Same thing really.

Me: What do you think about this new law in Denmark forbidding sex with animals?

Dai: Why've they gone and done that?

Me: Animals can't give informed consent.

Dai: Oh yes they can, boyo.

Me: So you'd oppose this new law coming to Wales?

Dai: Definitely. It's a breach of human rights.

Me: Animal rights?

Dai: Them too but more so.

Me: What will UKIP do for Welsh football?

Dai: No more than three foreign players in each team.

Me: Does that include English players?

Dai: Especially English players. Wrexham was never the same after Ian Rush joined them from Liverpool.

Me: Ian Rush was Welsh.

Dai: Not after he betrayed his country by going to Liverpool.

Me: I hear you're going to paint Welsh trains with national emblems?

Dai: They'll help restore national pride.

Me: Leeks and daffodils?

Dai: Who told you?

Me: What about income tax?

Dai: 10%, except for foreigners who'll pay 60%. And mansion tax.

Me: Will that be enough to fund all your public spending?

Dai: It will when we don't have to fund welfare for the whole European Community.

Me: Many thanks for your time.

Dai: Croeso. Hwyl fawr am nawr!

Me: Lechyd da!

I am not a naturist. The idea of revealing everything to the critical eye of a post-modernist world does not appeal. I look a great deal better with my clothes on. And that's not the only reason. Thermoregulation, modesty, good breeding and an intrinsic secretiveness all play their part.

The setting of this vignette is a small Greek island a couple of years ago. I was on holiday with my wife and we were looking for the site of an ancient Greek temple as one does. The afternoon sun blazed down. The sea was blue. The air was filled with the scent of the pine trees that occupied a rocky slope which descended to the sandy beach. We'd just shared a bottle of Retsina for lunch, accompanied by a couple of small Ouzos and a rather nice moussaka.

Our tourist map pictured the ancient temple of as something approaching the size and splendour of the Parthenon without any missing bits. I had some doubts about the existence of this temple as portrayed. My previous experiences of ancient Greek temples led me to believe it would now bear a strong resemblance to a rock garden in suburbia, but without the flowers and shrubs. Regardless of its former glory.

As we rounded a corner of the beach, we found ourselves staring at about twenty people, both men and women, not necessarily in the first flush of youth, stark naked. Some lay on the sand exposing themselves to the risks of skin cancer, telephoto lenses and third degree burns to the parts of their bodies unaccustomed to direct sunlight.

Nearby was a sign that showed two young girls playing volleyball just the way nature intended. Also on the sign were pictures of shirts and shorts with red crosses over them. However sun hats, baseball caps and sandals had green ticks.

'Let's go back,' I said quickly. 'The temple obviously isn't this way.'

'No,' said my wife studying the map with as much reverence as if it had been been drawn by Vasco de Gama himself. 'It's definitely near here.'

As we debated the matter, a large and overweight man approached. He had blond hair, blue eyes and a clipped moustache. His pendulous abdomen preserved his modesty perfectly.

'If you come here, you must take of your clothes,' he said in a German accent. I guessed he knew we were English from our conversation. He pointed meaningfully at the sign with the two girls playing volleyball.

'We're just going," I said.

'No we're not," said my wife.

'I'm not taking off my shorts and shirt for anyone,' I said.

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'We're all the same.'

'I beg to differ,' I said making a sly gesture at the fat German.

'There is a fine temple,' he said oblivious. 'It is very good.'

That settled it. My wife undressed, put her clothes in one of those multi-coloured beach bags that every English girl takes on holiday, and strided purposefully passed the German colony. No one paid her any attention. I followed, fully clothed, glowering at the sun worshippers to discourage further admonitions. Happily, my wife's Lady Godiva gesture sufficed to palliate them. The fat German remained stum.

The temple did not exist. This did not surprise me. 'I expect the krauts bombed it during the war,' I said in my best John Cleese voice.

'Ha, ha." said my wife coming upon a tiny fragment of white rock that would have fitted into one of my pockets. She prodded it with her foot. 'There it is. What did I tell you?'

'The oracle has spoken. We must be nearer Delphi than I thought. Thank goodness we didn't give up the search,' I said. 'Let's go.'

My wife took several photographs for Facebook. I took several further photographs of her standing triumphantly over the rock fragment, but with her bag strategically placed so as not to offend Facebook users.

We returned past the descendants of the men who'd bombed the temple. I believe my fully clothed body may have caused them some offence. But so long as Mark Zuckerman wasn't offended, I didn't care.