Christmas

I had a wonderful Christmas with Sparkling Beautiful Eyes and Rock Chick. And for some reason I have been reminded on how my hormones effect me lately. Any silly soppy thing results in my eyes welling up, I choke and even tears come. It has to be hormonal, starting maybe a year ago or more, when a repeat of E.T. was on the box. What the hell is happening to me? I have difficulty in keeping these emotions in check, it’s like old father Crimbo came down and bestowed upon the freedom to cry at anything. At which I’ve become a whimpering wreck. Even worse than an old woman – not to be sexist in anyway. So, it can be said “men have tears to” except I probably have enough for an entire rugby team. Not to mention the subs, and perhaps even the national footy team. Maybe not, because they really are a load of Jessies.

Rock Chick had a drum set for her Crimbo and about a thousand smaller presents. Although the idea of any teenager having a drum set is distressing, she does have a sparkle of talent. Unless it becomes another little fad thing picked up and put back down as a minor interest, she could be a very budding drummer. I mean it. I can see bands in Dundee seeking her out. I’ll post up a couple of extra packets of paracetemal to Sparkling Eyes. With my love, sealed in a tear of relief. Rock Chick was good though, not one morning was I woken up by a burst on the drums. Very considerate. Must be something coinciding with her 2 a.m. bedtime routine.

There’s something wonderful in going to bed with Sparkling Eyes and just having a good long cuddle. Being able to reach over and just rest a hand on her and feel comfortable, warm and loved. It’s relaxing. Also to be on demand for feet rubs, back tickles and being prodded and made fun off like a voodoo doll. Bliss. It’s chilling. Having long conversations sometimes about nothing, sometimes about the most important things in the world – other people. When I need some comfort, I’ll just think back to this Crimbo with Sparkling Eyes and small moments will return to me like morsels of food to a very hungry man. What the hell do I do about the tears? Maybe get a drum kit. Some paracetmal, and a picture of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. What more could make me happier? Hankerchief.

Booking a Ticket

An act of desperation is booking a train ticket on the internet. Although easy enough, completing the screens and following instructions at the last moment I found something amiss.

Usually I prefer speaking to a human being. For some reason it’s nice, real people are different as opposed to automatic booking lines which work through speech recognition. Computers dehumanise the customer. They can’t answer questions either. Particularly simple questions, like “what are my earlier or later trains? What’s the cheapest ticket? And “tell me the way to San Jose?” You can’t joke with a computer. They are insensitive, autistic things. Cold, and likely to make humans hot, raging hot. How much joy it would give me to see a computer bungee jump without the rope. Microsoft have a lot to answer for.

I booked the ticket but only checked it the day before travel. Just to make sure I knew the coach and seat I would have to find. Alarm bells rang. I had “NO SEAT” reserved. It actually stated on the ticket “NO SEAT.” This could mean enduring a 6 hour plus journey standing up. Because London airports were fogged in over the last few days no internal flights were being allowed to run. This meant 100,000s of people were unable to board the plane so were taking the alternative rail and road. My liking for computers the internet

In addition the Home Secretary made an announcement the UK was now more likely to have a terrorist attack during this time than during the second World War. My comfort zone of security evaporated, a booked seat was banished. Paranoia had become a bed fellow. Unfortunately she has the habit of giving a pretty close hug as well. Sparkling Eyes was going to be more than unhappy if I was not there. I would be dead and the thing is I like my life. Especially with sparkling eyes. Alive or dead, terrorists, reserved seat and computer booking line, something had my cards marked.

Ringing up the help line I spoke to an Indian lady, whose name escaped me, not only did it escape me it flew away like an albatross on an ocean journey. Neither was it going to come back, the pronunciation was foreign to my own tongue. This could only be someone in a call centre half way around the world. A short and frustrated discussion took place, this person did not understand, I wanted a reserved seat, nor could she understand I needed to know what carriage to get on, her reply several times was “there are unreserved seats on all trains.” When I asked her about Heathrow and whether there would be more trains running, the sense I was speaking Swahili to her passed my mind. No this was the UK and I was born in a London Hospital.

The morning came and the train tested how fast I could run, it tested 200 people, we ran like crazed rabbits on LSD, seeing multiple greyhounds chase after our fluffy white tails. I got a seat. Learnt to dance, starved myself of lunch except for a packet of cashew nuts. Had a conversation with an elderly lady, learnt to speak Japanese and then woke up. The hours passed, I then got on a pc and wrote this BLOG. As for fantasies of bungee jumping pc’s now that would be a good way to put Microsoft out of action. But not just yet I’d settle for bungee-jumping-factory-hen-call-centre-not-good-english-speaker to go for a little long-high-drop no garantees of the bungee rope, of course also made in the same continent.

Westminster Abbey and Cathedral

Today I went with some friends to see Westminster Abbey and Westminster Cathedral. One was built for protestants the other for Catholics. As a protestant Church of England not much of a goer, my view is obviously biased to Westminster Abbey. However, the Abbey is more expensive to get into, I was shafted for £10 quid before I'd even had a whiff of some incense. And to tell the truth there wasn't any incense burning either. However, I consoled myself the money I paid was going on the heating, it was blooming cold outside. The ceiling were incredibly high about 4 or 5 double decker buses high or maybe even higher. But it sure is a beautiful church. Except for all the kings and queens. Too many of them and they weren't burried in the floor so you didn't get the satisfaction of walking over them.

I found the story of poor old Oliver Cromwell interesting, and couldn't help wondering if he was one of the first real communists of this world. It saddened me to find he had been buried in the church for only 3 years and then they dug up his rotted carcass and hung it. It was a belated revenge for what he did. Personally, I'd just like the idea of getting rid of the monarchy so much, it's one of those things I will hold with me all my life, and I'm not a commy. If I could go back in time, I'd be fighting for Cromwell and I'd probably give him some advised to kill off all the remaining Kings and Queens and royal lineage. Make the country a republic. It's just obscene how royalty should own so much of the country, take so much of our taxes and not have the hard graft of life like the average Joe in the street. I'd see the queen go and collect her pension from the post office, then for her to pick up the crap from one of her own corgis and later balance her own bank account to see if she's got enough money to pay her winter gas bill. It's a chip on my shoulder, a big one. One so big sometimes I fall over, can't get through doorways or have to spew forth a torrent of abuse at any royal figure of speach. You'll never see a royal cued on an NHS waiting list that's for sure.

As for Catholics, I must admit I do have some catholic friends, but I've never liked the way the Catholic religion sees itself above other religions. To an extent the same thing is happening now in Iraq with the Muslim Sunni and Shia branches, each killing the other. If Jesus Christ ever conceived religion would be one of the causes of the worlds deaths, he'd of probably gone back to his old man and said, "dad I've had enough of that, give us a bit of wood, I think I'll stick to making cupboards." We all need a good carpenter, very useful, much more useful than a sitting on thrown useless piece of flesh called a monarch. The other side to it is monarchs can not be Catholics even today because of some Act in 1701. Now here's an idea lets abolish both at the same time. Ship them all over to America. It's about time we shipped some of our crap over there, because after all lets face it Blair does an overwhelmingly good Bitch to Bush Act. Whatever Bush says Blair does. He's jumped through so many hoops for Bush he's become pretty good at it. We all see it now. Anyone in the UK I mean. Blair will go out with nearly as much distaste as Evil Maggie Thatcher did. Except Blair's downfall was the big Con of the UK, suckeringg us into Bush's War. Bloody soap box, I'll fall through it if I keep going on.

So if you fancy somewhere warm in London during the cold weather, check out Westminster Abbey except for the cost. Now what I wonder is, if there's no God can I go back and get a refund?

Irish Coffee

It's said patience is a virtue, something quite necessary when trying to understand a teenager, understanding any minute facet of the universe and lastly in making an Irish Coffee.

I had this hankering like an itch on my back I haven't been able to scratch. I been reaching round, contorting my arm and hand in all sorts of positions but just have not been able to scratch it. This notion is making my own Irish Coffee. The weather is cold, Christmas is round the corner like a lynx cat about to pounce on it's prey and here I am standing in the snow, wind chill factor of minus 30 with a grocery bag full of ingredients to the perfect winter warmer. Besides of course a hot woman, for now it's an Irish Coffee. Except I hadn't bought real Irish Whiskey, but I thought well it's not really going to matter if it's really Irish or not. Oh and the cream was single, not the thicker double.

The attempt failed, but it didn't stop me from trying. I just could not get the cream to float on top. It was worse than the titanic. Immediately it touched the top it sank down like it had it's very own escalator to the bottom of the glass. But it tasted nice. Well nice ish. To the extent I don't have the real satisfaction of saying I have succeeded in making a true Irish Coffee. Just the second class version. So now I've done a little research and have a few tips to apply next time. Use whipped cream, or cream with a lot of fluffy texture to it, make sure the spoon is hot and of course there must be sugar in the coffee. Like Thomas Edision who believed every mistake he made brought him one step closer to success. So it will be with my Irish Coffee.

Even now I can see the coffee in my mind and what it should look like. Hot, sweet floading on top with cream, and a very nice taste. I wonder if it was the reason for the titanic sinking, the engineers just didn't factor in the Irish Coffee effect. Because all these attempts are going to have one guaranteed effect on me, an expansion of my girth. Memo to self, if this becomes an obsession I had better do some more clothes shopping.

Noise

One thing frustrates me when I am at work or trying to concentrate on something at all, is noise. People chattering inanely about subjects, as close as you can get to watching paint dry. In the meantime having no consideration to those around them who may not want to listen and get on with work. Namely me. Perhaps I have a sensitivity to it, just something I've been unfortunately cursed with, how can I lift the curse I ask myself.

I try everything possible to make it obvious, stick my fingers in ears while sitting at desk trying to read the monitor. But the talkers don't seem to notice this, it's like they not only don't give a damn about their verbal diarrhea but also they've gone blind, as well as autistic. I go to the shops and get a frequent supply of ear plugs. Bright orange foam things they are, and in the worse moments I get my ear plugs in, roll them up squeeze them and stuff them in my ears. As the foam expands they filter out some of the din. But it's like the human voice is processed too well by the brain, because I still hear them. I can't get the voices out of my head. They're not in my head, they're in the mouths and the heads of those around me who can't shut up. How they could all do with a Willy Wonker everlasting Gobbstopper methinks.

So people sitting around me dictate how much work I do. My in tray gets bigger. I get more stressed, and they carry on chatting. I could go absolutely crazy.

More and more I notice how noise impinges on my senses. Just getting up in the morning and going to work, the noise of cars, busses, trains, people talking loudly on their mobile phones, youths with music on the mobiles playing enough to be annoying because you just can't work out what the music is. Sometimes when they do this I may loudly hum along to their music, so they might feel uncool. And of course the banal conversation of people who have nothing better to do but moan about the price of bread. At times like this I could take out my mobile phone and talk loudly, swear, or talk as though I have something important they might be interested in, for example the price of flour makes the price of bread go up but I'm a chemical engineer and we've found substitute flour works just as well. But unfortunately let it out trials of the substitute flour tested on volunteers have made them run round naked and think they were DoDo birds. Just make up any story, as long as I'm talking loud and drown out their inane chatter. And of course I'm talking to no one, but they are not to know.

Noise pollution is something no one can get away from. It is forced upon us, there is no shutter like an eyelid to pull down and keep it out. The only time it goes away is when asleep or in a quiet place, preferably with few people.

So next week I am going to have a party for one. Sit at my desk, sing to myself, chat to myself quite loudly and openly and answer myself. Shout, cry, ball, laugh uncontrollably act in a strange and unormal fashion. And with a little luck, I just might make those people around think I am mad or possibly dangerous to the extent they shut up. Thing is, the men in white coats will come along and drag me off, not because I'm disturbing the peace because there never is any peace but most likely because whatever one sided conversation I'm having is more interesting than those 2 or more people have. Or just maybe they'll find a nice quite room for me.

Catcher in the Rye

For some reason classic literary style books catch my attention. Because if the world says they are a classic then there must be some reason. Something about the author's style, the vocabulary, the story, or even possibly the construction of the English language in words. Although it would seem English is not the world's most spoken language, it just happens to have the most literary sources at this moment. A 100 billion Chinese people will shortly do something about it, mark my words. So for now my choice of classic book is Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, it's American English, not English English.

I am finding it a struggle to read. The story is based in the first person perspective of an egocentric teenage boy (Holden Caulfield). He comes from a middle to upper class american family, who finds life full of phonies. No body is real. They try to be something they are not and Holden sees this all the time. He's lazy at school and lazy at life, drinking, being a teenage kid and thinking he is talking through the eyes of an old and wizened man. Holden sees himself as a non conformist, he doesn't apply himself because then he would be part of the very rat race he despises. He'll go to a phoney club and drink and watch the phoney entertainment or listen to dumb girls. They don't get him and he don't get them, he's a virgin. Saying he's a virgin probably sums it up. Background to Holden's life has him fighting against the expectations from others, because he doesn't apply himself. It's only in the first chapter's the reader gets to see an interaction with a old teacher.

The story seems to be based over a short period between Holden being kicked out of his school and wasting time before he goes back home. Then to face the music. Important figures in Holden's existence are his kid sister Phoebe and his dead younger brother Allie. There are issues of grief Holden hasn't yet come to terms with, and this could be the reason for his self depreciating behaviour. The book skips along from one character to another, like character's once used are shallow items which can be disregarded given Holden has chewed them up and spat them out. In of course, a very cynical manner. The book is indeed about the world of Holden Caulfield, what thoughts go round in his mind. To the point Holden is the Book.

The style is so convincing at times, it is like reading a spoilt brat's diary on life, to the point of nearly putting it down and never reading another page. This is why it's taken months for me to read and I still haven't finished. The plus is each chapter is relatively short, so it allows a lagger to put it down and pick it up quite easily. And then once read I can add this to collection of classics I can say I have read. Unfortunately with any book, I believe you have to read them more than once to understand and fully get what the words say.

The notoriety of this book comes from several sources. When first published it was banned in America. It's difficult to see the reasons why at this time. The decision must of been linked to politics at that time (serialized 1945/46, published 1951). It's author J.D. Salinger is renown for and the deranged man who killed John Lennon that is Mark Chapman. He had asked Lennon to sign his copy. Check the link above for an excellent in depth further analysis.

We are all egocentric to an extent. Except for chickens. Or is that just something someone once said.

Does anyone read this?

I got reminded by Beautiful Sparkling Eyes to write a blog. Having a short break from the keyboard could easily turned into something much longer. Also I was away for a week in the most wonderful company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. Which reminds me I must never get into any kind of argument with either, I plainly end up lost, battered like a Cod about to go in a fryer or so utterly confused any point of an argument has evaporated like a river running through the Sahara Desert.

Of course there is the other thought? Does anyone actually read this? Am I writing into the ether, a large vacuous Black Hole of blogs taking everything drawn into it. By accident viewers load a page up on their browser enough for the little counter to click over and then scooter off faster than a rabied dog from water, a flea on the carcass of Tukenharmen or an elevator being evacuated after one of the occupants has done a "silent-but-violent" airing? Sparkling Eyes checks them out, the blogs that is not the elevators, thank you darling, my audience of one a kiss for you.

So tomorrow I'll take a mental picture of any small incident happening, to will write something. And tomorrow is the first day of December 2006. Another memo to myself, even atheistic teenage girls believe in Christmas, I really can be stupid (shakes head) and this memo is important because if I don't take heed to it, I been told I'll get battered. Great, again. Wonder if Father Christmas can send me a suit of bubble wrap it should make it pass a little gentler.

Big Fish at the factory

I have found in chatting to the big fish they are no different from other fish who have their sardines below them. One higher level of big fish can be quite similar to one middle level. With their limited vision and opinions. This could mean I'm actually a little Sprat. LOL funny. Truth is in a little pond with big fish the personalities of the big fish are in fact no different from the personalities of other fish before them.

Because big fish are so big they don't know what life is like for the little fishes of the world. This happens even if at one time the Big fish used to be a little one themselves. Then they have nostalgia of how life used to be for them as a little fish. But of course relating this nostalgia to events today, becomes spurious, hey BIG FISH, THE WORLD CHANGES!!! Big fishes are prone not to see what is under their noses. Which could mean they have pretty big noses, to go with their pretty big egos, pretty big salaries and pretty little real work they do. Now I can hear a big fish somewhere swinging his tail out of the water in protestation of saying something like "pretty little real work they do," being steamed up and taking umbridge to it. However, put it like this, when a little fish leaves the pond, the immediate effects are more profound than any sudden disappearance of a Biggy. It's like removing one sardine from a tin. Because they are so tightly packed suddenly the tin becomes roomy. The tin gets moved about from shelf to shelf then all the other sardines inside start to disintegrate. The very presence of a tin of sardines which has one sardine missing is anathema. Although I speak litureatively this is all very true of a pond.

Big fish because of their size, go about slowly but sometimes they can get heated up over things, especially if the sardines don't do something in the way they expected it to be done, or if the sardines have quite valid contrary points to make. Big fish don't like being wrong. They have a problem admitting it, it's an affront to their ego, being quite egocentric, and they may end up taking incredibly large gulps of the pond so as to eat up the little fishes and shit them out. The poor little fishes can go manic at this point, swimming about like headless chickens, if they knew what a chicken is, and try jumping into other ponds. Some successfully do, others just get sick and of course a number remain.

So it is with good reason in any pond like place, democracy does not hold water. When the little fishes either die off or can get to jump to other ponds, the big fish would be left on their own. They wouldn't have any little fishes to boss about, and because all the fish were big their own petty squabbles would spill over, but of course this would never happened because there are always many millions more little fishes than big fishes of this world. But note this, take the big fish out of their pond and drop them in another, miraculously they shrink down to nothing. An ego with no place to go, sardines can swim around them and see the big fish is nothing but air, they may chose not to give them the time, look at the previously big fish with disdain and see them for what they are. It's unfortunate some big fish will never hold respect by other fishes when out of their own pond, but then maybe they get what they reap. Now where did I put the olive oil?

P.S. some little fish don't like being eaten up, they're called Piranahs.

Autumn Sun

Today I met up with Green Car man and went to Greenwich. It was beautiful, the sun had decided to come out in one of those few days which autumn allows. It was as though to say a final goodbye for winter is imminent. Sunlight is a source of vitamin E, I think? So it's important to get it while it's here. Before the depression of long nights descend. The day was so clear looking down from Greenwich over the City of London. Even St Pauls Cathedral could be discerned. The City had spouted forth the first tall building developed by Olympia and Yorke who had gone bust, because of finance, it reaches 44 floors. Nothing in comparison to the sky scrapers of New York, but for London it is a travesty. The sky line is now changing dramatically. The beauty of old London becomes gradually dominated by what Prince Charles would call Carbuncles. However, looking down on the Maritine Museum and the old Naval college is wonderful.

We chilled out walking around Greenwich Market, and I bought some baklava, hmmmm delicious. Coffee and a small red change wallet, which I am sure will later be appropriated next time I see Sparkling Eyes. But I really wont mind. There was too many people about, but they all had the same idea of getting out to enjoy the day. I wanted to check out for some more American car number plates but couldn't find any on the stalls. Regardless, I'd rather be out on the last blessed days of autumn then stuck indoors.

I've got a thing for the Autumn Sun and the effect it has on trees, or rather I mean the light. It's the way it backlights the greens, browns and yellows. Not forgetting leisurely walking through fallen leaves. Crumpling below foot, and being tossed up and to the side with each step, they make a fluttering light sound. If only I had a camera in my head and could take these photographs and download them. Then maybe they could clutter out all the things I don't need. I could sit at a desk and work while simultaneously having my very own slide show. Autumn, I thank you.

Pumpkin Jack

In the run up towards Halloween children become excited. Further adults become excited to, they prepare the ground work for children. Making Witches hats, scary costumes and often carving pumpkins. Personally I like a little pumpkin pie once in a while and for me this is probably the best time to eat it. Or is it the idea of telling ghost stories, with a lamp light, a torch, a candle, a puppy dog's tail and a cat nearby. Because of course cats are said to have magical powers, others may think it's not true. But it is. And they do. Not magic as in the spooky uncanny kind. Perhaps in long inherent blood line, or their patience. Just as it is known to those in the know, pumpkins are not of this natural world.

Rubbish. If so, how come there is no other squash like a pumpkin? None as large or as orange in colour, non which grows in quite the same way. Fact pumpkins grow in 6 out of 7 continents, and one other continent kept out of the fact books. In the last 3000 years pumpkins were eaten to celebrate the ending of the summer, and the beginning of the winter. Or rather season of the night of the dead. It seems odd a pumpkin should be the victim of human hunger. When previously it was humans who were the victims of pumpkin hunger.

For it is said pumpkins were never orange in colour to start with, they were albino, but through thousands of years of growing in the fields of the dead their roots sapped the rotting seeped soil from bodies on top. In the time when sacrifice was common to appease the Nights of the dead. Ironic, such tribes of people would chose an innocent from amongst them and give this person up to the dead. Families did it willingly, because they didn't want to anger the Night. In choosing it would be a member who had caused them the most trouble, a sarcastic child, one who was stubborn or talked back. This in turn would keep all the other children of the tribe quite for the winter months. Before Father Christmas was invented, and the notion of blackmailing kids to be good had caught on. They used the reality of the Night of the Dead. So to return Pumpkins are orange because of the stained bloodied soil from which they came and had drunk. So it's a shame in some sense many people don't eat them as a kind of divine retribution.

I heard of 2 young girls once in a house not so far from a major river up North who considered a pumpkin as a light things to joke about. It had a candle in it and was christened Jack. Unfortunately, a combination of events can do something quite bizarre to pumpkins even in the 20th century where beliefs are few between. One even recently was the movement of the earth through the residual tail of Hailey's comet. This happened only 2 days ago. Shooting stars appear in the atmosphere, these are very tiny minuscule particles, when they burn up they look bright and awesome. However, being of extra terrestrial origin they have content which can awaken the most dormant of genes. One speckle has only to touch the skin of a man and he will never be the same again. More than one and he may never be seen again, being transformed, and pulled through interdimensional time to when the night of the dead was very real. Because these speckles of space dust, are thousands of years old. Their qualities excite and change ordinary everyday objects into what they really were like, those thousands of years ago.

The pumpkin played with and toyed with, giggle at and the but of many childish jokes, called Jack had been touched. Unbeknown by these unlucky and very unfortunate teenage girls. To them the world of soft cuddly toys, mums who made pasta and chocolate on tap would change over night. Pumpkin Jack was now in a state of change born again to his old self.

As the night wore on, Pumpkin Jack metamorphosed. It was not the little changes which matter, in his case it was the big changes. Ones which couldn't be missed no matter who you were. Long slender tentacles developed long enough to be legs. Slightly shorter ones as arms. With this came mobility. His arms and legs moved around as though they were quite natural. Because they were, 3000 years ago! When fresh red dark blood was drunk from the ground he grew in. He knew this, and as his genes had now awakened Pumpkin Jack, felt the hunger. Except no tribe was there to supply him with an obnoxious teenage child. This time he'd have to look for himself. And not so far away upstairs slept 2 such girls. He could tell, they had a kind of sweet smell to them. Nice and juicy, his roots would suck away their blood while they slept. He would become stronger and go on to find the rest of this night's menu.

Asleep in a dream world was Teenage Rock Chick and her friend Emily oblivious to their visitor. With ease Pumpkin Jack stealthily climbed the stairs. He pushed open the door and his head turned the corner. He still had his candle burning inside his head, and upon the walls caste a shadow of pointed teeth. He ran his tendril over the quilts as the girls slept. He reached up towards the face of one. And he could feel her breath over his slim rooted fingers. Slowly his string like hand reached down under and around her neck, it began to close. He knew if he constricted to slowly she would feel him. So quickly he tightened his grip. Rock Chick awoke and stared up. Fear in her eyes, trying to gasp and to shout but she could not. A whimper barely let lose. She fort with her hands pulling hard at his vines, struggling to tear him away. Emily began to stir, Jack was not quick enough and she let out a small scream before he had his second vined hand around her throat as well. His grip tightend, though weak because of his recent birth, he held on. The two girls struggled for their life as breath weeped away from their lungs. Their faces turning red, they struggled hard but it was not enough.

In the next room on a bed slept a black and white cat. His ears had popped up, alert. He let out a meow loud enough to wake the neighbours, but it wasn't for the sake of the neighbours for inbred within the make up of cats is a virus which kills rampant pumpkin carnivores. This lion with curiosity pounced into Rock Chick's room, behind him Beautiful Sparkling Eyes had awoken, she was alert and for some reason sensed all was not well. The small scream had penetrated her sleep, she began to hear the sound of thrashing arms as the girls fought. Sparkling eyes would take on anything in her way. The noise of two teenage girls fighting for their lives was clear, not shouting but clawing, punching and pounding at Pumpkin Jack. They hit with all their strength, but being weakened with breath they were become less and less effective.

The door sprang open. Fearlessly the cat clawed at a tendroned limb of Pumpkin Jack, cats enjoy such games. His claws stuck deep. Sparkling eyes jumped on the orange headed monster. It collapsed on the bed and as it did so his head turned around. Like a horror movie it turned to where it's back would be. The candle flickered at Sparkling Eyes. She took a breath and blew hard. The light went out. This cat like all cats, harboured in his make up a virus. Only known to exist 3000 years ago. Now it became active. The a cat's scratch infected green blooded Pumpkin Jack. He became weaker, as he had not had his chance to feed from the girls blood. Sparkling eyes threw a fist at the pumpkin head of Jack. It took flight and hit the wall rolling on the floor. It was heavy, but so is the might of a woman protecting her child. Jack’s body soon withered, becoming no more than a dusty green layer. In turn this layer disappeared and no evidence was left.

Just the hollowed out head of Jack. So next time girls you decide to make fun of a pumpkin think twice. You'll not be warned again.


Happy Halloweeennnnnnnnn

Pick the best bits and harvest them inside

Beautiful Sparkling Eyes sent me a text message, I've been reprimanded for not communicating so am in trouble. Sorry, been extraordinarily busy today.

After have a conversation with the chair of a the butchers he told me how, the boss had been pocketting monies which should of gone on the shop. Monies which meant the shop was a bit dilapidated. The butchers had also been losing customers as well. Because the boss had been spending his time in the papershop. Although he was paid by the butchers for his own reason the boss preferred the papershop.

However, a man from the independent butchers association is looking into things and the boss is probably committing something close to fraud, except there were no formal rules on what the boss should be doing with the monies. Except some kind of unspoken agreement half he could pocket and the rest were meant for the shop. This boss however was greedy, it all went in his pocket. To top it off, he'd decided to go off on long term butcher's leave. Perhaps not to come back again. Unfortunately the gravy boat is still running and he's probably financially a very happy man.

A day in the factory was like a day climbing a sand dune, each step I moved upwards my foot, ankle and leg sank in, I then found myself slipping backwards and down. Very literally nothing got done.

Lunch turned out a fiasco, I walked into 3 seperate cafes and walked out again. The first was a Chinese, I sat down began to look through the menu then a lady came up to me and said she had been sitting there. She'd given her order and had popped back from the loo. In the second cafe, I sat down and looked through the menu, no waitress about. Five minutes later she turns up, walks past me and goes and serves someone else when I'd sat right at the front as well. Lastly in the third shop, I entered, no body was behind the counter. A TV was on with Bargain Hunt. I waited no one turned up, I walked out. Unfortunately lunch was pie and chips, though I expect the pie and chips didn't mind as much as me.

It's been a busy day, but I did see something wonderful. As I began the morning, I could see autumn descend. Tree leaves were falling and those on the trees were multiple shades between green and yellow, a beautiful cascade of colours to the eye. In a short while the trees will be bare. But for this one captured image throughout the whole day, it may have been uneventful and busy. But then it couldn't really be so uneventful if I'd been chastised by beautiful Sparkling Eyes, I smile inside. Indeed another wonder to my day.

Finding Time

Odd how time goes by, or rather how it's used and then passes. For instance staying indoors on a Sunday, watching the box for hours on end, playing internet games and all the while saying to myself I will fit gym in later. Later comes, but gym or that little walk, or cutting the overgrown prickly bush at the front of the house do not happen. The day passes with a wisp of sadness as procrastination and the can't-be-bothered effect kick in.

The alternative is having lots of things arranged at a time and something very important comes along, but because it's short notice it can't be fitted in. Things like this can tear me up. Especially when it's one of the highest things on my list of important things. Very high. If I'd of had enough notice I might of been able to shuffle about, make arrangements, fit the most important in, but I can't. No time to put plan B into action, plan A has too many people relying on me and saying "hey Buddy you're already committed to slicing the bread!" The breads waiting and the knife is ready, I got to turn up, like it or not.

So I get torn up inside, hurt even, on the verge of tears because I can't see Beautiful Sparkling Eyes and I need to. It's a bit like worrying over something you can't stop yourself worrying about even though you know it's no good. I know Sparkling eyes will be disappointed, and knowing this hurts me again. So now I have 2 lots of hurting. I want to shrug it off like it's a layer of rain clinging to my coat, but it don't roll of so easily. The beautiful smile on her face, and the look of those so wonderful eyes, I'm not going to see just yet. Not in person. But if I think really hard enough I can see it now. First contact after a long time opening the car door, and looking over to the smiling, warm, happy and mischievous Sparkling Eyes. I just want to tell her how beautiful she looks. Kiss her on the cheek and tell her I love her. I calm while Teenage Rock Chick throws a verbal joust my direction. Keeping as best I can my tongue still, bite it hard though I do like the odd joust but in a car with Sparkling Eyes at the wheel I get told off. It's all playful fun a missing each other hello. Light, cheery and significant because right now my tears tell me so.

The thing with time is making sure it doesn't pass without memories. And what better than memories of important people. Saying hello, being happy in their company even if I happen at time to be the butt their jokes, it's all in fun. I care with fondness, as I step back and recall; for instance being made to laugh so hard in the kitchen while swallowing a drink it shot out of my nose; being duped into eating half a dozen anchovies when I thought it was just one and even told once I'd got man boobs. Though I really am trying to get rid of them, hopefully I'll lose the training bra next week.

Rushing about

Had to hit the factory this morning, a Saturday of all days, but if they want to pay extra for putting sardines in tins, who am I to argue, though some of those little nippers can get a bit slippery.

So rushed to the train station, thinking of Sparkling Eyes and hoping she was feeling better. But found my self short of time because the train was due in. Went to the ticket machine and some woman had just walked in front of me to get there first. Went to the counter service and some silly arse was taking their time with the teller. At this moment I hear the train come rumbling in. Now what do I do? If I don't get on it, the next will be 30 minutes and I'll be late. A guard at the barrier lets me through without a ticket, good. On the train now, no ticket thinking I could get caught fare dodging, fined and held up. An idea comes to me. Get off the next station and walk. I know the next station is hardly ever manned, should be no problem because my stop is after and it's a shortish walk. The train rumbles through the station. Great! Now am thinking how can I dodge this fare or get past without getting nicked? It shouldn't be a problem I tell myself, because there's been building work at the station and the side gate has been open for builders. Well, get off the train, the side gate is closed. Oh dear, not looking good. Last possibility I consider. The barriers might be open after all it's early Saturday morning and a number of mornings I've had a ticket and they have been open and wasted paying for a ticket in my mind. Climb up the stairs to the barrier and it's closed. Bollocks!! The quick thought of jumping over the barrier occurred to me, but I need to be a bit fitter and could of been caught on CCTV. I go to the gate and call over to the inspector. Tell him my plight and with a relief he just told me to buy a ticket from the teller there, which I did and handed directly back to him.

This probably means I am not cut out for a criminal background, with a guilty conscience and perhaps plans doomed to failure. Alternatively, being of nefarious mind I might consider this an opportunity rather than a problem and think of a better way to get past when I don't get the chance to pay for a ticket.

Yes got it. Simple put on a Burkha wear all black jump over the barrier and mingle with the nearest group of Burkha wearers. Pretend I'm nuts, ask the inspector the way to San Jose, and tell him about the thoughts in my head to kill every free running chicken I happen to see. No maybe not. Got it. If it's a bloke tell him there's a woman on the platform acting funny, maybe this will distract him. Nope. Get the next train back down the line and walk. Wait to see if the builders will open the gate. Tell the inspector I have a genetic disposition which makes me look like I am 40 years old but I'm really only 4 years old so don't have to pay the fare. Oh yes the solution. Buy a ticket, I'm sure it will work every time.

Que for a Sub

I decided on a sub for lunch. This is a kind of long roll 6 or 12 inches, which is then filled with lovely fresh salad and/or meats etc. While in the que a girl in front began to sing along to a song being played over the speakers. I didn't know the song, and part of me was thinking how dare she do that. Because why on earth should the world be inflicted with the talentless vocal chords of people who thought they were pop stars.

It always occurs to me, where can you run or hide if someone is singing? Simply you can't. There is no strategy of avoiding a fake pop star, or should I say pop start. Eventually the song stopped and this person could no longer sing along to a song she obviously liked, and didn't know or perhaps like the next one.

However, (big smile) the following song was one by Lilly Allen, who at this time I'm fond of, so I begin to sing in my own way, humming, mumbling along, as I do. Oh yes, I was noticed, the girl turned to see who brought forth such beautiful eloquent NOISE, because I don't know the words and can only just about chip in with some of the chorus, but it was retribution. If you out there fancy-yourself-talentless-pop-stars and think you can sing, I'm going to think I can sing to, and I tell you what, my vocal chords are even worse!

So it's about time every Tom, Dick and Harry who walks down the street and has to put up with the noise from teenage wanabees, or religeous freeks who believe Jesus walks with them while they hold the bible, step forward. Yes, throw your head up high, breath deep, and belt it out, loud, proud and for fuck sake make them wish they had ear plugs.

An Exciting adventure for Sparkling Eyes

I have been told by Sparkling Eyes not to refer to her as Cake. Also I have been told my life is boring and hers is not. To demonstrate I was sent a text along the lines of Tony Blair going to St Andrews tomorrow, the Anti war movement has got a demonstration up and I'm going. Further Sparkling Eyes, told me she might get arrested. And again her life was more interesting than mine and she should do her own BLOG. Of course the first words of greeting I had were not "hello, how are you?" but "hello you dirty bastard," of course she had reason which I will not go into. I asked if Sparkling Eyes would be taking Rock Chick Teenage Girl, no she wouldn't.

I could give the story of the time Sparkling Eyes hosed down the remains from an overflowing broken sewage pipe, with a high pressure hose. Or How Sparkling Eyes went to the Glen Eagles conference and saw first hand the clashes of protesters against police and how she is helping the community with the building of a community centre in the neighborhood. But perhaps one of the stories I heard and liked was when she walked into a pub with her friend and a band was on stage, one of the members made a derogagory remark over the mike as they walked in. It may have taken a couple of hours but Sparkling Eyes manourvered herself to a close enough point she could kick the man in the ankle and not be noticed. Though I am sure he would of felt it, and if Sparkling Eyes was feeling unkind he'd of probably been unable to walk for a week or two.

Perhaps in comparison my BLOGS are a little bland. But sometimes a little calm is a good thing, like the old saying goes "still waters run deep" which is more aliking to my own disposition. So the moto is, be passionate about life but be very careful with high pressure hoses.

Little Monster Tears

This evening I left Little Monster Boy in tears, I am ashamed of myself. It was all a matter of going to bed. Silly Sophia was trying to get him into a routine, but try was the word. 'He was persistent in finding his way back downstairs from his bedroom' she'd say, or he'd stay up all night and end up falling to sleep in school. This was not a good situation to be in for a growing monster. Though with family life unsettled this behaviour may even be considered normal in the circumstances. So tonight I had a go at putting Little Monster Boy to bed and learnt the meaning of bedtime battles.

I asked him at least a thousand times to put his PJs on, I rationalized the importance of getting a good nights sleep, it was necessary to grow I stated. I even argued when Little Monster Boy goes to school he needs to be fresh and bright to learn things. At which point his reply was "I know one add one is two," it wasn't quite what I had in mind. He deviated the conversation, told me he wasn't listening, avoided eye contact whenever I spoke of bed or PJs, continued playing with his toys, spoke out loud about nonsense things, and re wrote the entire book for nearly 6 years olds on how to procrastinate going to bed.

This led to action. I took him upstairs on 4 occasions, carrying him on two and gently dropped Little Monster on bed. Unfortunately it was also time for me to go, but I'd already given him a kiss and said "Good night." Just as I was leaving Silly Sophia told me the Monster would be up in 5 minutes after I left. I thought ok, I'll go out side and then count to ten and knock on the door again. At which point she would say to Monster Boy, Crazyfridayman was here. The door closed. I stood there counting, and heard speaking behind the door. It opened. Little Monster Boy had opened it and he had tears in his eyes and on his cheeks rolling down. He was so very sad about having to go to bed. But he also wanted to say goodnight and hug me. I held him, told him I loved him and it was very important to get sleep. With one finger I touched a tear on his cheek then smeared it away. He played with the arm of my glasses. Then I left.

The emotion of children is there for all to see, they are in this sense an open book and have difficulty in hiding both happiness and sadness, but that's one of the most wonderful things to love them for. Now if only we were all open books perhaps the world would be better. However, mostly speaking Little Monsters are open books, but were all Big Monsters there wouldn't be much space in the world to house us, being that there is so little land and so much sea. It was then it occurred to me. The seas were so big, because many people had shed tears throughout their life.

Hey I got a life vest with my name on it, and have the name of a man who can get them whole sale, ring me on ............

Smarties

Sometimes nothing happens, other days lots of things happen, so many it could be called a smarty day. Each different colour an item, each little chocolate something to dwell on. Other days the smarty box is empty and the day seems a complete and utter bore, it somehow passes by, bed followed by sleep and a new day.

In democratic society we have the freedom to chose whatever smarty we want, we can talk about them, eat them and even think about them. We may share those thoughts with others or keep them to ourselves. But of all things, the thoughts which go through your mind are your own. Further which can be an ass is they may even be difficult to control. For example someone says "don't think of the colour red" and you think of it. But it doesn't mean you want to be red, live life in red, taste red, throw a party in red or swim in the red sea with your mouth open. Thinking about something is not the same as doing it. Nor is writing about it. But it is your freedom to do this. When someone says "I didn't like it because you thought of red" what can you say? There is no answer because how can you stop your thoughts? They are not censored, held at ransom or stood up before a wall to be shot at dawn. Democratic society allows freedom to think as well. To the extent it even allows extremists or moderates or indifference to think of any colour they like. To tell someone they should stop is not going to happen. Because thoughts are free things. Like the random fluttering of a butterfly on a hot day, being tumbled around by gentle breezes. The thoughts don't matter it's the realities which do. So perhaps it's sad some people chastise us for our thoughts, yet if we were to say what are your inner thoughts, tell me. They may not say a thing, it's their privilege.

Oh I dropped my smarties on the table there for all to see, they are multicoloured and I'm sure some people don't like the red ones. If they tell me fine, but if get upset about it then consider this, "let your own thoughts be critiqued and how would you feel?"

Maybe I should take my smarties, eat them in a quite cupboard where no one can see me, hear me or have any notion of what my favourite colours are, of course I'm only going to know when I turn the light on, and then it's not a matter of thinking about them but rather eating them. Coz thinking about a smarty is definitely not the same as eating a smarty.

Battle for Cable Street

Had the day off. No factory, just me and an appointment with the hair dresser a little walk away, which I needed because of my lack of exercise. A youngish Turkish bloke, who even put a hot towel round my face. Perhaps he thought it would change my appearance, but when he removed it, I was the same. Seems like plastic surgery is still going to be on the wish list. However, to make up for it he gelled my hair. I was then a handsome hunk but looking decidedly thin on top. But with hair. Not bald, but maybe a little thinner, yet still nearly handsome. I enjoyed the experience to say the least for the end result. I'll just have to wear my hat the next week or so, even indoors.

I met a friend on my way to the hair dressers and found myself passing time chatting. It must of been all of an hour later I pealed myself off and managed a walk to the hair dressers. His mother had cancer. She was in hospital and now it was only a matter of time. She had seen specialists in Harley Street and done everything to no avail. It seemed genetic because her two sisters had died of it as well and they were younger. I felt sorry for my friend, especially his daughter who I know was practically bought up by his mum. He also complained about his knee and getting old. Fortunately at this moment my hair wasn't shorter so I looked ok otherwise I'd of made my hair complaint. At least we both had our life.

The news today had an item about Cable Street, it had been 70 years since Mosley and his fascist black shirts had been prevented from having demonstrating down this road. It's an area in the East End of London at the time had a significant Jewish population. Mosley wanted to walk with his followers down this street and through the Jewish areas after his crowd had heard support from Hitler. The authorities proved to be an ass. They allowed the demonstration to go ahead, even though a 100,000 petition had been presented to the Secretary of State. The people of the East End, Jews and Communists decided it was not going to happen. I saw an interview on TV take place and an old man who was there. He said they had a young medical student passing messages to the Communists from the authorities, telling them what the police intended to do. This insider knowledge was pretty valuable I suspect. So Mosley had 5,000 blackshirts begin to walk, they were minded by 10,000 police officers. But Cable Street residents and anti fascist supporters numbered 350,000 needless to say the event did not take place. The man interviewed said police offices just gave up trying to get through the baraccaded road. Residents were throwing the effects of their chamber pots out of windows down on them. It must of been awful. Not something to go home to the Mrs to and ask for a good snog and a hug because work had been stressful. Poor police officers. A bloody nose was given to the fascists in central London from which they would not recover. I can't understand why the Secretary of State would allow the march to take place, this was 1936, when fascism and Nazism was a real threat to Europe (Spanish civil war). Politicians can be such asses.



I realised one thing fascists no doubt dislike nearly as much as minority groups, had got to be ice cream. Because there is no such thing as a black ice cream and white ice cream on a black shirt just wouldn't have the same image as all in black does. Oh yes, not forgetting dandruft, snow, confetti and the contents of chamber pots. I'm glad I'll never be a fascist, I like ice cream too much amongst other things.

When deciding to have a long hot bath, don't forget to take a towel. Because otherwise this could lead to an embarassing moment, where I do the impression of a cat on a hot tin roof, dripping and bouncing from ball of foot to ball of foot trying not to get the carpet soaked and finding a towel. Although not one of those esential items which should be packed at birth, a towel has a useful place in society. So memo to self, don't under estimate the usefulness of a towel.

Am I paranoid?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm paranoid? Someone will say something and I'll go over it in my mind. I'll ask questions like "what did they mean?" and was it the words of the comment or the inflection of the voice. Because the "HOW" of something being said is more important than what is said at times. That's why when you hear an interpreter speak you never really know what is going on between the lines. Sometimes my paranoia leads me to ask if other people are like me.

Is my shirt too loud today? Did I forget to say hello to them? And of course the 'OK you bastard be like that but in the outside world beyond the factory you have no respect.' Then I wonder if I am not a likable person, if there is something about me people don't like. Or why on earth should it matter? Rather what matters is I'm not being fake but being myself. As the in Shakespeare's play Hamlet "Be true to yourself."

Now did old Shakespeare have paranoia, or was he too busy writing about mixed up people, or more of mixed up paranoid people. If any King Lear certainly was one not forgetting Hamlet again, I mean who really sees ghosts? Which reminds me next time I wake up at 2 a.m. I'll ask Fred if he'll stop rattling his chains, I got work in the morning.

On the stairs

I had an odd understanding today, sometime in the morning, either on the way to the loo or returning from the loo. I was on the stairs at the time. I realised there were a number of people in the Factory I just did not like. Even to the extent quietly harbouring my own animosity towards them. The girl who beat me in an interview for a managerial post, the stout woman who was a manager and I just know is incredibly insincere in personality. She says "Good Morning" to everyone when she happens to pass them in the morning, but it isn't a natural polite enquiry it's as though it is forced. I'd also heard how she had ganged up with another manager and questioned a very nice hard working employee who had some misgiving about the way a new proposal was to be implimented. It is as though there are people in life who you just don't really need to know a great deal about, but immediately can put them into a category. They are the not so nice persons. My epithany was I disliked far too many coworkers and should give up on those silent thoughts and voodoo curses I'd projected in their directions. They can't really help being complete twats, or having something defective in their character. In the meantime it was a waste of energy for me, even the whisp of a thought is a waste of energy. Perhaps equating to a fraction of a granual of sugar, but sometimes thoughts run away so quickly or automatically they are difficult to control. But very fortunately mouths are, because with all these thoughts if I didn't have control of my gob I'd of been sacked quite a time ago.

Desperately Seeking Flu

In the background the TV runs, constantly streaming forth auditory puke, worse than a Friday night session and an involuntary spasm after 15 pints of beer, but it was the last beer with the funny taste wot did it. Spurt. Just like a scene from The Exorist, the TV spews forth yet more fowl smelling bile. No wonder I hate being sick.

What is it with never ending repeats of Madonna in her starring debut role in Desperately Seeking Susan. It seems only 2 or 3 days ago it was on the box and again it rears its self like a decayed crap rising to the surface of the world's ocean. Even the ocean can not put up with it and tries desperately to throw it forth hoping some alien craft will whisk this unwanted phenomenon into the deepest hottest part of the Sun. Oh I hate being sick!!!

There should be some reward for persons who come threw bouts of sickness, not a medal, becuase it would be too corny, perhaps a hot chocolate pudding with whipped creme freche, and maybe a touch of sour apricot sauce to offset it. What are the pleasures of life? Sex, food, and what others? Getting well would seem to be one.

Just done 4 days back at the Factory, after a week off. Now what a dangerous combination it can be. When time off from work makes you realise how much you enjoy the time off and why you don't like the work. Even if for some reason you have convinced yourself you really do enjoy your work, take a holiday and then the pleasure of late morning rising, slowly eaten food, and chilling really do have. Lets not forget the happiness of being in the company of family and friends just long enough to know you love them but not to know you love them enough you want to stick your hands round their throats or give them a one way ticket to Bombay's outer reaches. As for depressive relatives, stick them on a boat, take the rudder off and wave with a happy tear in your eye. They can jump off and swim back when they've learnt to cheer up. Otherwise asta lav vista for longer than you'd expect.

No the factory isn't everything, neither is the Flu, I'd just wish Susan would Fuck Off, there's only so much Maddona anyone can take.

Artic? NO!!!! Inarticulate Monkeys

I was listening to the radio this morning, BBC Radio 4, the Today program, when for the first time ever they announced an interview with the band Artic Monkeys. Because Artic Monkeys had just won the Mercury award.

Earlier I discovered the Mercury award was somthing to be given to those musicians who had produced good music but really didnt get the recongnition they deserved. (This was yesterday while i was at the gym on the treadmill). The broadcaster went on to say although Artic Monkeys were a candidate, it didn't make much sense they should win because they held the record for most sold debut album. In the circumstances it would be silly to give them yet another award. It was further elaborated the Mercury Award was something judged on the night and after an hour or so of deliberation from the selected judges. To this extent the judgement and novelty of the award seemed to have something going for it other awards just couldn't. For instance being influenced by the politics of a situation.

So it was a surprise to hear Artic Monkeys had won. A small clip was given of some of their music and then the interview which was exceptionally short, i'd of thought in the region of 10 to 15 seconds took place. Previously Artic Monkeys had always refused to give interviews, in this very very short space of time I so understood why. Because the wonderful imaginative name of Artic Monkeys was in fact a big blundering misnomer, the real name which must of been scribbled out because they couldn't spell it, popped to mind. A flashbulb moment errupted. Yes in reality the Artic Monkeys are really The Inarticulate Monkeys. It was as though i was listening to a group of boys who had just left secondary school with no GCSE's between them having failed in favour of going to music classes and playing with their spoons. Somehow their true name The Inarticulate Monkeys had been misslaid with their text books.

The talent of their music had suddenly without doubt been overshadowed by their vocabulary, (rather lack of it) attitude and perhaps even geneticly challenged intelligence. They talked in a derisory fashion of how it was selling of CDs that made them famous, even though the interviewer interjected it was their internet success that begot the financial wealth of their CD sales. In this extent there was no recognition of the fans who listened to them. There was no thanks to the wonder of the internet and what it had done for them. Apparently the interview was so short because so much of it entailed editing out of swearing it could not be aired. So I have christened in my own mind and will state whenever i hear their name spoken. "Oh Artic Monkeys you say, hmmm don't you really mean The Inarticulate Monkeys?"

Therefore it goes here is one person who will never purchase any music from The Inarticulate Monkeys. However if for some reason i'm given it free by a friend i'll listen to it accidentally of course, I wouln't want to break any copyright laws. I wonder if The Inarticulate Monkeys actually ever paid for any of their music before they were famous. OOps now a fan may probably think the answer is "no" and oh yes where can i get it for free?

Not enough hours in the day

When returning to the factory after a break it's always predicatably the same. Piles of work, an in tray so big it looks like it's reaching the ceiling. So today i became a battery chicken, doing my work without so much as a 5 minute skiving session. And when i left after much more than a 74 hour day, i hadn't finished laying all the eggs, fluffing up all the straw or clucking all the clucks required to straighten out my coop. Well there's always tomorrow.

Full Week Off

Had a full week off the factory, i didn't even get tempted to go in and do weekend overtime. I said "no" to myself and persued a week of relaxation. It was great Little monster boy was the best relaxation medicine i could take. I liked to have a little arguement with him, it goes along the lines off:

Me: "A bus is bigger than an elephant," to which Monster Boy laughs as if to say i am silly and replies
"No. An elephant is bigger than a bus." As if to put me right, because i should know better, i bait him some more and repeat the statement, he repeats his reply. Then i ask:
"So how may elephants have you seen?"
He laughs still and says " I haven't seen any elephants, but i still know an elephant is bigger than a bus."

I wish I had taken him to see the mechanical elephant that went through London, if he'd of seen it he would of known he was right. And i would of completely agreed with him and laughed in exactly the same way.

Tantalising Shiela made a pleasant remark, she'd missed having the piss taken out of her at work. It made me smile inside, though i didn't say anything to her, she just threw in my face a comment about being pissed at the get fat quick club dinner. And being outrageous. Odd how although I'd like something to be, i know it never will, but in the meantime there's nothing wrong with a bit of humour, life must go on so why not with a smile or two.

I've just began to read "One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest by Ken Kelsey, I must admit after just a dozen pages it's different from both the film and play. I had a front row seat a few weeks ago at the Garrick and Christian Slater was playing the main character, McMurphy. He is definately a good actor to watch he was very much into his role, but one thing i noticed, he didnt appear to look at the audience the entire time. Maybe he just acts that way.

Decent of the Talkative

It happens once in a while Mrs Talkative and Mr not so Talkaive and their wonderful little brats, Princess not so talkative and, Boy Ignorant not so talkative and Boy Smarty pants not so talkative decend upon me and Big Mama. At this point live stops. It happened yesterday. From 4 p.m. through to 9:20 p.m. every minute i counted.

At times I just can not endure Mrs Talkative, I can't believe she is my blood, in fact when i think of it i can't believe it. Blood is thicker than water, but how much i ask? Perhaps not a lot. The little ones were great Princess not so talkative enjoyed going to the park and made sure she had a go on most of the play ground toys. However, she is a little scaredy cat and some of the obstacles she wasn't so sure about, if she was too high up or if she felt she had no control over something then she'd want to get off it. But it was ok to swing hanging on for all she's worth up and down and me chasing behind her has she dangled down, on some funny apparatus i can't even begin to describe.

They bought along their mad dog who i am sure had caught one of our cat's fleas. Princess told me they must be dog fleas. Of course she's right.

They were all kept watered and fed for the entire time they stayed and with a wonderful relief eventually, oh so eventually left. It is always wonderful to see the kids but it is equally always as wonderful to wave them off. This may mean i could never be a father, which is likely to be true now, being i've hit my early 40s.

How odd it is having a grand scheme of things, a notion such as when i grow up i will be an electrician have kids a house a car and a beautiful wife. No house, no car, no kids, no wife, hmmmm ok lets roll the dice again i must of gone right somewhere. Oh yes as the poem goes "if you compare yourself to others you will become vain and bitter" I'm not either i hope ok maybe a little bit bitter at times. Perhaps i just haven't matured yet, i'm sure i'll grow up soon.

Not what was expected

I sat on the backdoor step, my wonderful 5 year old nephew little monster boy had a seat, he ate his ice cream and chocolate sauce quite happily. I thought for a moment and said to him.

"You know what I can't think of a better time than now, just sitting here eating ice cream with you, it makes me very happy." His reply wasn't quite what i expected, along the same lines he said
"you know what would make me happy?"
I replied "No."
"If Doctor Who were on TV every day. But he's not real. It would make me happy if he was real and the Cybermen..."

Little Monster Boy has a fixation with Doctor Who. But even to the immediate effect of sitting with his favourite uncle and eating beautiful ice cream on a very hot day. Maybe next time i'll stick gravy on his ice cream and see what he thinks then.

Lunch yesterday again wasn't what i'd expected. Tantalising Shiela, Big woman and Tattoed girl sat outside in a very nice pub on a very hot day. I got merrily happy with my beverages, chit chat passed by. Tattoed girl seemed to have something on her mind, she wasn't at all perky, Big woman as though she'd had her arm twisted, and Tantalising Shiela not on form either as though held back. It was nice being outside eating a good meal and enjoying the sun but the whole experience was somewhat turned down. Not enough laughs.

It had been a planned event, odd how something which should of been a laugh turned out more of a wet squib. Athough i'd managed to have them all chuckle at my slight inebriation the funny side didn't go any further. Later as i thought of the conversations at lunch i felt a little sad, chances of Shiela and anything possible was not on. Her new man was going to be her new man and likely her old man. Expectations are not always a good thing to have, because they are open to being dissolved and leaving a lost aftertaste, not unpleasant just fading away.

Debrief for factory job

I had a debrief today for the role as a factory manager. i didn't get the job and now wanted to find out where i'd gone wrong. As though it wasn't apparent, because I had completely failed on one of the questions i should of sailed through. Just goes to show even when you think you are prepared, there is a possibility you have left something out. As the saying goes luck is opportunity meets preparation.

Of 7 questions which i could of scored a maximum of 5 out of 5, i had scored 4 on 5 of the questions, a 3 1/2 and a 2. I hadn't scored a 5 on any of them. Though I was told i was appointable, which is not a great concilation prize in reality. As for the question i scored 2 on, it was an obvious one to come up, i should of known it. Unfortunately factory manager jobs dont come up a great deal because, everyone shuffles around in dead-mans-shoes. Yes the factory culture is old, needing a kick up the backside. But it don't matter what i do or say i'm still a little nut on a bolt at the bottom of the machine. Even if i fell off the machine would still carry on working. But then again, nobody is indispencible although they like to think they are, and may even manourver themself's into possitions where they appear to be. Be it the little nut or the cream on top.

I wonder if Lazy long haired man turned up for his interview in the Army, that was today. Did he get out of bed in time or was he counting sheep and playing on his Playstation?

Tomorrow will be interesting, lunch with members of the get fat quick club.

Wanted to go on a weekend break to York, unfortunately Dundee Cake couldnt do it. Never mind i'll soon have a few days off from the factory. I'm sure i can find something to do with myself. Take up snail racing perhaps.

Day of Golf

What a chilling (relaxing) day, short run in the morning followed by practically a day of watching the British Open which was good viewing Except for a period where I'd had one too many glasses of wine and fell asleep.

Tiger Woods took it in a very emotional finish. I couldn't help feeling compassion towards him since it was his first big win since his father had died. Though I hadn't seen his wife before and the inevitable meandering thought of trophy wife infiltrated my mind. Also Tiger looked older without his hat on. Possibly with a receeding hair line. The runner up was equally emotional - Chris (something) his mother had died a few days earlier. Els was a dissappointment, especailly yesterday having drawn Tigger as his partner. I don't think Els was able to take the pressure of playing with Tiger, perhaps it's something Tiger does when he plays anyone. His serious attitude and no nonsense way about him. Or his brilliant golfing skills. It worked whatever it was.

Watching the golf

Met lazy long hair man for lunch in the pub. It gave me the opportunity to peak a look at the golf. Woods showing his tiger instinct and leading all the way. Poor old Els just seemed to be lacking a very small edge that he needs to catch or beat Tiger. Els missed a couple of shots which would of put him equal or infront of Tiger. I hope he can pull it off tomorrow - the final day.

Lazy long hair man has thought about joining the Army. I can't see him actually really joining the army because that would mean getting up in the morning earlier than 11:30 a.m. and mean some kind of work. But he explained over lunch he'd rather go in the army than be unemployed for so long. I asked if it was because of his situation at home. He nodded his head and said it was a factor he'd taken into account. A way of getting away from an alcoholic father and a depressive mother. I told long hair he could talk to me any time he wanted, because i'm here for him. He couldn't talk to his mum or his nan in the same way and was glad to have me, it's good i know just to chat and get things of your chest with someone who isn't going to intervene or ball you out. I said i wouldn't want his mum or dad wished on anyone but i'd want me as his uncle for everyone, Long hair laughed. I'd bunged him 20 quid as well, I hope it wasn't because of the bribe.

I glanced up at the TV and saw a fantastic hole shot from Garcia, he could be another possiblity for tomorrow.

When i asked long hair about getting his hair cut, he said he was going to go with his friend but his friend couldn't make it. Long hair admitted he didn't like going places on his own. The thought he might have some mild form of agraphobia whinced through my mind. Though i'm sure he doesn't really. I spoke of a bloke i could put long hair in contact with who was in the army and who'd tell him what the life was like. Long hair's only concern is he'd do his basic training and then be shipped out to Iraq. This is all of our concern at the moment. But the plus side is a multitude of different careers.

Well we'll see if long hair makes his interview with the army advisor on Monday what happens. Personally i still can't see him waking up in time to get there. He's a good kid, i can't think of anyone who long hair couldn't get on with, i make him laugh as much as i can. I'm sure he'd look better in green than his occaisional girly preference for pink. Now pink on the battle field, that would be a fashion statement for anyone.

Last Day of training at the factory

It took an entire week to reach this point, well 4 other days. It has ended, training that is, not the world, because if that were the case no one would be here to read my blog. Indeed if i have anyone at all out there?

I sit here thinking about what went on in training whilst at the same time listening to Macy Gray she's incredible, I sure hope she brings out another album.

Loony Mary sat next to me again. Odd isn't it how people will take a seat and a position in a classroom and then when the same class reconvenes everyone goes back to the same seat. Even if they didn't like their seat, place or the person sitting next to them. It don't make much sense, to realise it's possible to sit somewhere else. But i suppose when all the seats are taken up and there's really no where else it would kinda give the wrong message. Pretty loudly.

Day 4 training at the factory

This is my second blog, and i realised very early this morning, a lot of things can happen in a day and it would be impossible to write about them all. So perhaps i just have to pick out those things I think i should write about. Sorry this blog may be depressing, but inside for some reason I'm not blue just thoughtful.

The factory was as unproductive as ever, yet another day wasted learning a computer system which is really supposed to be windows based, but in reality is not. The interface is a shell posing as a windows system. The world of factories is so out of tune with the real world of things that really work.

I listened to good old Radio 4 this morning, and Thought for the Day was on. It was about children being the victims of violence in the Lebanon. I bought an Independent news paper and again after turning a couple of pages saw the picture of a small girl, perhpas 5 years old. Dead by a roadside. A result of an Israeli fighter plane bombing a convoy of 20 vehicles all trying to escape to a less hostile place. They didn't know who she was because her parents were killed as well. When innocents are the victims of crimes it is all the more tragic. The Independent reporter said it was a war crime, I can't help but agree. However, the crisis is two sided between Israel and Lebanon, and it will escalate if Syria become crony Bush's next target. The deepening mire gets deeper still.

Closer to home: Silly Sophia says she is going to drop the charges with the police against her husband beating her up. I feel almost useless because she doesn't seem to want to change her life, and can only see herself as the victim. She wants to be as low as she can get, and even lower. She would allow herself to become an alcoholic like her Rambunctious Rotter ex. All I can do is support her as much as i can. I know she is under pressure from the old goat to go through with her prosecution, but Sophia is at the complete whim of her feelings, her thoughts have not yet had a real chance to understand and accept she can both do something and survive beyond Rotter. Life does go on. And little Monster boy is the most wonderful kid in the world, I'm sure she knows he is, but Sophia can not understood his feelings when he sees his dad beat up his mum. Through the eyes of innocents, violence is witnessed again, if only i could put him in a bubble and play music when these things kicked off. But for now, i'll be there as best i can, she has to make her own decisions perhaps a broken nose may do it next time.

Hot day in the factory

It was hot in the factory today, regardless of how many windows were open or fans switched on there was no escape. I went out at lunch time and passed a wall on the shady side, I touched it and it was warm. Not a good sign.

Meanwhile factory work was the third day of training on a new machine. How on earth do people learn to do new things? At times I've thought perhaps i have a little intelligence, but this machine was to prove me wrong. I looked hard at the screen in front of me, wasn't sure where to place the cursor. So gave up. The trainer went over it all again with everyone else in class, except me, she'd missed my consternations. It was too hot to be bothered, in the end the little bead of swet won out and dribbled down my back, taking more concentration and effort than the training.

It was my luck to have Loony Mary sitting next to me. Memo to self, when going on any kind of training course arrive early that way I can choose my own seat. Preferably near a window, or better a door for quick exit. However, Mary was good to me, she said she had bought some cornets and put them in the fridge, it had been her birthday. Awwwe. I was invited to have one. Cornet of course. I'd keep myself pleasant while i sat next to her, and desperately hope she didn't think I fancied her.

Tantalising Shiela came out of her office when I got back from training. I threw some insults at her and compliments in equal doses. She fortunately likes a laugh, and I'm on friendly terms with her. Especially over the last few months when Shiela has found her funny happy side. Must be the new boyfriend, he keeps her happy she in turn is happy at work. Women an hormones, the two inextricably linked.

Shiela told me about her black trousers because I'd commented she'd had a nice piece of jewellery where the belt button was. Though I could of said something else, less complimentary, but that would of been stretching it. Pun - get it. The buckle turned out to be a broach not a buckle. It was because her trousers had a "V" shape join at the top, it looked like she hadn't done them up properly. I'd asked if it was to stop her belly coming out. Shiela fainted kicking me. I was in one of those wierd funny moods when I couldn't help what my mouth said. A bit like being drunk, but in my case sobre. Shiela though could take it - on this occaision, until her own paranoia set in. Or is that hormones, and every man was a bastard.