Clatter, clatter, clatter

The pidgin's are still in the roof, should I say under the tiles and like an early morning alarm I am wakened. Any time through 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. they come out. Clatter, clatter, clatter, go the tiles. Another morning I wonder about whether I should of set my alarm for say 3 a.m., get a ladder out and then wait. As each clatters itself into a new day, I could then end it's day by wringing its neck. There would be a pile of dead birds. The next delema is my own conscience. I'd be a pidgin murderer. Plus it will not actuall stop a new lot of birds from getting under the tiles. I could hear them on the roof. Cooing to each other. So I got up in my PJs, went out in the back garden and spied them. I shook a fist, clapped my hands and they took absolutely no notice at me. I hoped no one was watching, they'd see this crazy man in his PJs and call for the white coats if they did. I'm fortunately still here writing. I crouched down, picked up some mud and an empty snail shell and threw them up at the pidgins. Nothing happened again. They were wise because my aim was crap. I took some more lumpy mud and threw again. It was slightly better and enough just to spook one of the feathered pests. In turn the others took off. Door closed, cat refused to go out, I went back to bed. Trying to close my eyes and catch some more sleep. Twenty minutes later, clatter, clatter, clatter.

Some things just happen to be unchangeable. They go on and then drastic action is needed. Heaven's knows how much money it will cost to get the roof fixed if any of the times drop off. Bloody cat is no use. He's not had any of the pidgins at all. For sale, one lazy cat and the need for a good long lay in without any disturbances.

Names and words

This morning I sat wondering how long it had been since I had seen Sparkling. Checked the diary and counted off the weeks. Three. Three weeks and it feels like longer. Sparkles seems to be constantly in demand at her new job, but at the same time she is happy and enjoying each moment of it. She is loved at the cake factory. I got her a badge because she had aquired a nick name. Mrs Slocum. So I ordered it online and it has the name Mollie on it, after the actress who played the part in the comedy series called "Are You Being Served." I'm not sure I like the idea of dating Mrs Slocum, luckily I'm no Mr Peacock. I just don't have the height. But I can't help it, call her Sparkling, Mrs Slocum or simply Molly, I'm missing my honey.

I did something odd this morning and formatted my MP3 player thereby wiping off all the music on it. Well you have to have a clean sweep every now and again. I then spent the next hour or so putting music back on. But this time I chose 90 per cent music I hadn't heard a great deal off. OK there's the odd favourite on there, a couple of albums of Bob Newheart and some classic jazz classics which never die in my mind, and hopefully most other peoples minds as well. I'm listening to one of the albums now actually. Except not on the usual headphones I use on account of Mrs Slocum deciding she had to appropriate them because her ones had gone walk about. It's an album by Mr Buble, pronounced Boooblay. Why on earth should someone have a surname of Buble and say it's Boooblay I don't know. Which reminds me of a comedy program with a Mrs Bucket, who used to pronounce her name as Bookay. It's all in a name. Or rather they'd rather not have the name they were born with so plagarise it into something else. I'm a right one saying this. Not that I change the pronounciation of my own name. But I have a tendency every so often of pronouncing other words differently from the norm. A bit like the song about potatoe or potarto, or tomatoe or tomateyoe. In the end it's about understanding and everybody knowing what everybody else means even if the words are pronounced differently.

This Mr Buble isn't too bad. Mrs Slocum loves him, typical. Young, handsome, good voice, and looks sexy. Hey, I could be talking about myself.

Entertained but not fed

I was entertained yesterday, and got paid for it. Bloody marvelous. It was a training course in relation to the Fish Factory. The attendees were few, only 5 of us when there should of been double. We sat down and basically got entertained the whole day. A live actress played different parts as though she were a different person in each part. Either this or she really did have some kind of multiple personalityc complex. Further, I'm glad she was live coz if she was dead it would of only been one part she could of played.

The day passed by quickly. Some of the demonstrations were related in psychological contexts, when examining different personalities. Which I thought were a little on the crude side, if not outdated. I came away with some questions in my mind, wondering if I really did learn anything from it? Whether something happened which would change the way I did things, and I'm still wondering. If you have to think about something then maybe it didn't work. It's like when someone asks you a question and you know they are expecting you to say "yes" but in your heart you want to say "no" so you take a minute or two to deliberate, not saying anything. Their response could be an assumption because you said nothing then you agree. But you haven't. Get what I mean? Well, this was how I felt afterwards, today.

I'm not going to grumble, or should I say I am grumbling, but not loudly. It was a wonderful day. Sun was out. Then they laid on dinner. Unfortunately the cook was not really a cook at all and did a great job at murdering food. it must be a real inherent talent some people have. The kind of person who should never be allowed near a cooking utensil, potatoe, chicken breast, knife, fork. The kind of person who should of been given an intravenous drip to provide all their bodily nutrition, because they have some inner hate towards food. Blimey. Just realised I got another course next week. Better get myself to the shops and buy some sandwich materials. Something I can masacre instead.

The smell of chocolate after Welsh Rabbit

It was odd this morning. I got up a little later than usual, because I just wanted to, and had the beginnings of a headache. Then went into the kitchen and made breakfast. Two slices of toast, the bread was malted brown and then added some cheese on top. The beautiful Welsh Rabbit. I watched the cheese as it began to bubble wondering whether I should wait longer for it to turn a golden brown colour. It didn't because patience had decided to take a hike. I dropped the toast on a plate, spread just a little of piri piri sauce ontop and ate. Listening to the Radio 4, Today program. Finished a cup of tea and unplugged the radio to take upstairs. Going into the front room I was hit by a smell. It was undoubtedly the smell of chocolate powder. The kind used to make hot chocolate drinks. This was odd I thought. The smell of slightly burnt toast would of made more sense however, the kitchen door had been closed. I couldn't understand where it came from. It was just there. So for a moment rather than worry about whether there was some kind of brain thing going on, I took another couple of deep breaths, wondered, just a little and carried on with waking up.

I once read a short story. It took only a few lines in the book. A man is on a cliff he's afraid because it looks like he is going to fall. He stumbles and does fall, except he doesn't scream. As gravity takes its effect and the cliff faces passes him by he grabs out at a flower he sees jutting from a small edge. Calmly as he can, he sniffs it and enjoys the aroma.

Tell you what, bet it wasn't as good as the smell of chocolate.

Fearful imaginations

I was watching a clip from the space shuttle lift of last night, it was a special event because this was the last take off mission. A camera was mounted on the shuttle and the view point kept swopping. From ground to shuttle. As it got higher and higher the ground got further away. I started to wonder what it would be like on the shuttle as the vibrations from one hell of a giant fuel cell candle stick created enough thrust to take it into orbit. Then as the camera veiw went back to the shuttle I began to feel a little queezy, even disorientated. I wasn't on the thing, because I know I was reclined in my non reclining office like chair, but there was a dizzy spell which came over me. Like the ground really was getting further away and I had no wings. Of being helpless. I imagined I had a parachute and was able to drift back to earth. How I would kiss the ground. Fortunately the clip ended and I felt a lot better for it. Being a stupid I then watched it a second time. Except as I got higher off the ground I stopped the clip and turned the player off. Getting dizzy once was more than enough.

This morning I woke up in some wierd comedy dream. I thought it would make a funny book. It was about two men. I think I was on of them, and I was about to have a vasectomy. It was a little disconcerting as I lay there on this table with my legs up. Some chatter happened, I can't recall who was talking to who. But there was some kind of missunderstanding and then I realised I shouldn't of been in this operating theatre. Just about this time a sharp needle was stuck in my scrotum. I got up out of bed and wondered what was going on with me. Where are these self punishing dreams and imaginations coming from? Was there something wrong with my brain chemistry? And was the story good enough to write into a book, so as to make other people laugh. Except now I've forgotten most of what it was. Such is the nature of dreams. I sure hope Sparkling didn't have the same dream, she would of woken up with laughter and I'd never live it down.

A little bit drunk

Got drunk tonight. Rang up sparkling and spoke to her for 4:53 (mins:seconds) I know this because I checked out my mobile phone. She was on her way to bed. Having been up late the previous night. She told me I was drunk after i'd only said a couple of words. I was speaking from a Chinese take away. Lovely. Well the Singapore fried was very lovely. I then followed with a couple of more text messages. I'm not sure what they said. I'll find out in the morning when I am sobre enough to read them and interpret them. But I was careful. Spelling wise. Being drunk, you can't help but do things slowly, and look for support where ever you find it. Standing and leaning against any object, wall or thing which is available. The rice was good. But seeing as the conversation was so short I had no choice but to ring someone else up. It's no good being drunk without some kind of company. You just have to know there is anover person about. Even if what you say is a load of bollocks. I don't talk bollocks all the time. Just when drunk. So rang up L & B man, but got his other half on the line, Civil Service lady. We chatted. I think I talked more bollocks and was eventually passed over to L & B man. He apparently had been in the bath, then had come out and was wearing pink boxer shorts. The bloody tart. Pink!!!!! I will admit to always having my suspicions. Anyone who wears pink boxers has got to be dodgy. I think I told both Civil Service and L & B I loved them. Must of been on account of the leisurely stagger I had. Anyone drunk would know. For some reason the connection between brain and legs gets a bit wobbly. Hence the wobbly walk. Well, at least the chat lasted longer. About the 11 minute range. L & B man said I had rung him up because I was scared of getting mugged. By ringing him up, if I handed my phone to the mugger he'd then tell them in his strong Scotish accent to leave me alone and I'd be fine. Thing is when you are staggering about, you don't really give a second thought about muggers. Well i don't. I was completely happy. As long as they gave me time to have a chit chat. OK must go now. Have a cup of tea waiting and need to sobre up a little bit. Not a lot, just a little. Love you all x x x

Just seen an interview with a 16 year old rapper called Fugative. He said he had began writing songs at the age of 7. I expect it was Postman Pat. The interviewer equally as dumb stated so you have been doing this for 10 years then. This is what the world calls dumbing down.

Sparkling's ghostly promise

I've often stated there is no such thing as ghosts. Yet on the other hand I've been quaking in my shoes such things actually exist. Which is a contradiction in itself to not believe in something means it can not exist. For some unknown reason the two opposing views are able to be present at the same time in my mind. No matter how hard I try to shake off the notion there may actually be ghosty things out there, and no matter how logical and sane my head happens to be at the time. I'm aware of the little shivers which can crawl down the back but these are just a reaction from the nervous system, they don't mean anything else. Even trying to reason with myself is at fault. It's something difficult to do, reason with yourself I mean. Anyway. Sparkling has similar sentiments. However, she has said to me if anything happens to her she will come back as a ghost to scare the living daylights out of me. I don't know why this is, but her macarbre sense of humour stretches beyond anything I could think of, I certainly wouldn't want to come back and scare people witless. But Sparkling does, no one else, just moi. Not an enemy, not someone she utterly hates, but me. Great. Looks like I'll be wearing adult nappies when I'm old, bald, fatter and a lot greyer all over. Brill, I look forward to it.

Some time up North

It's day 5 at the House of Sparkling. Last night when I came out of the bathroom there she stood and "boo'd" me. My heart lost a beat. On another occaision while trying to help removed mascara from her face she reacted as though about to bite my finger off. The other night when Dangerous Sports Lad had left I became the subject of Rock Chick's humour. I was down and out in the first round. There was no letting up with it. I said to Rock Chick "you are dangerous" it was then I so wished Dangerous Sports Lad was back to keep her entertained. As a mark of Sparkling's impact on Rock,Rock let me into a macarbre secret. She said she was happy when Dangerous was miserable. When he was on the moan she took pleasure. Hmmm. It was like she was saying the only person who can make him happy was me. So he'd better be bloody miserable in any other circumstances. There is some odd power there. She has insight. Unfortunately, insight into men at the ripe age of something or other which I'll not say here.

Sparkling went off to work on an unexpected call out this afternoon. I was left alone with Rock and tried my usual dribble chat. She wasn't having it and it ended in Rock Chick telling me not to talk rubbish to her and to shut up. This morning I nearly fell down the stairs as the cat decided to try and trip me up. He would not stop meowing. I fed him then went back to bed. He meowed some more.

My alcohol consumption has gone up again. Sparkling was amused as I polished off the better part of a bottle of wine and shouted at the political debate on TV. "He's lying" I yelled. Of course he was, whoever he happened to be. Sparkling is mad at me because I'm not voting this election. Each moment she gets to rub my nose into it she does. Apparently I am allowed no say at all in politics now. If I say too much the finger point comes out, the index finger point. Yes I know, I deserve it. I just finished a portion of chips and curry sauce, Sparkling turned, looked at me and said "you're a typical man, Bud and chips." Maybe not so typical I interjected. Better get some cream and do her feet now, I'm on call after all.

And so have been my experiences these past few days.