tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-196229882024-03-07T08:06:15.192+00:00View through my windowRural mid-life crisis, sort of. Some diary, some comment, some irreverance, some cynicism about working for yourself in a little village while rapidly moving beyond 'that difficult age'. Fuck it, it's just a number.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-4337410100721343982008-01-09T09:55:00.000+00:002008-01-09T10:17:47.835+00:00Crisis and rubbishThere are things that I am rubbish at. Difficult to believe, I know. Don't worry, this isn't going to be a post about being mental because (a) you're all fed up with that; and (b) I'm feeling ok today.<br /><br />So, the answer is <em>not:</em> sleeping, relationships, parenting, thinking straight, and such.<br /><br />The intros round.<br /><br />Is the answer.<br /><br />What do you mean, what?<br /><br />Oh, ok, some further explanation may be required.<br /><br />I am rubbish at that fun quiz thing when someone starts playing the intro to a well-known song and you have to shout out as soon as you know what it is. We did this at new year, my mates and I, and as usual I didn't get any.<br /><br />I don't understand this. I listen to music a great deal, and I knew the songs that were played, but I just couldn't identify them from the opening bars. So I stood there and waited for someone else in my team to shout the answer and then shouted that out, more loudly. Like I always do. Why doesn't my brain work in such a way as to allow me to shout out the answer before anyone else, just once? I can only remember ever getting one once, in the pub quiz, and that was because I was older than everyone else on my team. (It was 'Ride On Time', by Black Box, since you asked, and that is very distinctive for anyone old enough to remember).<br /><br />For the general amusement of everybody I did a fiendish quiz for new year. I reckoned if anyone got half the answers right they were doing well - and the winning team (which had the LOML and Mumbling Nige on it) got 22 out of 40 in the end so I was about right.<br /><br />The teams that got less than ten were a bit bored though and now I'm worried that I set questions that were hard just so I could be all superior and knowledgable and not because it would be fun for everyone else. *sigh*.<br /><br />See what you think, a few sample questions below:<br /><br />1. On a clear day, what is the furthest you can see from the top of the Eiffel Tower?<br />2. What is the square root of one quarter?<br />3. Which sport uses a piece of equipment exactly 9 by 5 feet?<br />4. Into which ocean or sea does the river Nile flow?<br />5. The Queen Vic is on the corner of Albert Square and which other street?<br /><br />I'll put the answers in the comments so have a think before clicking over, and then let me know if they are (a) too hard and I am an arrogant egomaniac; or (b) they are ok standard and I am just trying to help everyone have a good time.<br /><br />Thanks.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-55601630305159233712008-01-01T16:41:00.000+00:002008-01-01T16:54:44.673+00:00HNY and all thatWhat I said above.<br /><br />I am currently at death's door from man flu, which I think you'll find is worse than ordinary flu. I have been revising my will, and making preparations for my funeral, as I am sure that if anyone can die of man flu, that one will be me.<br /><br />Still, progress in the crisis household. All the family now have iPods, so there is no need to talk to each other any more at all, which is a plus. Smallest child sings along with Lily Allen at high volume, including the f-word ("<em>Dad</em>, it's a <em>lyric</em>"). I must remember to have a word with her about doing that in public. Customers in Caffe Nero don't expect angelic-looking 9 year old girls to sing "But you were fucking that girl next door, what'd you do that for?".<br /><br />Even if it is in tune.<br /><br />Grumpy (aka Child One) is now officially the first cyborg human. He is physically linked to the playstation or DS, umbilically, so that if you cut the cord he would be dead in minutes, flopping around like a haddock on the deck of a trawler. His eyes have evolved into little LCDs and his thumbs are now completely swivellable. He can tap his fingers faster than the eye can see. His arse is flat and wide, for balance while sitting.<br /><br />Still, going skiing in a few days. He'll be able to learn to snowboard and that will be the end of that, we'll never see him. He's already got the long hair and the grungy clothes. Oh, and the girlfriend.<br /><br />What's <em>that </em>all about? She's just like a female version of him. Lovely, but mad as a sack of fish. I'm quite scared by this. She was born the day after him, which they think means they were fated to be together. Bless.<br /><br />2008 will be better, the LOML and I have promised each other.<br /><br />Hope it's true for you too.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-85727882630469628222007-12-17T11:47:00.001+00:002008-12-12T00:39:42.008+00:00SketchesThought I'd perhaps share some with you, since I was going on about it. These are from the summer hollibobs. They're in pencil so they haven't come out all that well on the scanner, but still.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PV0Y128nnAKlPOPQFvuxXzdy2V_dbW3oP5Fl8qMWoz4egZQHNWVQQCUL21-5ElkMEXFFx-AhjfwTDz8PVaOzKlLKdfYyXvHi0u0wtzg2mM-dxYru-ptykr5sMSCKKqdy2EL7iA/s1600-h/scan.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PV0Y128nnAKlPOPQFvuxXzdy2V_dbW3oP5Fl8qMWoz4egZQHNWVQQCUL21-5ElkMEXFFx-AhjfwTDz8PVaOzKlLKdfYyXvHi0u0wtzg2mM-dxYru-ptykr5sMSCKKqdy2EL7iA/s320/scan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144910205053856018" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9VqlDXiR0Z44_BvqsjllTaK6bqTTLI34IVsajnBQTRVdZOzIpjB3SSowOMvB5WeciCm_uomNjXhn6nZmyRDMQnn5cI0-aH-sxm0FDWWoglFOwjLaxirWZ4oSXKDZUT8hdDjumVg/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9VqlDXiR0Z44_BvqsjllTaK6bqTTLI34IVsajnBQTRVdZOzIpjB3SSowOMvB5WeciCm_uomNjXhn6nZmyRDMQnn5cI0-aH-sxm0FDWWoglFOwjLaxirWZ4oSXKDZUT8hdDjumVg/s320/scan0002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144909367535233282" /></a><br /><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkvZlR26Z5gVoVkjSop4-PoYcvTexoHdaBElQZ-e-PWxr4haP-KISGxxGNOxtv7QeUsBXgnRxEE85OU9xE6YJrT6Q-tFOj5kYYespLf8B92iYS80MGsfpJQPWElx_DTKXOt0TiVg/s1600-h/scan0001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkvZlR26Z5gVoVkjSop4-PoYcvTexoHdaBElQZ-e-PWxr4haP-KISGxxGNOxtv7QeUsBXgnRxEE85OU9xE6YJrT6Q-tFOj5kYYespLf8B92iYS80MGsfpJQPWElx_DTKXOt0TiVg/s320/scan0001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144909092657326322" /></a><br /><br />I did these on the beach and in the cafe, quickly, before the subjects moved too much. I prefer doing them this way; not getting too involved with each one, just try and capture the moment and the movement and then on to the next one.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-5883072567055028252007-12-17T11:02:00.000+00:002007-12-17T11:30:20.288+00:00If wasn't who I have become ...... I'd live by myself in a city-centre flat<br />... I'd still ride a motorbike<br />... I'd get up at noon<br />... I'd go to bed at 4 am<br />... I'd be very untidy<br />... I'd need to grow up<br />... I'd have every playstation and xbox going<br />... I'd be a borderline alcoholic<br />... I'd play poker every day<br />... I'd earn money only when I needed some<br />... I'd not have any proper close friends<br /><br />... I'd be emotionally shallow<br />... I'd be desperate for a partner but wouldn't admit it<br />... I'd be the oldest bloke in the club on Friday nights<br />... I'd dream about my own kids to cuddle and love me<br /><br />... I'd be even mentaller (? spelling) than I am now<br /><br />So: it's not all bad, life, is it?<br /><br />You've only got four thousand weeks. Four thousand weeks is less than eighty years. I've had half mine already.<br /><br />Two thousand weeks doesn't sound very long, does it?<br /><br />Best get on with it. Especially if you don't believe in an afterlife, as I don't.<br /><br />So I will:<br /><br />... push to get properly fit<br />... push the limits when I am skiing, and not just dwell in the intermediate<br />... remember to thank my wife every day for saving me from myself<br />... not shout at the kids for stuff that doesn't matter<br />... stop talking about it and learn to kitesurf next summer<br />... be less bah-humbug about Christmas<br />... play the piano more<br />... take a sketchbook out with me more often, and draw a wider variety of subjects<br />... use all the methods I have been taught to manage my depression<br />... go to bed at a sensible time and stop sleeping in the day.<br /><br />Good.<br /><br />I can manage that.<br /><br />Wish me luck.<br /><br />Oh, and sorry for doing the resolutions thing before we've even got to Christmas.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-52002974997283202472007-12-13T09:58:00.000+00:002007-12-13T10:39:00.272+00:00Untitled no 1Mmmm.<br /><br />Yo.<br /><br />Still alive.<br /><br />Dunno if anyone wanted to know that, but still, you do now.<br /><br />Spent a bit of time rocking back and forward in the dark, and a bit of time asleep in the day.<br /><br />Spent some time sitting looking out at the world like I am hiding in a room behind my face. Alcohol does this to me. I have largely given up drinking because of this: my eyes are one-way mirror set in a plaster face mask: from the outside, blank, relective. From the inside, I can be doing what I want and no-one can know. Sometimes I am crying, sometimes I am laughing at you. Sometimes, I am shouting as loud as I can, but only I can hear.<br /><br />Spent quite a lot of time awake in the night.<br /><br />Channel 201 is quite good. It shows Jackass repeats which is quite good if you're up at daft o'clock. You can watch people hurting themselves and not have to think about anything else for a bit.<br /><br />I'm waiting to see the psychiatrist.<br /><br />That isn't easy to write, you know. There is a social stigma to that. But I've done the GP thing, and the drugs don't work as well as (a) they used to; and (b) they should. Maybe the consultant has some extra, non-GP knowledge which can help.<br /><br />So, how can I still be optimistic during all this. I am, though. I still think that everything will get better, I know it will, one day. I went to a managing depression support group thing at the hospital. That was a laugh. We had to do a questionnaire - have you felt unable to get out of bed, have you felt low on a scale of one to five in the last week, two weeks, month?<br /><br />Ha, ha, hahahahahahahahaha, haaaaaaah.<br /><br />Uh, <em>yes</em>?<br /><br />I won. I was the most mad. Yay, me. However, I didn't tick the 'suicidal' or 'self-harm' boxes and never have done. There's that optimism again, see?<br /><br />Quick joke.<br />"How many Freudian psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?"<br />"Two. One to change the lightbulb, and the other to hold the <del>penis</del> <em>stepladder."</em><br /><p>That cheered me up.</p><p>Sooooo, all the above being said, I'm actually ok. I know that sounds unlikely, but I am really.</p><p>I know I have a physical condition which should be treatable, and if not, I can manage.</p><p>You have to make the best of what you've got. I am colour blind, deaf in one ear, chronically depressive. I do not, as we speak, have cancer, or muscular dystrophy or whatever else. So, ok.</p><p>Go out and do your thing, make the most of every day. I'm trying, I really am.</p><p>Irreverant gossipy posts to follow.</p><p><em></em> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-83677264548499579492007-08-30T09:34:00.000+01:002007-08-30T10:02:32.348+01:00Always ahead of the trends, meJust back from hollybobs, and judging by the Sunday style mags I am, yet again, ahead of the current retro fashion. No, not loon pants. Or cowboy boots - big this winter, apparently - and I just happen to have some. Nope, I am ahead of the current fash for camping.<br /><br />It's all because of the festival explosion, y'see. I mean, the explosion in festivals. The <em>number</em> of festivals. That are out there. Now. Are we there? (Syntax error - I do intend to suggest some horrific Islamist terrorist event at a music gig. Sorry about that). I used to go to festivals in my youth, but that's a whole 'nother post.<br /><br />Anyhoo. If you want to sleep at a festival, you camp. No alternative option, except, if you believe the aforementioned mags, for <em>glamping,</em> which is just a shit name for luxury camping. I don't do glamping, I do glaravanning. (Uh. This might need some work. Stylavanning? Retrochicavanning? Chicavanning. Whatever). I have a retro-chic 'van. By this, I do not mean a seventies caravan which is so fucking old that it looks retro, but a deliberate seventies style caravan which I have on purpose because the style is chic and funky and disco. (Although, you could argue, and with some justification, that these are one and the same thing. If you must).<br /><br />In fact, it was made in 1980, and trust me, I am gutted about this. What is it about 1979 which is retro and laid back and disco and therefore cool, but 1980 is yuppie brick-phone headband legwarmery shit? So from now on, it is a seventies retro-chic van, and I am not going to allow the truth to get in the way of a style decision. Agreed? Good.<br /><br />It's got a brown awning with tassels on, for fuck's sake. And gas lamps. What's not to love?<br /><br />So the whole family Crisis have just been for nine nights on the Yorkshire moors, with mountain bikes and maps and stuff. I have a new mountain bike, remind me to tell you about it. The LOML lost a Birkenstock in a bog and we had to go wading in the freezing stinky gloop for it. But found it. I got a bit pissed in a succession of country pubs while looking for somewhere to get lunch after two o'clock ("While we're here, we might as well just have a beer they've got their own microbrewery look, we'll get some crisps to keep the kids happy, yes pint of Old Snatch Grabber two blackcurrant fruit shoots and half a lime and lemonade, please. What? <em>What?</em>"). Went from Pickering to Whitby on the chuffer train. Lost the kids for 40 minutes in Whitby. Panic? Me? Never. Went to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park to look at the Andy Goldsworthy stuff. Fabby.<br /><br />So, you'll have guessed, I am now back at work, which is why I am writing this and not actually doing anything proper. No change there then.<br /><br />Nice to be back though.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-78577515750138646362007-08-17T09:05:00.000+01:002007-08-17T09:29:08.802+01:00Wow. Hello!"Last updated on 23 February 2007".<br /><br />Ooops.<br /><br />Sorry.<br /><br />Bin busy, y'see.<br /><br />I have returned, obv., because I should be doing something else. In this case, finishing a drawing writing a specification taking the kids to the outlaws going into town for photocopying and the chemist and dog food changing the wheel on the caravan going to the bank printing and sending two reports to prospective clients phoning three existing clients and a contractor ... and so on. And this afternoon ... oh, I can procrastinate for Britain, me.<br /><br />I'm also going on my jollies on Sunday. (I know, just as soon as he gets back, he buggers off again). So if you see a retro-chic early 80s caravan trundling Midlands -> Yorkshire give us a wave. Back ten days or so afters.<br /><br />But rest assured, I'm still here and not at all dead. I'm very well, thanks for asking. Both our businesses (get us!) going well enough to pay t'bills, ta. Though sorting kids out on holidays is a chore.<br /><br />I'm still being irrationally irritated by trivial stuff. Like, ladies, wearing leggings is a privilege not a right. Puh-lease. Just turn round and look at your arse in the mirror and have an honest think about it. If the material is so stretched that you can tell what colour your pants are through the holes in the weave, then walk <em>away from the leggings</em>.<br /><br />Still, at least I don't have to sit on a train every day. Or clock in. Or do timesheets.<br /><br />Right. I'll just get a coffee. Then I need a poo. And then I'll get some work done.<br /><br />Definitely.<br /><br />Nice to talk to you all again.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-62459713907960337912007-02-23T11:38:00.000+00:002007-02-23T11:49:09.707+00:00Fucking OneTel geniusI have had no email since Tuesday. I am trying to run a business. This is not good.<br /><br />I rang the number. Talked to a nice person in India. The email will be down for another 24 hours maybe.<br />Where is my MAC code that I requested 10 days ago and should take 3 working days to provide?<br />I'll need to transfer you.<br />Please do so with all alacrity.<br />[Jennifer Rush singing The Power of Love right through twice...]<br />Another nice person in India. I'll do that for you it'll take 3 working days.<br />No. It should have been done already. 10 days ago.<br />I'll have to put you on hold while I check.<br />[Mariah Carey warbling some shit, I was distracted and didn't catch which song, they all sound the fucking same anyway]<br />Yes sir, we've generated it and sent it!<br />Good.<br />It was sent to [the LOML's email address] twice!<br />But, uh, wait for it ... the email's down ... and you knew that, hmmm?<br />Oh. Oh yes. It is.<br />So....?<br />[Brightly] Is there anything else I can help you with today?<br />[sigh] No. Thank you. Just send the MAC code again as soon as you can, please.<br />Is there any particular reason why you are transferring away from OneTel to another provider?<br />[has to put phone down due to fit of hysterical giggles]<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-86774976635073968802007-02-22T12:09:00.000+00:002007-02-22T12:18:34.981+00:00FucktardsHired a floor sander today to, uh, sand the floor. In the new shop. Couldn't get the old carpet tiles up along the stud wall that the previous tenant built across the back of the shop, in order to make a storeroom. Assumed they were trapped by the new skirting boards.<br /><br />Took off the skirting boards.<br /><br />Discovered that he had built the stud wall <em>on top of the carpet tiles.</em><br /><br />Genius.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-44258272207152268302007-02-17T11:21:00.000+00:002007-02-17T12:21:07.203+00:00Update update updateI am sitting typing on a keyboard which is balanced precariously on a pile of papers. I have a pile of rubber floor tile samples tottering at my elbow. I have a stack of insurance quotes on the floor next to my chair. I have a varied selection of usb leads snaking across the desk, in and out of the lots of piles of paper and three dirty coffee mugs and two cameras and one filofax and two tape measures and several stone samples and one glue stick and one pair of scissors and one hole punch and innumerable catalogues. I have another computer wedged against my knee because I have two, see, because I'm waiting for a new ISP provider to do a wireless home hub thing on the new one but I can't have one yet because the <em>fuckers</em> at OneTel still haven't send me my MAC code so I still have to do all my interweb stuff on the old one. So I have two keyboards and two mice and I keep using the wrong ones and I have to keep switching the blue screen connector back and forth. I cannot believe that I am still paying twenty five quid a month for half a meg of connection, just because I never got round to updating the broadband package more often.<br /><br />So, busy. And then I have to switch across to the new Blogger before I can post anything. Famous last words: it seems to have gone ok so far. <em>(*crouches down under desk, hands over ears, eyes screwed shut, waiting for incoming .... *).</em><br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />Ok. We seem to be ok.<br /><br />Coffee is, as usual, the answer. I anticipate gallons of it to come, as I design stuff for people during the day and paint a shop all evening, and think of things left to do all night.<br /><br />Nothing if not fulfilling.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1170413097554652782007-02-02T10:23:00.000+00:002007-02-02T10:44:57.956+00:00As promised<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Things:<br /></span></strong><br /><br /><br /><ul><li>Came back from the fabulous, beautiful <em>here</em>:<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6041/749/1600/RIMG0014.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6041/749/320/617739/RIMG0014.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></li></ul><p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />... and then the LOML (I'm blaming her) fell over and broke the new camera I took this on.<br /></p><ul><li>bought a new Dell, it's fabby (got 320gig of memory and dual core and dual DVD rewrite and flat screen and logitech fancy mouse and <em>stuff</em>)</li></ul><p>... but haven't sorted out the modem install so having to use the old one for t'internet for the moment, until I</p><ul><li>get a new faster broadband,</li></ul><p></p>... but this means changing my email addresses, including the one on here, and being offline for a week.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and</span> <strong>Stuff</strong>:</span><br /><br />BIG news: the LOML and I are starting a new business. Might explain the paucity of posts now and in the future, huh.<br /><br />Actually, it's more of an expansion of her current business. Rather than working privately, sort of from home, we're opening a shop in the village. It's only little, but it's <em>ours.</em> Now that I don't have the sads any more, all of a sudden I can actually work and help and everything. I was still working at eleven o'clock last night. Get me.<br /><br />So, I will try and post from the middle of a big pile of accountants and banks and printers and flooring contractors and shopfitters and all - and my business as well, of course. Which is very busy too, thanks for asking.<br /><br />But, laydeez an gennelmen, finally, I'm <em>happy.</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1170154680782553122007-01-30T10:55:00.000+00:002007-01-30T10:58:00.826+00:00BackSafe. No broken bones. Unlike my mate Tall Nick who's still in <em>hopital</em> in France with a broken pelvis. And two cracked neck vertebrae. That would spoil your week, wouldn't it? Skied into a rock, apparently.<br /><br />So. Busy. Back soon with more <em>things</em> and <em>stuff.</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1169117253611180222007-01-18T10:31:00.000+00:002007-01-18T11:14:52.973+00:00Meet the guest bloggerUh, am I on? Pardon? Hullo?<br /><br />Where? Oh. Hello. Nice to meet you all.<br /><br />I'm the guest blogger.<br /><br />My name's Malcolm. This is me:<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6041/749/1600/518983/RIMG0071.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6041/749/320/274398/RIMG0071.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I've lived with the man in a crisis for a long time. A long, <em>long, </em>time.<br /><br />He named me Malcolm. Not the most becoming name in the world, I don't suppose. Especially as I was named by accident.<br /><br />I suppose I should explain.<br /><br />It was one of those conversations shouted from room to room, between the crisis man and his wife.<br /><br />She: "Do you want another coffee?"<br /><br />He:"Of course, when do I ever not?"<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"YES!"<br /><br />"Which mug are you using?"<br /><br />"The green one with ridges"<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"The GREEN one with RIDGES"<br /><br />"The green what?"<br /><br />"MUG WITH RIDGES"<br /><br />She exited the kitchen and entered the living room at this point, and said: "Who's Muggeridges?"<br /><br />He replied, while watching the telly:"Hunh? What's Malcolm Muggeridge got to do with anything?"<br /><br />And so Malcolm I became, and remain.<br /><br />He mentions this story to guests sometimes. They usually look at him funny.<br /><br />Occasionally they ask: "So, have all your mugs got names?"<br /><br />He replies: "Don't be stupid, they're just <em>mugs."</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1169116292282669612007-01-18T10:25:00.000+00:002007-01-18T10:31:32.303+00:00Haiku prize time!Can't decide between Surly and I,TLV, so well done to both joint winners.<br /><br />And a grateful highly commended to Jas and Lippy for their efforts; well done all!<br /><br />Now I have the problem of awarding a virtual prize. If I was organized I would have thought of this already, but I'm not and I haven't.<br /><br />*virtual hug and virtual air kiss while the audience applauds and I try and think of something*<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1168513423218404132007-01-11T10:25:00.000+00:002007-01-11T11:17:55.336+00:00Haiku New Year!I just very nearly wrote a post about how nobody loves me and nobody visits any more and even fewer bother to comment and and and. I called my readers 'poppet' and said they weren't pulling their weight because I was visiting them and they weren't visiting me, and how I was upset about it.<br /><br />How crass would that have been? Whew, close one. Narrow shave for all of us. The hand, feeds, that, bite, never, you: all that.<br /><br />Righto. As you were.<br /><br />Isn't the weather <em>shit </em>today? I'm worried that my precious, cherished satellite dish is going to plunge off the upstairs wall, cos the pointing on the brickwork up there isn't all it might be. I must get round to fixing that one day. What would I do if that happened? I'd have to read a book, or even talk to people. Or play a game.<br /><br />*shudder*<br /><br />So anyway, to the topic in hand.<br /><br />I realise that I've sort of forgotten to menshun New Yr. Do you really want to hear about it now? It seems so long ago, doesn't it? Not really very interested now, I expect?<br /><br />So, in order to be as entertaining as possible, very brief highlights in the form of .... haiku!<br /><br />Feel free to play along! Remember, strictly 5,7,5 syllables!<br /><br />Here are my first efforts, and I reserve the right to do some more later.<br /><br />Champagne blind tasting<br />Is a good game for New Year<br />Fourteen is too much.<br /><br />Do karaoke!<br />Unless you really can't sing<br />Like me and Nigel.<br /><br />Go up to your bed<br />Early if you aren't worried<br />We will laugh at you.<br /><br />Make sure the children<br />Don't stay up long after twelve<br />It will all go tits.<br /><br />I will give a virtual prize for the best effort in the comments! Go on, join in!<br /><br /><br />*Update! This is the second effort, once I realised that haiku is 5,7,5 not 5,9,5. Duh. But see how cleverly I have edited all my efforts to fit the correct pattern!*<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1168436070073200442007-01-10T13:09:00.000+00:002007-01-10T13:34:30.096+00:00ElectronicsI am drowning in electronic technology today. My office looks like an explosion in a spaghetti factory. If spaghetti were a bit thicker and black or grey or off-white. Oh, hang on, it is off-white. It doesn't have little digital black writing on it though, or stickers telling you how to wire a plug. Uh, metaphor too far? Thought so. Carry on. <br /><br />As well as the PC, I have a new digickal camera plugged in. And a USB hub, a joystick for Child One, a printer/scanner/copier, a broadband modem, a screen, and a cordless keyboard. A phone/fax. A desklight. A fan heater for when it gets cold cos the heating is turned off during the day. And a new digickal palmcorder with which I will be recording myself skiing* in a Graham Bell off of Ski Sunday stylee. I dread sorting it all out because I am also thinking very seriously about upgrading the old PC upon which I am writing this. I am very short of memory - and in the PC too, it's my age (Ithangyoo). Are Dell any good? I seem to be able to get a very nice shiny bit of kit with more memory than I know what to do with and a flat monitor and all sorts of nice gubbins for not many pounds, shillings and pence.<br /><br />It has now occurred to me that I must be very careful to remain strictly anonymous today: new electronic kit + going on holiday = burglars' paradise. But AHA! I mock your stupidity, Mr Burglar! Because I am taking it all with me! See how clever I am! Except the PC. But I haven't got the new one yet so AHA again! Well, I'm actually just taking the cameras, but even a stupid Mr Burglar wouldn't try and work out whom I am just for a USB hub and a joystick, shurely?<br /><br />Actually, I think your average burglar would be too stupid to try and work out who I am by going through all the posts and adding up all the clues. I don't think <em>anyone</em> could do that. I may be wrong, and this is strictly <strong>not </strong>a challenge to try. Honest. Don't go working it out and putting it in the comments while I'm away. Please. That would be horrid of you.<br /><br />I'll put the alarm on, anyway. And Next Door is a big chap and he knows I'm going away. I do the same for him when he goes.<br /><br />Shit.<br /><br />I'm going to worry now.<br /><br /><br />*I'm going skiing, did I mention?<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1168003031306749212007-01-05T12:50:00.000+00:002007-01-05T13:17:11.456+00:00Late ChristmasWhat do you reckon to my chances of fooling all my family and friends into thinking that Christmas is actually a few days later next year?<br /><br />So I can, urm, do all my shopping in the sales?<br /><br />I didn't get all that much cool stuff for Christmas - the LOML got me some nice things, but the best of the rest was the shiny palmcorder that I bought for myself. I got money, that's always welcome, but maybe a bit unimaginative. Am I being ungrateful?<br /><br />My brother wins the shittest Christmas present prize for the eleventy-twelveth year straight. To add to previous years' hand-painted brace of enamel mugs, <em>a la</em> narrowboat-gypsy-chic stylee, which can't be put in the dishwasher and burn the crap out of your hand if you actually put a hot drink in them; a plastic modular tool shelf out of a catalogue (probably Pikeys-R-Us, or Sad-Act-With-No-Life-Savings-Club 1978) which was a lump of grey and red plastic with odd shaped holes in it; a hardback book on Monster Trucks, aimed at an educationally subnormal fourteen year old, which I received in my thirties; we can now add a 'build-your-own-cardboard-puzzle-skyscraper-lamp'. Which is a vaguely jigsawy-construction square carboard box about two feet high with pictures of four different skyscrapers on the sides. With a lamp socket in the bottom (bulb not included). Which is <em>just</em> what a civilised, erudite, cultured, educated, professional* forty year old father of two** had put just <em>right</em> at the top of his list from Santa.<br /><br />For fuck's sake. <em>And</em> I had to smile and say oh how lovely we'll have fun making that up and once it's finished it'll be so useful as well how thoughtful.<br /><br />The LOML got a infinity reflecting tealight set. Which is four tealights in a stand with a wonky mirror so it looks like a line of tealights going on for ever. If you bend right down to look into it. I think it might be in the dustbin already.<br /><br />So, all in all, I was delighted when the LOML announced that she was going with her chums to Next at half four in the morning. I was still in bed, with a coffee, when she got back and we had Chrstmas all over again. Five pairs of jeans (only two going back) three smart stripey shirts to be worn untucked in a slightly taller Richard Hammond stylee, pants, socks, tank top (which are apparently trendy again, had you heard?) jumper. Ace. Better than the day itself.<br /><br />And <em>then</em> we had a morning without the kids taking a few bits back to Marks' and I managed to get a couple of fab jumpers in the surfy snowboardy shop sales. They're ace too. They'll be brilliant for wearing around the resort when we go skiing.<br /><br />We're going skiing in a couple of weeks. Did I mention? I'm dead excited. I reserve the right to mention this again, by the way. Probably lots. And lots.<br /><br /><br /><br />*This is of course all a matter of opinion. It's my opinion and I'm right. Shut up.<br />**This bit is a matter of fact, however. Unfortunately.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1167819957386090772007-01-03T10:15:00.000+00:002007-01-03T10:25:57.423+00:00Is that it?Is it done and over? Christmas, I mean? And New Year, and all?<br /><br />Do we just have to go back to work (in a new shirt) now?<br /><br />Is that the only difference between before-Christmas and after-Christmas - a new shirt? With a red dot on the label?<br /><br />Oh.<br /><br />OK.<br /><br /><br />----------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><br /><br />In other news, I have discovered that Christmas is the time of sharp things. My Japanese carving knife, lovingly <em>snicked</em> and <em>whished</em> up and down the whetstone was as sharp as a razor. The tip of the mother in law's third finger found this out when it was lurking in the bottom the washing up. It was still bleeding on Boxing Day. The LOML's tongue was quite sharp at about that time.<br /><br />But not as sharp as the little-icky-bit of turkey drumstick sinew* that somehow found its way through the entire stock-boiling-and-soup-cooking-and-liquidising process, right to its conclusion firmly impaled in the roof of my mouth. Ouchy. <br /><br /><br />*Seriously, what is that made out of? Surely they can make some sort of new super sharp but flexible material out of it, like Teflon or Kevlar or something? It's <em>indestructible.</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1166877656464644352006-12-23T12:14:00.000+00:002006-12-23T12:41:51.816+00:00Dads, toilets; effects of.NOTE: apologies for the inevitably rather personal toilety nature of this. If you don't like poo, skip it.<br /><br /><a href="http://smaller-than-life.blogspot.com/2006/12/shower-scene.html">Something Salvadore was saying</a> made me think about my childhood and perhaps some reason why I used to be a bit weird.<br /><br />The fact is this: my father, bless him, does not admit to going to the toilet. At all. He will not talk about it to anyone other than my mother. And if he <em>is</em> on the toilet, he will pretend he isn't.<br /><br />I lost count of the number of times I would wander the house as a small child calling "Dad! Dad? Where are you?" I would call out right outside the toilet door, and he would remain stoically silent. Doing his own scatalogical version of "La la la I can't hear you". He is paranoid too about toilet <em>noises</em>. He will cough and harrumph and try and ensure that no-one is nearby before sneaking away to the loo. I inherited this to an extent. I mean, I wouldn't pretend not to be there, but in public I still didn't like making noises. I learned to time an, ah, <em>noise </em>perfectly with another toilet flushing, or the hand-dryer going. Which is a bit weird. But understandable, given the inheritance.<br /><br />When I got together with the LOML she was my first live-together partner. Her family are absolutely the opposite. Whereas all bathroom and toilet doors in my house were resolutely locked as a matter of course, hers didn't even <em>have</em> locks. In our first flat, she would sit there with the door open, chatting to me while wiping her arse. At the time, I was shocked by this, but, being (a) English, (b) a chap and (c) trying hard to be a good boyfriend/flatmate, tried not to show it.<br /><br />Being a self analytical sort of bloke, I hope, I recognised that when we had children hers was probably a more healthy way of approaching matters than the rigid repression of the issue that my family displayed. It took a while, but I got used to it, and my children now have the uninhibited approach of the LOML. Which I generally think is a Good Thing.<br /><br />I still can't watch any of them wiping their arse though. That's <em>disgusting.</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1166788441147039672006-12-22T11:18:00.000+00:002006-12-22T11:54:01.276+00:00Oh, just jumping from subject to subject againI got up feeling pretty good today.<br /><br />That's probably one of the biggest turn off lines for the beginning of a blog entry, isn't it? It would usually be followed by " ... but then I went to class and jamelia is like she heard that brad has been saying things behind my back about how he likes britney better and he is just so fake and so i said so i care why? and she said you so do and i said i so do not but really i do because i think i love him he is just so gorgeous and now i dont know what to do ..."<br /><br />Phew. Glad it's not a blog like that then.<br /><br />Instead, it's the sort of blog that <span style="font-size:130%;">WHAM!, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">out of nowhere, suddenly asks: "whatever happened to powdered coffee?"</span><br /><br />And come to that, gravy powder?<br /><br />I can remember a time when instant coffee was powder. Then, some bright spark invented granules, and for a while you could buy both, except I think the granules were a teeny bit more expensive. And I've now realised that in the mainstream supermarkets* you can't buy powder any more, and I suspect that you haven't been able to for a long time.<br /><br />The thing that I can't quite get: what is so much more appetising about a granule than a powder? I mean, I'm sure a granule is actually just powder in flocculated lumps - which means they've had to make the powder first, and then treat it to granule it up. Which makes it, logically, even more processed? (I suppose it could be the other way round: they used to grind up granules to make powder, but I don't think so).<br /><br />Is it that coffee powder looks a bit, well, chemically? Nature doesn't make food in powders, I suppose, so granular food maybe looks a bit more appetising. And a slightly darker colour, less, well, shit-coloured. But you really wouldn't have thought that this was enough to do away with powder altogether, would you? I mean, you can't get curry granules (this is now my idea and you can't nick it and I may make my fortune in curry granules so there) or custard granules (ditto) or instant soup granules (ditto), can you?<br /><br />Consumers are strange.<br /><br />Aren't we?<br /><br />In other news, the LOML voted for Mark Ramprakash on Strictly Come Dancing last week. I fear for her.<br /><br />Talking of which, Matt Dawson is becoming a right meeja whore, isn't he? I mean, respect for the William Webb Ellis trophy and all that, but the insidious rise into the rarified heights of famous-for-being-famousness is noticeable. It started reasonably enough - Question of Sport is a solid, sensible sort of place for a successful rugby ex. One Jordan out of ten, say. Slightly weird move up to win Sleb Master Chef, mmm, maybe three Jordans, and then all of sudden prancing round in sparkly kecks and unfeasibly shiny shoes for Brucey and Vernon Kay's missus. A full eight Jordans out of ten. Any guesses on where he's going next? Jeez. I wish I had his bank balance, though, huh. He might be desperate for the money, I suppose. Maybe he's got a ferocious crack habit or a massive gambling debt with the Triads.**<br /><br />Merry stuff to you and yours, anyhow. See you soon.<br /><br /><br />*I'm far too middly classy to go to Aldi or Lidl. I'm sure you understand.<br />**I said 'maybe'. This is therefore not an allegation of any sort, I don't think. So don't sue. Please.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1166610868543013772006-12-20T10:22:00.000+00:002006-12-20T10:34:28.560+00:00School, Christmas, What?Child Two came home with a note in her lunchbag yesterday, informing us that they are having a Christmas-themed lunch today and could they bring in Christmas-themed food, please. You know, chipolatas (huh?), Christmas-tree shaped sandwiches, and so on.<br /><br />Of course, we have the time to make fucking Christmas-tree shaped sandwiches. We have nothing at all better to do. But, fearing the approbrium of the teachers and the vilification from her classmates, out came the biscuit cutters (I refuse to call them 'cookie cutters', even if they are), and we now have a whole load of pieces of bread with star-shaped holes in them all over the breadboard. I'm not fucking eating them. So they'll be wasted on the dog. Thanks, school.<br /><br />We* went as far as wrapping last-night's last remaining sausage in greaseproof paper, like a cracker, and sticking a purple Quality Street wrapper on it. No-one will fucking out-Christmas-themed-dinner-us.<br /><br />The LOML put in some cherry tomatoes, and told Child Two that they were Rudolph's red noses. And then suggested that if she didn't want all of them, she should just pick at them. I haughtily informed her that it was far too early in the morning for that sort of humour and went to drink coffee in the bathroom.<br /><br /><br />*All right, the LOML. I watched helpfully, though.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1166443595532115332006-12-18T11:39:00.000+00:002006-12-18T12:06:37.560+00:00More new me stuffOr, return to the old me stuff. Not sure which.<br /><br />I have a new hairstyle*. This is, I'll agree, not world-shattering. But it is <em>symptomatic</em> of new good-feely me. You will note that I have not put 'haircut', but 'hair<em>style</em>'. I went to the new posh hair and beauty place in the village, and had a proper <em>consultation</em> with the FullOfHimself Hairdresser. Nice chap, but you know, uh, a bit, how can I put it, full of himself. Anyhoo, I've had long hair before (looooong hair, like a Pantene model, with boswelox, etc). But this was 20 years ago. I have had short hair (grade 1 short, like Grant and /or, indeed, Phil, Mitchell. Off that there EastEnders. Except all over my head, not just round the sides with just skin on top, like a bald person. Do not get the impression I am bald, because it would be very very incorrect. And I might get Upset. Because I like Not Being Bald).<br /><br />Over the last few years I've had the standard Grade 2 up the back and sides and bit longer on top thing. With a bit of gel in. Which is just the same as just about every chap had. And the new me is bored of this. So, as I hadn't been for a cut for a while (too busy licking windows), the old hair had got a bit longer. I thought maybe it had <em>potential.</em><br /><br />So, the FullOfHimself Hairdresser messed round with it, and we had that slightly weird talking to each other in the mirror conversation: "what about a quiff?", (er, no), "big hair is in at the moment, surf style, you know, like <em>undeconstructed</em>", (ok), "you've got enough length here to do something with now, it's got potential", (thought so).<br /><br />So, eighteen quid, a free latte, a smidgen of wax, and half an hour later, I have deconstructed choppy, sticky-uppy surf-style hair. I really like it. It makes me look younger. The kids like it, at least once I had drawn their attention to it, as of course they didn't notice at first. The LOML thinks she likes it, it's all just a bit new at the moment. Because of that and the new jumper I went and bought (it's got grey and brown horizontal stripes, and I went and bought it without spousal sartorial advice. This is a bit of a new me change too. And no, it doesn't make me look fat. Despite any actual physical appearance to the contrary. La la laaa I can't hear you. Denial is a river in Egypt).<br /><br />What's next for the new me, I wonder? Don't know yet, but you'll be the first** people I share it with.<br /><br /><br /><br />* I wrote 'haristle' first by mistake. An interesting typo. What would a haristle be? Long and detailed, like an epistle? Or short and attention-grabbing, like a whistle?<br /><br />**Ahh, second. After the LOML. Uh, and my kids. And my mates, probably. But next after that, definitely. Absolutely.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1166093846249941532006-12-14T10:33:00.000+00:002006-12-14T10:58:56.686+00:00Better? You decide. Aha.Good mornin'. Hullo.<br /><br />Triumphantly, I return.<br /><br />Not just to blogging, aha, but to normal life. Saved, in so many ways, by forty milligrammes a day of Citalopram. Huzzah, hooray [celebratory noises off].<br /><br />Now, and I am sure you will agree, we soooo do not want this to turn into a mental-health bore blog; let's just take my ascent from, three weeks ago, sitting rocking in the foetal position in a darkened room like a full-blown window-licking mentalist, to my now utterly normal* rugby-playing, hard-working*, cheerful, energetic husband and father of two as read, shall we, and say no more about it?**<br /><br />I have shit-loads, <em>fuck-loads,</em> of work to catch up on, and the LOML is also in her busiest time of year (she does stuff to do with Christmas, y'see), so do not expect torrents, floods, nay froths of posts in the coming days.<br /><br />But I just wanted to say thanks, like, for the good wishes. Cheers, guys.<br /><br />And vote for JonnyB <a href="http://2006.weblogawards.org/2006/12/best_uk_blog.php">here</a> for a Weblog Award, largely for the huge amusement of the main opposition, a duuuuuuuull EU Referendum blog, giving it loads and loads about how important it was that 'little Norfolk blogs' aren't given awards because theirs is obviously so much more important and interesting (it isn't), while they were winning - and then all mention of the award strangely disappears completely when the JonnyB massive gets its juggernaut rolling and overtakes. I laughed a lot. A <em>lot.</em><br /><br />And, shit, while you're at it, why not vote for me <a href="http://insignificant-awards.blogspot.com/">here</a> for an Insignificant Award. I nominated my-fucking-self, and why not. Assuming my nomination makes it out of the comments and onto the main page, of course. Fuck, vote for me anyway. Nominate me again. Whatever. See how confident and arrogant I have become? Insufferable, isn't it?<br /><br />You'll be wanting the window-licker back sooner than you think.<br /><br /><br /><br />*all right, this may not be entirely true<br />**this sentence may hold my new record for the greatest number of clauses.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1163071961361829342006-11-09T11:03:00.000+00:002006-11-09T11:32:46.946+00:00Ok, life change timeI have a post saved as draft, written recently, which says, in summary, I'm not blogging any more because I can't be bothered.<br /><br />What this actually means is that I think I can't be bothered to do anything much. Because I am a profoundly lazy person.<br /><br />This is profoundly mistaken.<br /><br />I absolutely <em>can</em> be bothered. Inside, I'm trying with all my might - the usual swan analogy comes to mind. My little mental legs are paddling away like a paddling fast thing, but on the surface, serenity. No apparent effort. No apparent emotion. All is concealed, all is hidden. All is pretend.<br /><br />So, finally, and I genuinely don't know why this has taken so long, I have recognised that this is not normal (though of course it is to <em>me</em>, I've been like this literally all my life that I can remember) and been to see the very nice doctor who I know a bit socially in the village, and told him everything. Honestly. About how I just want to stay in bed. And how I lie sometimes to my clients about how I'm going to be late because I've been so busy when what I've been really doing is watching telly. About the guilt and the anxiety. And so on. I filled a sheet of A4 with bullet points of problems, and made sure I mentioned them all.<br /><br />And he said to me some words which I guess are going to go down as a turning point. He said "You have chronic, moderate and sometimes severe clinical depression. It sounds as if you have had it more or less constantly since you were a child. And I can make you better".<br /><br />I'm finally, at forty years old, being assessed properly, and I will be taking some medication to do the serotonin inhibitor uptake suppression* thing, and once we have got the drug choice and dosage right he promises I will, finally, feel ok. I may end up talking to someone professional as well, and that will help me feel ok too.<br /><br />So, with all this to look forward to, I am now over the fact that I am such a minor blogger that I wasn't invited to <a href="http://abeautifulrevolution.typepad.com/andre">andre's party</a>. Lots of <a href="http://jonnybillericay.blogspot.com/">other famous bloggers</a> have been going on about it, and the comments pages are full of what a nice time they had. All written in witty, succinct style, obv. But now that I can see the light ahead, I can realise that my sulk about this the other day - yes, I really did - is utterly, utterly, ridiculous, and apologise to all concerned for even thinking about putting snotty comment on your pages. Sorry. And perhaps, when I'm better, I will have finally the energy and creativity to make this blog more famous. And I will invite you all to <em>my</em> party. And genuinely expect you to come.<br /><br /><br /><br />*I think you'll find that this <em>is</em> the correct medical term. Shut <em>up. </em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://abeautifulrevolution.typepad.com/andre/"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19622988.post-1162561786653418412006-11-03T13:06:00.000+00:002006-11-03T13:49:46.850+00:00The one where my true character emergesI was chatting to someone in the pub the other day. They* will have to remain nameless, because I am going to be nasty about them. I hope they don't read this.<br /><br />They said "We were at a dinner party and when the conversation lagged a bit someone said 'Can you name three famous Belgians?' and it was terribly funny because do you know <em>nobody could</em> I mean the best we could come up with was Hercule Poirot but he's fictional and anyway I'm sure he's French** and can you believe that a whole European country hasn't got a single famous person in it? I mean, can you? Mmm?"<br /><br />I had choices here.<br /><br />I could have lied completely, and given it the whole oh-how-terribly-amusing-no-now-you-come-to-think-of-it-I-can't-think-of-any-famous-Belgians-<em>at-all-</em>how-strange-anyway-do-you-want-another-g-and-t?<br /><br />But that would have been lying, so I didn't do that. That's not in my character.<br /><br />I could have gone down the oh-for-fuck's-sake-not-that-stupid-fucking-unintellectual-eighties-yuppie-game-you're-twenty-years-out-of-date-you-<em>utter</em>-fucktard.<br /><br />But that would have been terribly rude, so I didn't do that. That's not in my character either.<br /><br />What I did do:<br /><br />"Mmmm. What about that bloke who kidnapped little girls and kept them in his cellar and abused them and left them to die and stuff? Marc Dutroux. He's famous. I've heard of him. Didn't he escape from a police station and the Minister of Justice had to resign? That's one.<br />"Oh, and what about Eddie Merckxx? Apart from having the hardest name in the world to spell, possibly, he was a famous cyclist. When I was a kid I had a racing bike endorsed with his name. That's two.<br />"I know a third, as well. Jan van Eyck. He was a painter. Fifteenth century I think. He was about the first to master painting in oils. Did lots of religious stuff. Of course, technically, he was Flemish and that was part of the Holy Roman Empire then but it's in Belgium <em>now</em> and that's what counts. What do you mean, no it doesn't? That's like saying that King Arthur wasn't English, assuming he existed at all. England certainly didn't then. Exist, I mean.<br />"Oh all right then, another. What about Jean-Marc Bosman, he of the football transfer test case? Belgian. Justine Henin-Ardenne, tennis top ten. Come to that, Kim Klijsters, ditto. Oooh, and Thierry Boutson, who was an F1 driver. And Jacky Ickx, come to that. Hieronymous Bosch. Though I suppose the Flemish pre-Belgian thing applies to him too. And to Peter Breughel. And Rubens. I can have Magritte though, he was twentieth century. Plastic Bertrand? Sang 'Ca Plane Pour Moi' in the seventies. Oooh, talking of music, guess what nationality Django Reinhardt was? Correct-a-mundo. Did I mention Jean-Claude van Damme? Didn't think so. Hmmm. I think that's about all I can think of at the moment. How many was that?"<br /><br />That was smug and know-it-all in the extreme. And that was <em>absolutely</em> in my character.<br /><br />*Note how I have cleverly concealed their gender by using the third person.<br />**Whoever said this is marginally better informed than my conversation partner, as M. Poirot, though fictional, is a fictional Belgian. You, dear reader, being a well-informed person, will already know this. Tintin is too.<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) copyright mark 2005 and subsequently. This is my blog, I own it, so don't
nick it. As if it would be worth nicking. Who am I trying to kid. Oh well, don't, anyway.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1