Reginald D Hunter @ Bristol Comedy Garden – Review


Not being funny, but Bristol needed a laugh this week.

After the sporting and political fails on the European front, it was bound to get a mention. And of course, it did. The one good thing about Brexit is that it meant freshly written material at Bristol Comedy Garden last night.

Read my review in Bristol 24/7

Review – Living Spit’s A Christmas Carol


We all know the tale of Ebeneezer Scrooge and his wicked ways as well as we know there will be a family fallout over Christmas dinner. We’ve heard it a hundred times, from actors ranging from Alastair Sim to Michael Caine and Gonzo from The Muppets. However, Stu McLoughlin and Howard Coggins add a whole new twist to the festive tale in Living Spit’s version.

Read the full review in Bristol 24/7…

Found Footage Festival Review – Bristol Watershed


Found Footage Festival Official poster


Weird, surreal, disturbing and lots of fun, the latest offering from The Found Footage Festival needs to be seen to be believed. Read my review in Strawberry Line Times and book yourselves tickets for the next show!


Here we go again… 2013!

So here we are…with the usual drunken fanfare and the inevitable hangover having subsided, slap bang in 2013.

Once again, the usual deluded resolutions are wearing thin (yes, I’m drinking a glass of wine and smoking as I type, even though it’s a week night – oops) and the glance-back nostalgia is wearing off, leaving the realisation that, as has ever, another year has dropped off the calendar.

I’m feeling pretty positive.

Now the difference this year is that the positivity isn’t sprung from a hope, it’s born out of a resignation. A happy resignation that, wherever I try to be, I will always be myself. And I don’t mean that in a happy hippie, bullshit sort of way.

I just mean that at 16 I thought I should be doing something ‘better’, and at 20 I felt out of my depth doing the ‘better’ thing I aimed for, and at 25 I had big plan for a fancy career in this or that (hadn’t quite decided) and… I just mean that now I’m quite happy being a bit of  juxtaposition between what I was and still am, and what I thought I wanted to be.

I have realised that you can be six of one and half a dozen of the other. I have realised that the fancy city stuff I wanted to leave the country to do will always be something I lovingly mock myself for, because a lot of it is ridiculous (fucking about on Twitter all day? With a wrist rest?* – Seriously). But the operative word is lovingly. And that’s new. Additionally, whatever that part of me thinks, I really enjoy my job, and I enjoy doing it well.

Basically, I could descend into a self- indulgent over analysis, and being in marketing now, I could even make it sound fittingly meaningful, but this is my blog, so I’m not going to.

Rather than explain myself in a wordy, well put together heart-string pulling, emotion inducing justification, I will sum up my 2013 revelation, moment of clarity, whatever you want to call it, in a small and short anecdote. I shall entitle this blandly as; ‘My lovely Saturday with Dave’.

We built a rabbit run. And a new door for the hutch. (If you have read this blog before, you will know I have a pet rabbit called Mischief, and once again, yes, I am a grown up).

I have forever wanted to have a ‘proper’ job. And now I do. I get to write, which I love. I get to work sensible hours. I get my opinions asked in earnest. There’s no innuendo. People don’t expect me to flirt with them or clean toilets. I get to wear nice clothes without getting them covered in ale when changing barrels while some racist arse demands to know “Are Muslims are allowed to work behind a bar”. (I am not Muslim, I am half Caribbean, but if you’re serving casually racist drunks, this doesn’t really factor in – foreign is foreign after all).

However, last Saturday, I put on a football shirt (for comfort, nothing else) bought a crate of Stella, and went to Bishopston Hardware (who I would very much recommend if you are doing DIY – very friendly and reasonably priced. N.B., this link is to their postal address, it’s one of those old school shops with no website) to buy wood and chicken wire to make Mischief a run for the spring – and a new door as the crafty little bugger had eaten through the wood, and managed to escape into next doors veg patch.

They were less than impressed.

Me and Dave spent the day sawing, drilling, making smutty and inappropriate jokes and getting quite tipsy (whilst wielding power tools and shooting at each other with a staple gun – health and safety!!) and I realised I missed it.

As much as I wanted a city job, (and as I said, I now have one I love) and as much as I hated the bar work, and living in the country, I realised you can’t just swap one for the other.

You are always you.

I’ve grown up working with men and being a little crass. And I love that now I don’t have to. But that doesn’t mean that on occasion, I don’t want to.

I love and get irritated by both sides of the coin in equal measure.

And – shock horror – I think that’s all right. It’s so easy in your twenties to mistake having a career goal with actually and irrevocably putting yourself in a box.

So chill the fuck out you marketing wannabes in the wonderful outfits. That’s the kind of thinking that leads to a mid-life crisis, too many gins, an affair and a divorce/breakdown by 40.

You are who you always were. And that isn’t at all bad.

So in conclusion, the rabbit run looks ace. I’m very impressed with mine and Dave’s efforts. I enjoyed it because it was a break from the norm, and a nod to what I am familiar with. But you need the knowledge of, and the comparison between each experience to make either enjoyable. And so to 2013. Realise who you actually are, then think about what you actually want.

I don’t mean the you in your head with the immaculate hair and amazing outfits. We both know come February the ten minutes in bed will seem much more appealing than super straight hair. And no one notices that your earrings match your skirt anyway.

And if they do I would advise you speak to someone else immediately.  Those people are clearly wankers.

Happy New Year!

*I need the wrist rest. RSI is a real thing. It hurts!

Lovely picture courtesy of The Gatehouse.



Knickers Nicked! The sorry state of modern Britain.

What is the world coming to when you can’t dry your washing in the safety of your own garden?

I know we’re in a recession and shopping for luxury items, like, erm, underwear is more difficult than it used to be, but seriously.

Last week I had one of those lovely days where you have the morning off work, the sun was out for about the first time this year, and it was properly warm. If you sat directly in the sun that is (this is Britain after all) and that is precisely where I thought I would sit my laundry.

I got up early, ate some breakfast, re-potted my plants, and hung two lots of laundry out before my friend arrived for lunch, and being such a sunny day we decided to go to the pub. I nearly put said laundry back in the house before we left. Not for fear of theft you understand, but simply because, as I said, this is Britain, and sods law, it would probably rain. But no. I was in a good mood, and in a wild gesture of optimism I decided to risk it, the lot would be dry by the time we got back.

However, this is how optimism is rewarded. I returned to find the lot gone. Drying racks and all.

One of my lovely housemates, I thought, must have put it away for me. Bless them. I scanned the house, no sign. After confirming that neither housemate had seen it, I was mystified. My garden is walled in. The walls are pretty high. And the racks are pretty big. And the clothes were really cheap. Had I been drying a collection of Chanel suits, Vera Wang dresses and the like, unlikely as it may be I thought, a passing fashionista with a penchant for slightly risky theft may have happened by, and that I could sort of understand. They could flog it on Ebay. However, the logic behind scaling a wall in pursuit of faded Primark pants baffles me.

For a start, surely you would need to have been in a position to look over the wall in the first place in order to spot said pants.

Secondly, my housemate and neighbours own some pretty nice bikes, none of which were securely stored, except obviously behind the big bloody wall, which presumably they deemed to be safe enough. None of them were touched.

And they would have to have been quick, because there are four houses contained behind the wall, and it was the middle of the day on a Tuesday. The likeliness of one of the neighbours, or the person who hung the laundry out in the first place seeing you out of the window is pretty high.

Is this how people get their kicks nowadays? A high octane top speed knicker theft? Are these the people who used to go on snowboarding holidays to get their adrenaline rush, but now the recession has hit they need a cheaper fear fix? Or are junkies now looking to dress better, but still need to spunk their spare cash on skag? Maybe there is a black market value to cheap used underwear. However, I always understood ‘used’ to mean dirty, not just faded and losing their structural integrity. Maybe it was just someone who really loves ironing and folding clothes, but they had done all the stuff at home and just needed a quick sock-pairing hit.

The questions are many. The answers are few. Maybe there has been a spate of this kind of thing. Maybe it was a one off (any information welcome). But be warned dear reader, the days of hanging your stuff out to dry are over. That nice British image of neighbours pegging up their sheets while having a nice chat over the fence in the summer is shattered.

People are weird. Stranger than I ever imagined. And if I see anyone wearing a slightly coffee satined Hello Kitty T-Shirt wandering around my neighbourhood, they had better be afraid. I don’t mean that in an ‘I’ll knock you spark out, love’ kind of way, but I will recognise the grubby thing and follow them down the road with relentless questions about what the the hell is the matter with them until I get some kind of explanation.

Because I’m mystified. And if this is a spate, not an isolated incident, somebody please let me know. I don’t think I want to live in a world where a girl can’t hang her pants out without fear. And by the way, cheap as the clothes were, it’s going to cost me a sodding wedge to replace most of a wardrobe’s worth of stuff. Maybe I should just keep my eye open for some poor bugger hanging their laundry out…

I Quit. So what now? The Fear!

There comes a point (based on no scientific research whatsoever, it seems to me to occur in your late twenties if you’re a woman, and mid thirties when you’re a bloke) when you suddenly get the fear.

Mid way through a night out with mates, drunk and slurring, and dancing with no shoes on – you realise you’ve spent all the money in your wallet and head home, cursing the fact that you’re going to feel like shit at work in the morning – that’s the point when you think ‘it’s time to get serious’. This is usually consolidated by the walk to work in the same £piss-all p/h job you’ve had for the last year or so. You need to sort it out, get a career. You did all that studying at uni, culminating in all that debt you can’t pay off working in a cafe/bar/shop, and aside from that, you’ve got brains in your head. You’ve got an applicable ‘skill set’, ‘commercial awareness’, or whatever it is employers are looking for. And it’s time. The only problem is (well actually, one of many problems is) that you need to find a proper job. But where? The internet is awash with ads for ‘graduate recruitment consultants (Salary £competitive with bonuses – earn 45k in the first year!) but wait. The only jobs available can’t be finding other people jobs, as apparently, they don’t exist. Otherwise they’d be advertised. Surely.

In addition to this, you need to find time to get the skills and experience to get the job you want – if there is indeed one available – but you need to keep your current minimum wage employment in order to pay the rent. And it’s not like going back to uni is an option, unless your parents have a few grand spare they would like to lovingly bestow on you, and even then, it doesn’t seem like those rich kids are doing any better at finding a job anyway. It’s just that they aren’t as under pressure to get one.

The reason I have launched into this frustrated whine is because I have recently done something, which a week ago seemed like a very brave, very sensible option. I quit my job because of all the reasons above, and then some. I had been in the same job for the last five years. Well, I started at the bottom, as part time barmaid to pay my way through uni, and when my perfect job did not, as promised, materialise, I ended up as general manager. For all intents and purposes, I was basically going slightly mad working in a job that I could see carrying on, exactly as it is now, forever and ever until I was one of those old crones, necking G&T’s at ten in the morning and boring the arse off the new twenty something year old barmaids about how it was when I was their age. Also, I was working a roughly seventy hour week (pub management, for all the lack of respect most people give it, requires a lot of hard work) which was giving me no time at all to write – which is what I want to do. So, last week I quit. I handed my notice in, and Monday was my last day. I was so happy about it – it had taken guts and guile. I was out. I had time to find another job, I had gained useful and important skills. I had also found myself a part time job (as a barmaid in another pub, ahem) to tide me over. However, the being-big-and-brave buzz has started to wear off, and now I’m just in a panic.

After getting up the guts to pack the whole thing in, things suddenly seem different. Firstly, I have taken a massive pay cut. Secondly, the manager who hired me has just been fired, and now I don’t know what’s happening, and I’m with a bunch of new people I don’t know. I’m finishing work at one in the morning again, and with a load of new, younger people who want to go out on the lash after their shift while I just want to go to bed. Also, this finding a ‘proper job’ is proving bloody difficult. And depressing. I have been scouring the internet for Journalism jobs. Copywriting jobs. Marketing jobs. Events management jobs. Editorial Jobs. Any job, in fact, that may give me the opportunity to at least get out of the pub trade and onto the right track. Even if it’s only vaguely the right track. And to no avail. In fact, not even the courtesy of a rejection. I know there are hundreds of people applying for most jobs at the moment (I suppose that’s why we need all these recruitment consultants – to spend their eight hour office day shredding seas of unwanted applications) but couldn’t they at least fashion some kind of send-to-all email? ‘We’re sorry – you are one of hundreds of applicants who doesn’t have the skills we’re looking for’. If only so us job seekers don’t keep desperately checking our emails every five minutes in the vain hope someone may have got back to us about, well, anything. More depressingly, just to save time, a lot of the jobs I have applied for pop up with a warning as soon as you press send on the email. A little notice appears before they’ve even cast a casually disapproving eye over your CV saying ‘you probably won’t hear anything from us – everyone is unemployed at the moment, and likely to stay that way. We important lot with a job really don’t have the time to respond to the poor skint masses’. Or words to that effect.

So I suppose it’s time to extend the overdraft again. Dig out the credit card. Although, life’s much easier now Cameron has reminded us to just pay it off. Thanks. I’d forgotten about it, I’ll just grab that spare few hundred quid resting in my account and do it now. Cheers Dave.

The only response I have received so far was a call to say I was not getting a job because I’m ‘overqualified’. Apparently because I have previous media experience, and published work, the risk assessment crew at this particular company decided I would probably leave in six months. Thanks. I wanted to explain that I have had the same rubbish job for the last five years, and if I didn’t leave that, why would I leave this one? I actually wanted this one. I was happy to start at the bottom. I just want to get out! What they told us at uni, while cheerfully lending us thousands of pounds which they are now demanding back was that we would have better prospects. Give us all your cash and at the end you’ll be in a job you love, earning a satisfying living with that most useful of skills for the workplace – knowledge. Well, I’m now back doing what I was doing before uni, for the same wage. The only demonstrable life skill gained being the ability to deftly move debt between bank accounts to keep them off your back.

Could one of the vast army of recruitment consultants help me out please? Let’s just give you an honest covering statement. I’m skint. I’m desperate, and I’m terrified of ending up an old alcoholic spinster landlady. I work hard, and I’ve got brains in my head and a lot of experience. Ah go on – Give us a job!

‘Ere Dave, what shall we do about ‘Broken Britain’?

Oh, ahem, I, erm, well…

I have just read something appalling.

Now, I must admit that I did read this I the Daily Mirror, but I’m at work, and I work in a local boozer, so we have to have the red tops. Further fact checking aside, today’s paper contains an article about the terrible wages paid to the cleaners, pantry-dining room staff and the like at Eaton College, despite the head master being on a £180k a year salary. And as appalling this definitely is, the most worrying piece of information in the article was the assertion that David Cameron (who, in case you missed it, is currently roaming the country doing his usual PR speeches suggesting ways to fix ‘Broken Britain’ while gesticulating with his usual patronising flair) is the 19th British Prime Minister to be educated there. Now, pardon me if I’m wrong, but how the hell is someone who has spent their entire life happily hidden away dressed in a bow tie and tails, ignoring the poorly paid bastards that keep their immaculate little group of friends clean and fed supposed to have any clue what the hell is going on with the majority of the country? Do they even realise that some people earn a fraction of what they pay to attend this bastion of upper class Englishness per year? And these people still manage to raise children, work, and do their own cooking and cleaning all by themselves.

It seems quite possible that Cameron and his kind only noticed that people were a bit ‘miffed’ when they started lobbing Molotov cocktails through shop windows and nicking stuff. Not that I am defending looting and violence in any way. It just seems that it may have been avoided if the country was run by someone who had at least a vague idea about the majority of people who live in it. And I don’t just mean the poorly paid under-classes, but the working classes, hell, even the middle classes who had so little faith in the running of their country that they decided to clean up the riot mess themselves, and took to the streets, brooms in hand. After all,if you want something doing properly, you’d better do it yourself. Since he was eleven and started having his mess cleaned up by the poorly paid cleaners at Eaton, I doubt Cameron has lifted any domestic object other than the silver spoon he was given into his overfed mouth. And worse than that, he feigned horror and buddied up to those many Britons who condemned the thieves at the riots – prescribing tough measures for our ‘sick society’.

In his speech outside number 10, he spoke about the ‘complete lack of respect shown by these groups of thugs,’ about the ‘mindless selfishness and lack of responsibility’, and about how ‘their rights outweigh their responsibility’. We’ll, as appalling as their behaviour admittedly is, I wonder where they learned that set of values Mr Prime Minister? Maybe it would be a good idea to get off your moral high horse and level some of those judgments at the powerful structures in the UK, like politicians and the press. Although, at least all this ruckus has taken the heat off you and your pals for a while eh? Even your well-paid publicity officers couldn’t have orchestrated a distraction this epic. But just so you know, robbing expenses is just as much theft as nicking trainers from footlocker. You want to strip these ‘gangs’ of their uniform, ban their hoodies and scarves, well maybe we should do the same to you, and ban the dickie bow and the elocution lessons from the Eaton crew. Then we’ll all look the same, and sound the same, and maybe then there won’t be, as you put it, such a ‘culture of fear on our streets’. Although God forbid, you might get mistaken for a normal member of society, and have to pick up a broom and clean up some of the mess on the street yourself, rather than just spouting some well planned PR bullshit about it.

The North/South Divide!

Part One: Getting into Brizzle Life!

Part Two: Settled?

Would you like some manners with that pint, sir?

And we’re all like this.

Before I say anything else, I would like to make one thing clear. I am not a mad feminist. I am generally concerned about the usual things women have cause to moan about – gender pay gaps, the fact that us ladies are often written off as old and past it much younger than men (I mean look at poor Moira Stewart. They would never have done that to Trevor McDonald), the unfair advantage given to beautiful women (and men for that matter) in most areas of life, that sort of thing.

I also like watching Sex and the City, but despite what most men think, I don’t wish to emulate their shallow consumer driven lifestyle. I’m not even particularly interested in shoes. Wearing sky high heels only means I can’t get as drunk as I would like on nights out, so I’ll stick with flats, thank you very much. However, I do wish to voice a concern that has given me much grief this week. And the concern is men. Not in general you understand, but men in the work place – in my work place to be precise.

This is partly my own fault (and I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised) as I have ended up doing a ‘blokes’ job. I am manager of a group of mainly male employees, which for the most part, they don’t seem to like one bit. I am currently managing a pub, which before me was run by a group of middle aged men who had all known each other for years and who, despite their little fallings out and disagreements, at least all gave each other’s opinions equal weight because for all intents and purposes, they were cut from the same cloth.

The other unhelpful factor in my transition is that before becoming manager I worked in the same pub as a barmaid. And everyone loves a young barmaid.

Barmaids get you drunk, look pretty and pretend to flirt with you a bit. However, if we then end up in charge, in a position to throw you out or make business decisions, apparently we just aren’t fun anymore. Barmaids aren’t supposed to understand anything about business, and as soon as they hint that they do, they aren’t to be trusted.

I have managed to get this attitude from all sides. Customers, workmates, and generally any man who thinks he could do the job better. Which is just about everyone. Because they’ve all been in a pub before. And apparently, that qualifies you to run one.

Didn’t Britain used to be full of landladies? You know, those great British treasures in the vein of Peggy Mitchell, off Eastenders. Bit of a battleaxe, but good fun and took no nonsense, except off those ape-like sons of hers, but at least they could help her lug barrels about. I used to quite like Peggy Mitchell.

But along with numerous other stereotypically British traditions, this one seems to have died. And I suppose I am quite young to be taking on such a job, but give me a bloody break! I have so far been patronised, openly bitched about and argued with, ‘advised’ that I am going about things the wrong way, or simply ignored completely.

I arranged a meeting with an employment lawyer a few days ago, which the bookkeeper (a man in his forties) decided to sit in on. And they were a well-known reputable firm. Did this arsehole look at me once? Did he bollocks. After his initial poorly disguised shock that I was the manager in the first place, he proceeded to give me a fleeting glance every few minutes, and direct all the answers to my questions to the bookkeeper.

I felt like a kid at a grown-ups dinner table, to be seen and not heard. I eventually forced him to direct his attention to me by pointing out that I had called him in, and I was potentially going to hire, and pay him. I had to be downright pushy, which really annoyed me. I did not hire him, by the way.

It’s the same with the assistant manager. Despite reps, delivery men, contractors, accounts people or anyone else knowing I am the manager, and that I am usually the one that arranged the bloody meeting, they will still refer all questions and answers to the assistant, simply because he’s male. And I think I’m picking up some manly aggression due to it.

I now spend practically all my time with men. I work with them and due to most of my friends being connected with work, as most peoples are, I end up spending my free time with them. For Gods sake, I live with two blokes also.

I’m starting to crave a Sex and the City marathon and a night out in high heels.

Despite my horror at the prospect, it seems you can be as ballsy as you like, but the old skills hold true. The quickest way to get men to do anything is the tried and tested trick of flattering their ego, and making them think it was their idea first, whilst batting your eyelashes a bit.

So take note of this fellas. Women are only manipulative because you don’t fucking listen. And, Mr Lawyer, if a woman is potentially paying your wages, look her in the face for Christ’s sake.

Women aren’t stupid, and we are perfectly capable of doing our jobs. And the bits we don’t want to do, we’ll make you do – and we’ll make you think it was your own brilliant idea in the first place.

And you’ll have no one to blame but yourselves.

Job Interview? Good Luck…

It’s funny because it’s true. And if you haven’t watched this, you should. You’ll feel better.

What happens to logical, otherwise articulate people in job interviews? I assume it isn’t just me that has this problem.

Getting an interview is not the issue. On a CV or covering letter you can sound like a normal, functional person. The same goes for when you actually manage to get the job. Once in, you’re often just as good at it as you said you were in your logical and articulate CV (or pretty damn close). However, no matter how much experience you have, or how capable you know you can be in the role, as soon as you walk through the door and are confronted by a boardroom and a suit, you suddenly transform into some kind of rambling idiot who is more akin to someone who has been let out on day release than a potentially capable member of whatever company it is you’re applying for.

I am still plagued by the ongoing and unsolvable problem that during my day-to-day life, whatever it is I’m doing (be it checking into Hotels or doing the payroll at work) I still feel like a big kid playing at being an adult. However, it’s only when I walk into a job interview that it feels like I’ve truly been rumbled. As soon as I see the suit looking back at me, I get that long forgotten feeling of being hauled into the headmaster’s office. I can already hear the line;

‘We’re very disappointed. Now I’m afraid we’re going to have to call your parents’.

The only upside is now that I’m a proper grown up, I can choose not to inform my mother that I’ve behaved so disappointingly, and can hide the fact that I still have no idea what I want to do with my life, and therefore avoid the lecture about ‘applying yourself and having a little direction’.

This has all sprung freshly into my mind as I recently got an interview for a job a genuinely think I would enjoy, and be very good at, thank you very much. However, the interview was yesterday, and I spent most of yesterday afternoon reliving the horror in those short sharp bursts the re-enter your consciousness like a malicious pixie poking you in the head and laughing, reminding you what a useless berk you are, despite the fact that you’re doing your best to lose yourself in red wine and conversation. The interview was for a part time journalist position with a lovely little company who want to help the community, and when I read the job spec, I was really excited. Not only did it sound like something I could do, but something I would enjoy, whilst simultaneously appeasing my social conscience a bit. The initial panic set in when my interviewer mentioned he was the financial director of a company. There go the alarm bells. I forgot instantly that I am actually a manager, and I can do my own finances responsibly (well, unless I see a really nice dress or something, but hey, I’m female, that’s standard). My first thought was ‘Shit. He’s a proper businessman’. Good start. Second pitfall of the whole debacle was the mention that someone else running for the post was currently working at the BBC.

‘Not the Beeb! I can’t compete with a proper jouro from the Beeb.’

And that was it, thus began the comedy of errors. I proceeded to madly flap my hands about in a show of gesticulation closely resembling semaphore for the alphabetically challenged. The manic nervous laughter kicked in. Closely followed by forgetting my interviewers name shortly after mentioning how good I am at remembering names, which, incidentally was one of the necessities of the role. It is as if your mind has an evil, or at least playful, side with a very bad sense of humour. It’s the side that normally laughs under its breath at other people’s humiliation. I suppose it’s probably karma for laughing at the woman I saw running to catch the bus and who went full pelt into the Perspex bus stop last week. Anyway, I digress.

Basically, the result was that after doing a very convincing impression of someone unable to perform any requirements of the role, a role which I had entered the room thinking I would be perfect for, I left feeling like a small child having who hasn’t worked hard enough, and is letting no one down but themselves. At least I didn’t get a letter home. However, my little sister had informed my mother that I had an interview. She called just I had got to the pub with a consolatory glass of red to see how it went. And the conversation began thus:

‘So it didn’t go very well then?’
‘Well, I’ll wait to hear ma’.
‘You should have done more research’.
‘Yes ma’
‘And where are you? It’s very noisy. Are you in the pub? You’re not drinking at this time of day are you Natalie…’

I might just skip the middleman and say I’m grounded for a week so I don’t have to go outside and deal with anyone. Better luck next time?