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.