The task for the day was to head out to the edge of my known universe, or more specifically, Blunsdon. That's four and a half miles away. Even though the start of the one day course in 'How To Use The Internet For Jobsearching' was not all that early, getting there required an early start.

I don't mind as such. If you need to get out of bed at some ungodly hour, that's what you do, and whether the need to get up or the uncomfortable cold temperatures were the cause, I was wide awake long before the alarm clock threatened to wobble.

Usually when I travel to that far outpost of the Rushey Platt Empire it rains. Nine times out of ten I get thoroughly soaked, squelching as I plod through the doors despondently. Yesterday however was a rarity, a day of water-free weather on my northern frontier. Cloudy, chilly, but not wet.

And so I arrived at the swanky hotel where the course was being staged. Smart casual, as the dress code demanded. I hate dress codes. So pointless. I mean, why do doormen at nightclubs turn away people for not having the preferred footwear? It doesn't exactly stop any trouble breaking out, does it?

As it happens, the course was professional and well presented, a breath of fresh air after the kindergarten courses I normally get sent on. The trainer deserved some congratulation because he kept the pace of his tuition going in a slick solo performance all day, and only once did I begin to nod off (and got woken with a jibe about using a sandwich board to advertise my availability on the job market. Cheeck of the working class... )

Many hours later, many miles southward, I was home again, safe, dry, and utterly informed about how to get that job in four days time. Unfortunately the lady next to me scored an interview before the day was out. I just can't compete with that.

Memory lane

Last night I stumbled across a tv channel showing a number of documentaries about rock bands (rockumentaries, if you will... ) and so I spent a few hours watching the turbulent fortunes of Phil Lynott and his band Thin Lizzy (I remember seeing Mr Lynott on a tv panel on one occaision, utterly out of his box and embarrasing everyone else on the show. That was shortly before he died). Or the truth behind Black Sabbath's first ground breaking album, which apparently turns out tobe whatever you want it to be, or the extraordinary 2008 Iron Maiden in which they hopped from one country to another in their own airliner, rather like a band travelling in the back of their own van but on an entirely different scale.

I noticed something odd. The players, even those who fell off the bandwagon for one reason or another, all seem very jovial and philosophical about events in their career. It's the producers who are deadly serious about it all, going to great lengths to demonstrate the virtuosity of those whose sound they manipulated. Managers seem very unwilling to give anything away in case the truth destroys their profits.

it all seems very familiar to me. Sigh. I think it's about time someone did a documentary about Red Jasper. Can't wait to see the red faces...