Scribe

Great news. You may recall the article that I’d been working on some little while ago for The Editor. Well after a lot of work it’s finally been accepted for publication and is going to be a six page spread in the magazine. Very exciting!

Not only that, we’re already discussing my next assignment!

It’s still very early days on the writing front and I’m far from counting any chickens, but this feels like a little progress at last and I’m desperate to get stuck into another article to try and keep the momentum going. The way I figure it, it’s potentially much easier to further a writing career as a published writer, rather than just an aspiring writer. If I can get a few decent articles published I may just be able to refer to myself as the former, which I hope will help.

I’m not sure yet when the article is set to be published, but I can’t wait to see it in print!

Managing expectations

My new manager has pulled a bit of a blinder on my company car front. Well aware of my displeasure in recent Fusion motoring he was gently “encouraged” to steer acquisition of my new steed firmly in the direction of a Fiesta, ideally with a decent (read Zetec) spec, bigger engine if poss, and the Bluetooth handsfree phone connection would be a bonus. Wrap it up in a nice shade and he can colour me happy.

It took a few weeks but he did it. It sat outside, dark smokey metallic grey, the more powerful (that’s more powerful, not actually powerful) 1.4 engine, Zetec spec giving air con, alloys, computer thingummy, interior lighting pack (footwells, submarine lighting and so forth), bits of chrome trim and whatnot. And it came fitted with the all important Bluetooth, which automatically adds a much nicer central dash display, rear stereo speakers, and voice activation and dialling (touch the button on the indicator stalk and say “phone”, “dial number”, “Blonde” and I’m talking to herself in moments). Seems recent sales success hasn’t gone unnoticed, or unrewarded (quite apart from the increased commission payments).

The irony of it all is that barely two years ago I was cruising a beautiful Audi A4 convertible, midnight blue, Bose hi fi, heated seats, the works. Had anyone suggested then that a Ford Mondeo would be the order of the day I’d have been distraught. Now I’m eying up my new Fiesta and it feels ok.

Partly it’s down to changed circumstances. Back then I was using my car to go places for work, and had to look the part when I got there. Now I use the Fiesta to drive ten minutes to work in the morning and it sits round the back till it’s time to drive ten minutes home again, or fifteen minutes to Blonde Towers.

But it’s more than that, it’s all to do with expectations. Back then I was dealing with some financial heavyweights, most of those customers drove cars four times the price of that Audi, and often had something even more expensive tucked away for high days and holidays. It’s funny how the cars of those around you go toward setting levels of aspiration. Now I’m surrounded by new and used Fords and have customers rolling up in £200 scrappers in the forlorn hope of cashing in on the end of the scrappage scheme (now ended). Against that backdrop a new mid range Fiesta feels a perfectly reasonable steer.

It’s not just a matter of prestige however. That Audi was a seriously high quality piece of kit and, all questions of value, worth, or prestige aside, it was something I took great pleasure in running. It was a car I’d drive when I had no where to go just for the sake of enjoying the drive, and trips became as much about the journey as the destination.

But times have changed as have, for the moment, aspirations and expectations. And to that end the Fiesta is fine. It’s a looker (far nicer than any mainstream shopping trolley has any right to be), it’s a decent drive, goes ok, and has just about enough toys to keep my interest. In these new times of austerity it more than does the job, and to my own surprise I’m happier with it that I ever thought I could be.

Hidden talents.

You may recall my mention of a Focus ST on a track in the hands of a professional racing driver recently, an experience that left me stirred, but not shaken.

So when a bright red second-hand (used Fords are always second-hand, it’s only Bentley’s that are “previously cherished”) example rocked up at the dealership for a customer to try I had to borrow the keys and take it for a sprint up the road.

Now the Focus generally is a perfectly reasonable car. It does what it does, is comfortable, handles neatly, is reasonably equipped and looks nice enough. It may lack the obsessional surprise and delight tactility of some of its German rivals, but it inevitably sells for a bit less used or new (ignore the list price, there are deals) so everyone is happy. It’s not the second-best selling car in Britain (behind the Ford Fiesta) for nothing. I’ve been running one for a few days whilst I wait for my new company car to be delivered (ordered but not yet arrived) and it’s a pleasant and comfortable if unremarkable way of getting around. But it’s not the sort of thing you can obsess over, it doesn’t impart a warm glow (unlike the Polite Hatchback, especially with those heated seats), it simply does the job neatly and efficiently.

The ST, however, is something else. Driving the ST is like watching an old lady break dance well, there’s a delicious unfeasibility to it, a sense that it just shouldn’t be possible.

On the outside the car is a fairly standard if slightly Barry’d Focus. There’s some wings and big wheels and whatnot, but nothing Baz and Daz wouldn’t buy from Halfords and bolt to their 1.6 base model. Inside the only giveaways are a pair of deeply bolstered and supremely comfortable Recaro seats and a set of auxiliary gauges atop the dash (just like Ford used to fit on hot Cortina MK2′s back in the seventies, albeit there were no turbo boost guages in them days). Under the bonnet is where the big news lies, in the shape of a five cylinder two and a half litre turbo charged petrol engine imported from Volvo. This is the Red Bull that gives the Focus ST its wings, this is the hub, the powerhouse, the heart and soul.

Slip into the Recaro and you’re in a world of ordinariness. Sure, the seats are fab (and orange in the car I drove) but you’re sat on them so you can’t see ‘em. The extra dials give a nod to the performance cred, but that’s about all. Fire it up and it’s smoother than a normal Focus, but it doesn’t shout, you can barely hear the engine. Slot into gear and toddle off down the road and if you’ve driven a lot of Foci you’ll notice a slightly firmer ride bit it’s not hard, and never crashy. All in all it feels like a nice normal Focus with better seats, a bit smoother engine, and a fractionally firmer ride.

Right up until the point where you hit a fast road and nail it!

Big engines give you torque. Turbochargers give you torque. And torque is twist action, pull, grunt. It’s what gives you that unrelenting neck straining never ending catapult of acceleration that you feel in a fast jet aircraft on takeoff. The ST has a big engine and a turbo charger, hence there’s 236lb/ft of the stuff available from just 1,600rpm, giving great big velvety unburstable effortless wallop, any gear, any speed. Drop the hammer and the car just lunges, no lag, no waiting for the revs to build, floor it and the car charges like Ocean Finance. And all to the accompaniment of a fabulous sonorous warble that segues into a hard edged yowl as the tacho sweeps round the dial as smoothly as the second hand of a Rolex watch. It’s just epic! We’re talking proper junior supercar performance here, sixty miles an hour from a standing start takes just over six seconds (think about that, each 10mph increment takes about a second), and it’s a full fat 150mph flat out.

And the good news doesn’t end there. The Focus has always been best in class for ride and handling and the ST is no exception. The ride quality at speed is excellent, smooth and planted, steering precise and accurate, and cornering without wallow or roll.

It’s a car that urges you on, each snick snick gearchange bringing a fresh double cream slug of noise and power. It’s addictive.

But best of all is the sheer unlikeliness of what lies beneath the surface. It’s like buying an Amstrad hi fi and discovering the innards are Bang and Olufsen, like buying a ticket with Ryan Air and finding yourself in First Class, like ordering a Maccie D and finding a Goucho Grill steak between the buns. It just shouldn’t be this good.

For sure, there will always be a whiff of Essex about any fast Ford, a touch of Burberry, a dab of Addidas. But you can buy these things at three years old with sensible mileage for about ten grand. That has to make it the performance bargain of the century.

I’d de-Barry mine and stick a 1.6 Zetec badge on the back. And go BMW hunting…

Condition stable.

I was doing probably close to 50mph in the dark grey Ford Focus estate when I came upon the obstruction maybe four or five car lengths in front of me. Even if the surface had been dry (it wasn’t) I knew I had absolutely no chance of stopping within the distance. I hit the brake pedal with everything I had and with the car virtually standing on its nose, anti lock braking system pulsing furiously, I wrenched the wheel hard to the right, missing it by what felt like millimetres. With no time to think I hurled the car back to the left, tyres screaming in protest, in a bid to avoid another impact. The whole thing was over in moments, car stationary, a sudden quiet descending.

Quiet apart from the uproarious laughter of my colleague and I, “go round again” he urged, wiping the tears of mirth from his cheeks, “faster this time!”.

It was the culmination of a two day introduction to Ford course for all new employees and we were in the midst of a hands on session to demonstrate some of the technology in the cars. We’d done a road drive in various models and were now at Donnington racetrack to learn about the benefits of Electronic Stability Program. Finally it was getting interesting.

How Electronic Stability Program works is basically this. A series of sensors monitor things like road speed, tyre rotation, steering angle, lateral forces and yaw forces. They determine from this what you’re trying to achieve, and what the car is actually doing. And if they sense the car getting out of shape it can reduce engine power and apply the brakes to any given wheel to keep the car pointing the way you want it to go and reduce or even stop a slide or spin. So, imagine you’re coming off a motorway at speed, down a slip road and round a left-hand bend. You’re doing 50mph when you hit a patch of oil that causes the car to start to slide. If (for example) the car starts to understeer (where the front tyres are losing grip and the car is sliding forwards toward the outside of the curve) the system will reduce power and brake the nearside (left) rear wheel in order to gently pivot the car back on course. It cannot overcome the ultimate laws of physics (try turning sharp right at traffic lights whilst doing ninety and you’ll crash regardless) but it will provide an excellent safety net that will help to keep the car stable and on line, and you out of hospital.

And it works, it really does work. The course they set us was on a wide open tarmac session with plenty of room to get it wrong or lose control. It started with a series of cones to slalom through which suddenly narrowed toward the end. Normally this would de-stabilise the car but ESP stops that happening with gentle tweaks to the brakes of individual wheels. Then a long right-hand bend to attack, another slalom and then a set of cones to create a roundabout. The advice here was to tip the car into the roundabout at speed and then simply floor the accelerator. Yup, give it everything. This is where the system really proves its mettle. As the car starts to slide the system simply backs off the power and refuses to let you go faster and you simply circle the roundabout at a faintly sickening speed with the car completely smooth and balanced. Out of the roundabout, a straight and then the section where we came in, a set of cones designed to simulate a sudden obstruction (such as someone pulling out of a side turning straight in front of you), with another offset section of cones to avoid immediately afterward.

Now imagine a group of car sales guys, all going round one after the other, all trying to outdo one another, and all getting faster and more confident with every try. On a wet surface. At a temperature just above freezing.

The fact that (despite our best, or maybe worst, efforts) not one of us spun a car says it all.

Brilliant system, and one that should be standard fit on every car sold (and I believe there are moves to make this so in the future).

Jagwhar

A recent panic regarding a pressing need for a tax disc for an ex motability car (hence unable to be taxed locally) and our driver snowbound saw me beetling up the dual carriageway to the nearby city one morning to visit the DVLA office and obtain said tax disc for a car which was due out later that day. The DVLA office is situated in the middle of a huge retail estate that also houses what must be almost every car marque currently available. Our group has four different franchises there alone!

Tax disc obtained it was time to leave, but a dicey combination of the bitter cold and middle aged plumbing left me in need of what I believe our American cousins refer to as a “comfort stop”. Unfortunately the only public facilities were a couple of miles in the wrong direction, but no matter, I had a cunning plan. I’d simply pop into a nearby car dealership on the auspices of picking up a brochure, and nip into the gents whilst I was there. Of course since brochures are free I had the run of pretty much any car make in existence to choose from so decided to go for a combination of nearness (I’m not getting any younger and pressing needs become ever more pressing with age) and prestige.

Just across the road I spied a Jaguar dealership. That’d do nicely.

Jaguar have come a long way even in the last few years. This once great marque was seen as close to the pinnacle of prestige many years ago, the chairman’s car, the prime ministers personal transport. But a combination of British Leyland influence (and build quality) in the eighties and bad product planning in the nineties (who on earth believed the X Type was a good idea) saw Jaguar limp bleeding into the noughties with an image that was more Arfur Daley and golf club wannabe than boardroom chic. Yes the prime minister still uses one, but Trousers Down Brown is hardly the ad exec’s dream brand ambassador.

Non the less I’ve always had a soft spot for dear old Jag, and I delight in their recent return to form with the cool and delightfully detailed XF and the Aston Martinesque XK. I hear they’re dropping the Jag wannabe X Type too, and I have very high hopes for the forthcoming XJ, a car that finally buries the whiff of tweed and pipe smoke forever.

I parked the company Fiesta (which, incidentally, has rather disappointingly stopped being vivid green and seems to have turned blue and sprouted an extra pair of doors) and pushed open the heavy glass showroom door. I was greeted politely by an immaculately coiffured salesman in an expensive suit and proper watch who enquired if he could be of assistance? I asked whether they had the brochure of the new XJ yet as my father had requested I pick one up for him. I did this for two reasons, firstly so that he wouldn’t want to take my details as a potential contact or engage me in conversation about the car (time and bladder were pressing), and secondly in case he’d clocked the Fiesta. I’d have hated for him to think I was some kind of timewaster who’d just popped in for a brochure and to use the loo’s…

Whilst he went to find me a brochure I popped to the loo and, mission accomplished, returned to the showroom. Our man from Jag had my glossy XJ marketing material all ready so I thanked him, bade him goodbye, and headed for the door. As I got there I stopped and took a last long reflective gaze at the beautifully furnished showroom, the glitteringly expensive cars, the church-like hush and the deep buttoned leather sofas that surrounded the expensive looking coffee table in the customer courtesy area.

And I thought “Hmmmm…”

PS. XJ Portfolio 3.0 V6 diesel, long wheelbase, in Lunar Grey, Cashew leather seats with Truffle contrast stitch and piping, Jet softgrain dash upper (anything too light just reflects in the windscreen on sunny days) and Canvas headlining, with Satin American Walnut veneers, and embossed Leaper on the headrests. 19″ Aleutian wheels, Bowers & Wilkins 1200w premium sound system, heated and cooled massaging seats front and rear, heated steering wheel with remote controls, adaptive front headlights, rear parking camera, DAB radio and digital television.

So far, so good.

As Christmas approaches and life slows a little in the car sales world I come to you in a contemplative mood tonight. We’re still shifting metal but the joys of Christmas preparations are clearly taking their time and toll on potential punters and we’re finding a little slack in the day, which is rather nice actually. Time to slow down and take stock.

So where are we at? Or more specifically, where am I at?

Well I seem to be finding my groove, slotting in. The thick fog of admin is starting to become a little clearer, not gone completely but more of a light mist with fog patches these days. I can muddle through most of it with little intervention. The computerised customer handling/car ordering/deposit taking/finance arranging/order form creating computer system called Kerridge is still proving a complete mystery however. Bits of it I can cope with, some of it I’m positively adroit at, but stringing it all together? No.

The journalism side of things rumbles on at it’s inexorably slow rate, but I did finally get to do that review, complete with photographer and engineer so who knows, if The Editor likes what I throw together it could yet prove to be a catalyst for future options. We shall see.

That Saab convertible sadly never came in so I missed out there. Funnily enough I spotted an identical one on the motorway today, could even have been the same one in fact, and it’s such a lovely looking car. But I’m a big believer in fate and I guess it wasn’t to be. Probably too soon to be thinking about such toys anyway so hey ho, onward and upward, maybe next year.

The Blonde is still very much in evidence, more so than ever in fact. It feels almost like a proper grown up relationship, a novelty for me but in a very good and positive way. She is of course more beautiful, wise, kind, supportive and warmhearted than ever. (Hello Al!) And she’s keeping the Polite Hatchback clean despite the filthy weather, bless her! We’re even spending Christmas together, awww…

Other than that, all pretty quiet on the Western Front. I’m not a winter person, I prefer to hibernate and wait for spring. Actually I’d prefer to jet out to Sandy Lane or Necker Island for the winter months, but I may have to find something just a tad more rewarding than car sales before I’m able to make that a reality.

But as we drift quietly toward Christmas I have to report that after what can best be described as an “interesting” year the vibe generally is good. Whilst not quite the dream ticket, life at Ford is proving comfortable and financially supportive, and good place to hide and ride out the financial turbulence that I fear hasn’t buffeted it’s last yet, and I think if nothing else it will prove a good move for the future.

I’m sure next year will be the start of fresh challenges and adventures and a blog full of rants, raves, and raconteurs, but for the moment I’m feeling mellow, settled, happy and generally at peace with the world.

So it just remains for me to thank you for all your support and good wishes this year, it really has been and still is genuinely appreciated.

And wish you all a very happy Christmas.

The Green Machine.

My lovely Panther Black Fiesta Zetec has been sold from under me (the perils of being in car sales, everything is for sale, even my own company car) and I’d been offered a choice of two of the courtesy cars to run temporarily until they could source me a replacement. One a Fiesta 3 door in retina searing green (inexplicably labelled “Squeeze” in the brochure and at extra cost even over option metallic!), the other a very demur but very boring dark blue Fusion diesel. Of course I took the Fusion, it might be dull but at least it’s discreet.

However I quickly realised just how badly I’d underestimated its dullness. The most exciting feature is a front passenger seatback that folds forward flat to make a table. Why? Because the Fusion is the pensioners choice and so a picnic table is the ultimate accessory. Think of it as the James Bond ejector seat for the blue rinse brigade. I can see Q now, “Since you’ve retired 007 I’ve made a couple of rather special adjustments to your new company car”. “Really Q, another Aston Martin with an ejector seat”? “No 007, it’s a Fusion diesel and the passenger seat cunningly folds flat so you’ve somewhere to stand the thermos and sandwiches. Oh and under the dash I’ve replaced the Walther PPK holster with a place for you to store your Whethers Originals”.

The pensioners love the Fusion, its high stance aiding ingress and egress and square corners making it easy to park. But good grief it’s a dull steer, the addition of a diesel engine robbing it of the last bastion of any merit to the enthusiast. Within a week (a week during which I’d never before spent so much time with the right pedal flattened in a bid to make the thing go) I realised the error of my ways and quietly swapped it for The Green Machine, the Fiesta with a colour so vivid you need to apply Factor Twenty sun cream if you want to stand within a metre of it for any length of time.

What a contrast to the insipid Fusion though. A tiny 1.25 engine meant it probably was no faster, but the way it revs and the way it seems to run on tiptoes, darting into and out of corners like an excitable Jack Russel puppy, are a revelation after the leaden OAPmobile. Worth braving the colour choice for I decided, and at least the British winter ensured it was dark and wet and dirty most of the time.

Then, over the following weeks, something rather odd happened. I found myself actually not wincing as I spied it glowing quietly to itself and braved a dark glasses dash for the drivers seat in the morning. I started to mind it less and less. Then, bizarrely, I found myself actually glancing back at it as I walked away and almost nodding in approval. Shortly after that I spotted a freshly serviced and immaculately cleaned one rolling out of the service bay and I actually decided it looked good. I had a quiet word with the cleaning pixies and when I returned to it that evening they’d sprinkled their magic pixie dust over it and all the carefully cultivated winter grime I’d acquired had gone, leaving the thing resplendent and shining like a new born shiny thing.

And I liked it. I actually liked it. It’s different and it’s funky and it suits the sporty youthful look of the car (if not the decidedly unsporty and unyouthful look of the driver). In the few short weeks I’ve had it I’ve been converted.

So would I buy one that colour?

Good heavens no, but it’s a bit of fun and it’s brightening up an otherwise dull winter.

Idiot lights.

Arriving at work one bitterly cold day this week my early morning reverie was shattered by a phone call from an anxious customer. It seemed she’d been startled that same morning by a warning light that had mysteriously appeared on her dashboard. Was it ok to continue to drive the car, should she book it in to be checked?

I was about to politely transfer her to the service department and return to my early morning contemplation of life, the universe, and everything when I had a sudden suspicion. Could she describe the light to me, I wondered? Was there anything a little different about it?

Why, yes there was now I mentioned it, she reported. It wasn’t a usual round lamp, it had a jagged edge. A little like a snowflake in fact. What could it possibly mean?

“Simple my dear lady, it means you’re too stupid to own a car. Please sell it at once and catch the bus from now on” I replied. In my head. I smiled down the phone and gently explained to her that there was no cause for alarm, it was simply the “frost alert” that triggered below five degrees centigrade to warn the driver of the possibility of ice on the road.

There’s always one I mused, replacing the handset.

An hour later a chap dropped in. He was on holiday, didn’t have his handbook in the car, was concerned about a mysterious warning light that had appeared on the dash of his C-Max.

It seems that there is in fact more that one…

Death and taxes.

They burst through the door in a noisy explosion of pushchairs, Primark and under fives. Seems she’d just dropped her fourth and they needed a bigger motor. A brand new twenty two grand S-Max people carrier fits the bill rather well they’d decided, very nice too.

The finance appraisal was revealing. She didn’t work, he’d been working a few months as a building labourer, part time mind, don’t want to overdo these things. House all provided for them, naturally.

The new S-Max was out of reach, but a nice four year old low mileage model was within their monthly budget. At late twenties and with a couple of their kids happily destroying the showroom behind their oblivious parents I couldn’t help rather bitterly musing that maybe they were only another sprog and a nice ADHD carers allowance away from that new S-Max after all.

Those who’ve been with this blog from the beginning will recall my ruminating on the benefit system in this country before. It seems to me that very quickly into adulthood (and sometimes before) you’re designated a giver, or a taker. Either you relax into a warm bath of benefits, council houses and kids, and reward yourself with a shiny ten grand S-Max once you pass four sprogs, or you get labeled a worker bee and you get out there and you earn and you pay and you pay and you earn. And you pay. After all, someone has to keep the system afloat.

I had good reason to reflect on this a day or two after the S-Max family. Twenty five years of giving had entitled me to the princely sum of £64/week and a bit of help with the council tax when I lost my job. Not enough to finance a pair of roller skates. Or live on. Pretty clear which category I fall into.

Indeed, over my nearly six month period of unemployment I was able to claim the princely sum of precisely £1,240-08. A rather exact figure, but there’s a good reason why I know this. And it’s because a day or two after the S-Max family were in choosing their new wheels I received a letter from the Department of Work and Pensions.

It seems that now I’m back to my rightful place on the treadmill they’d like some of it back please. And to that end they’ve informed me that the entire amount is now liable for income tax and will be added to my earnings for the purposes of claiming it back from me.

A rough calculation suggests that £385 will be clawed back. Over a quarter of it! Absolutely staggering!!!

And bear this in mind, I’m earning much less than I was. Had I secured a job at my previous pay-scale I could have been taxed on some or all of it at 40%!

Still, I suppose someone has to keep the takers in fags, booze, satellite TV’s and five figure motorcars.

Benjamin Franklin once postulated that “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

He was right. Especially about the taxes.

Innit.

Contestant ready!?

Remember Gladiators? Brilliant series screened in the early ’90s and more recently re-created on Sky although I understand without the same level of success. For those that haven’t seen it, it was an adversarial game show where members of the public went up against The Gladiators in various battles such as trying to swing via ropes from one platform to another whilst the gladiator tried to intercept and then bring them down. At the end of the show their score was transposed into a head start time in a race against a Gladiator around an indoor assault course, finishing with the dreaded Travelator, which was basically an inclined treadmill like a down escalator without steps which they had to run up. This took real determination as it was running at some speed and they had to outpace it to the top, whilst of course being chased (or chasing) a Gladiator.

Well the last six weeks has felt a little like that Travelator as I’ve raced like mad to try and learn the many and manifold procedures and systems without tripping and falling, sliding straight back down to the bottom again. And in truth that I don’t feel like I’m off it yet, but as things start to come together I’m able to run a little less hard and still feel like I’m making progress.

I’ve also managed a few days off for a mini-break with The Blonde. And boy, did I need them. A couple of nights away at a very lovely hotel by the coast was just what was needed to recharge the batteries, fall back and re-group. I didn’t realise just how very tired I was till I stopped (I think even The Blonde was surprised) but I felt absolutely drained. Fortunately the weather was perfect, strong winds and persistent rain curbed even The Blondes penchant for walking miles and miles, substituting instead a session in the wonderful spa facilities where the welcoming embrace of a heated pool and a wonderful jacuzzi helped sooth shattered mind.

We came home refreshed and renewed and I returned to the metaphorical treadmill reinvigorated.

In truth, car sales isn ‘t that hard. The challenge has been learning a completely new job whilst being thrown in at the deep end to just get on with it, which can be a stressful approach. In particular there seems to be no instructional process, it’s simply a case of muddling through and relying on colleagues for help and guidance which has, I fear, been frustrating for all at times.

So how’s it going? Well, I’m shifting a few cars, both new and used. And I think that once I get properly up to speed it’ll be ok. Whether I see myself doing it for another twenty years is another matter, but for the moment it’s a job and it’s an income and right now that’s paramount.

What I do need to try and do however is up the pressure on the writing side of things. And with that in mind I’ve been in touch with The Editor again to push on with the big test review I’m supposed to be writing. Like everything it’s proving not to be without it’s challenges. But that’s life and yet again we muddle through.

Muddling through, it seems to be the watchword for the moment…