A review of the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and a Happy new year for 2012

There is a quote I came across the other day it is:

"Learn from the past and look to the future"

So it should be with 2012.  A time to look on what has gone before and hopefully a little wiser greet the new year with a glass in the air.   Although personally I'm still catching up on my sleep after Scotland so I could well be asleep before the new year comes in.  If I'm snoring away then nothing will disturb me.  If it's anything like last year there will be fewer people opening their doors and windows than before as the old goes out and the new comes in.

This afternoon I took Layabout lad out to watch a movie.  The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  I'd read the book so already knew what the film was about however, if anyone went to see the film without knowing the story I'm sure they could easily get lost.  Truth be told the English version of Sieg Larson's book is quite accurate, unfortunately it is a little boring.  I doubt if it will break the box office and if it does it will be because of the hype from earlier sales of the book.  Were there no book success no way would movie of attracted so much attention.  Watch this space though, my prediction is it will be a flop, a big flip flop.  Somethings just sometimes don't convert to picture format.  The written word while engrossing and exciting to read, except for the first sixty pages doesn't play so well.  It's one of those things which should really of been done in a series.  In this way more depth in the characters and sub stories could of been interwoven.  Perhaps a set of six or even twelve episodes might of suited it.  Then it should of been sold to the rest of the world.  It would of only been something the BBC could have done justice in making, lets face it they are amongst the best two or three TV series makers in the world.  As for Daniel Craig playing one of the main characters, Mikael Blomvkvist he really was too young and not fat enough for the image I drew from the book.  Where Blomkvist is portrayed as a middle aged, bit more worldly, slightly overweight investigative journalist.  Craig doesn't pull this off because he doesn't physically hit this portrait but also because he has already been James Bond and Bond is still too fresh an image in the public eye.  Lisbeth Salander is played by Rooney Mara.  Someone I have not seen act before.  Although Mara may have the physical characteristics of Salander, I am unfortunately not entirely convinced in her portrayal she does not come across as hard enough of psycho enough.  This could in part be down to the directing and editing of the movie, which leaves out little linking snippets which would give the film more sense.  Her performance was a little on the flat side, like coke without the sparkle, you endure it but it's just not satisfying.  To sum up, my advice is: don't see the film unless you have seen the book and really want to complete the loop because it will not leave you wanting more and will leave to many questions on your mind.  It demands attention and concentration, so don't see it if you are drunk as well, unless you need to sleep.

So with this as my last BLOG for 2011, happy new year to all.

Thanks for reading.

Last return to London for 2011

Well I am back in London after an uneventful journey.  In part this is a shame as I have now got used to the routine of claiming back fares when the operator is late.  The later they are the more I can reclaim, but there is always next time, and I'm sure there will be.  Already I am missing Sparkling Eyes, Rock Chick and Dangerous Sports Lad.  I managed to eventually get used to being woken up early in the morning as Dangerous got in from work, the cat Olly behaved himself mostly and didn't get me up at 2 a.m. in the morning wanting feeding and a run.  While Sparkling kept me fed and watered and will claim it is my own fault if I put on more weight, because I should learn to keep my mouth shut.  Of course.  The thing with Chrimbo it's a time of over indulgence and a lot of pounds in weight have been put on in the Western hemisphere I'm sure.  I was also pleasantly surprised to find a Kylie calendar Chrimbo present unopened.  What an artist.  She's on my wall now, I'd like to say looking down on me but being as she's struck in a pose with her eyes closed she's not really looking anywhere.  Further, she is a bit of a short arse.  However, the reality for me was my Chrimbo ending last night when Rock Chick beat me at Scrabble.  I used every excuse I could think of, but she did it fair and square.  Although it was funny catching her lean over and look at my letters when I had walked out of the room.  Naughty Rock Chick.  Never mind, I will be able to see Sparkles and Rock again in a couple of weeks time when I next go up North.  Between now and then I'll try and get in a few pages or dictionary reading.

Tomorrow I'm back at the Fish Factory.  Just the one day then off again as new year hits.  Next year if I am lucky, I may even do more BLOGs than I did this year.  Which would be something.  Life goes on.  Presently my eyes are closing of their own accord, telling me I need to hit the hay early.  There is only so much partying one tired fat man can do then it hits.  Merry Chrimbo one and all.  I'll write tomorrow.

Chrimbo day stuffing, a late Chinese and an anaphylactic shock

Strange how Chrimbo days are times of special events.  If it's not a psychological war of the between relatives there's something else going on.  Which is probably one reason why I have spent more years in Scotland than in London at Chrimbo.  It's a little more calming to be in the presence of Sparkling for me.  I just happen to feel more relaxed around her.  Even when things are not going well at the Fish Factory, which unfortunately has been on my mind quite a bit lately as well as nose bleeds from high blood pressure and bouts of mad-man-anger.  Just to say there are a few things I need to get off my chest in the Factory.  Fortunately, Sparkling is understanding and together we have done our best not to allow the steamed up crazy-red-popping-anger head to get a hold.  Although I will say it does get more difficult bringing it down over a period of time.  Enough of that.  So as I was saying.  Besides the times of psychological permanent scarring, which in this wonderful man-made-christian event, other things tend to happen.  Things which can not be anticipated.  Like they have been pulled out of a magician's bag, and instead of a white rabbit there's a bloody pink elephant.  Like someone has been drinking too many martinis.  The magician's bag obviously belongs to Doctor Who.  There can be no other explanation.  So it was as this Chrimbo day came to be other things decided to take place as well.

As a change from the norm of dried up turkey, we decided to have a dried Chinese instead.  However, Chinese isn't dried up and tastes a lot better.  So the order was put in for a Chinese, it was due to arrive at 5 p.m., in the mean time Sparkling decided to put a few items in the oven, little snack things needing to be cooked off.  Mini sausages, stuffing balls, prawn sesame slice things, the usual little snacks.  It was some time between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. when Sparkles had taken these out of the oven and took a fancy to trying one of the stuffing balls.  These were sticking to the silver foil and ended up being a disaster in more than one way.  She pulled one off the foil and thought no more of taking a couple of bites.  The rest of the bits and pieces were put on plates ready for the evening's party.  The Chinese pre ordered would be on it's way, and Rock Chick with Dangerous Sports lad in tow had done a little bit of Chrimbo visiting.  This left just me and Sparkles in the house.  I went into the kitchen to see how things were going and Sparkles looked at me.  It was a worried look, a frightened kind of stare she had in her eyes.  Followed by the words "I'm taking a reaction.  To the stuffing balls."  Sparkles pulled up her sleeves and there I could see the tell tale sign of hives.  Big blooming blotchy skin welts all over her forearms.  Oh my gaud, I thought.  It's real, it's a anaphalatic shock.  Sparkling was nervous and shaking.  She drank water and there was a problem with swallowing.  I wanted to call the ambulance, Sparkling kept shaking her head.  Saying "no, I'm trying to get it under control."  I wanted to ring immediately but Sparkles was doing her best to keep control.  I felt myself welling up inside, a bubbling kind of panic.  Heck, I didn't know what to do.  Sparkling gave way and I rang the emergency services.

It seemed to take forever to get through to the ambulance service, while inside me I was thinking every second counts.  Sparkles was blotchy and red, she said she was having a problem drinking water.  She had gave a gagging motion when she tried a sip or two.  The operator came through, I gave details of address, Sparklings age and then answered some simple questions.  Like "is she conscious?" fortunately for me she was I don't know how I'd of held it together were she not.   The ambulance was on its way.  The operator asked

"Has she used her eppipen?"
"No."
"Then tell her she has to use her pen."
"Darling, you have to use your pen."  Sparkles was sat on the arm of a chair, half panting and kind of nodding her head to say yes she knew she had to use it.  The voice returned on the end of the phone.
"Has she used her pen?"
"No, not yet."
"You have to use your pen Sparkling."  She looked at me once, looked at the pen and plunged it hard into the side of her thigh.  It was dull.  She looked at the pen again, pulled the top off and again stabbed it at her thigh.
"Has she used the pen?"
"Yes, she has now used the pen."
"OK, tell her the ambulance is on the way, keep her calm they will be there soon.  I will stay on the phone to they arrive.  How is she?"

Somewhere in between this conversation I managed to make another phone call to Rock Chick to get and tell her about the situation.  The conversation went on with the lady on the end of the phone, I managed to keep it together and not turn into a screwed up panicking mess.  Even though I was feeling like this on the inside.  An emergency medic turned up, he attached a machine to Sparkling which monitored her vitals.  Pulse rate was 67, blooming Aida I thought, Sparkles is an athlete.  Blood pressure was high, which apparently was a good sign in this situation.  It's when the blood pressure drops a full anaphalactic Chrimbo after all.  Rock and Dangerous walked in to be greeted by three emergency personnel. 

In the back of my mind I kept wondering where the blooming Chinese was, and if it turned up now whether there would be enough to share amongst everyone.  We'd find a way I thought.  But it didn't come to it.  The machine was disconnected and little sticky pads were left on Sparkling's arms.  We were all relieved.  Sparkles had an adrenaline high over the next couple of hours and the stuffing balls went in the bin.

Long live the dry turkey.

Chrimbo humbug

For some reason it does not feel like Chrimbo.  There is no snow, it is not cold enough and we're in a recession.  Personally I am a humbug man so weather or recession wouldn't matter, I'd still be a humbug man.  I wasn't always like this, and used to be one of those people who had a funny feeling around Chrimbo time.  Get overly emotional for peace to mankind, or should I say allkind, as saying mankind excludes women, Sparkling would kill me, so it's allkind, include women and soft cuddly animals as well.  Ok lets re-phrase and say every living animal because even crocodiles have feelings. I think.  Except crocks like to hide their feelings under their cool rugged skinned exterior.  Personally I don't get close to crocks to find out what their opinions are on the matter.   Except I believe they also have taken a humbug stance on Chrimbo.

Things are different though depending on how old you are.  Christmas is the highlight day for all children and as adults our highlight is seeing them happy.  It's like when I see Monster Boy, he brings me happiness as his personality shines through.  I told him a couple of weeks ago he had to get home quickly before it got dark because of the vampires and ghosts who like to eat up little boys.  I then forgot about this.  A few days ago he repeated what I'd said to him, and my response was along the lines of "what idiot said that to you?"  I deserved it when he reflected it back on me and said those wise words had come from my mouth.  Not much I could do there.  Just accepted it, I'd been outwitted by an eleven year old.  Which in a funny way made me happy as well.  Monster Boy is definitely looking forward to Chrimbo, I'm sure it's the presents bit which he likes most of all. There is a big enthusiasm to open up presents, there's not much of enthusiasm to tidy up afterwards, but that don't matter, as long as he is happy.  Odd how seeing others happiness reflects back. 

I'm sitting in Sparkling's house, having wrapped up a couple of presents for her.  I was kicked out of bed this morning when the man from Amazon turned up with a parcel.  I've been told this is mine.  I asked whether Sparkling wanted me to wrap it as well.  She was OK with this, but I decided not.  It just seemed odd I should wrap up my own present, a little like Mr Bean writing his own birthday card and then pretending to be surprised when he opens it.  However, Sparkles is working today and will be working a twelve hour shift on Chrimbo eve.  She is a hard worker and enjoys her job, but there is only so far she will go when one of her customers asked she work fourteen hours.  Which she will not. I'll hardly get a chance to see her tomorrow, but at least I'll be here and I'll be able to wish her a happy Chrimbo on Chrimbo day, humbug or no humbug this is something which will make me very happy. 

Merry Chrimbo to everybody.

Music and seat dancing

It's been a while since I listened to music on my MP3 player.  It has been misplaced in a pocket somewhere and it's a matter of finding it.  So once in a while in the evenings I find myself venturing onto YouTube to listen to music videos.  Yesterday it was songs with the Ukelele, which I am sure is an incredibly underrated instrument, maybe I say this because I got my eye on buying one for myself and learning.  This evening I popped on YouTube again and caught up with a little more of Steph Stephenson, a young lady with loads of talent just waiting to be given a break.  Well she had written a comment on one of my BLOGs so I felt obliged to go and listen to some more of her work.  She's a passionate in her music and it comes through in her songs.  It's odd though how missing out on something like an MP3 player can make you want to stop, pause, and seek out that something which has been missing.  Until that is I get my Uke, then I'll be able to make my own music.  OK learning how to play the thing has got to come first, but it does only have four strings so it has got to be less complicated than any other stringed instrument.  I mean four strings.  How hard can it be?  I'll find out if this notion doesn't fly away on a wing and a prayer, hopefully not before I've composed my first song, or learnt someone elses song and played it.  Taking it for granted I can even remember the words.  I'll probably start of with something simple like Ten Green Bottles.  I mean, four strings.

It's getting cold outside and Chrimbo is on the way.  The two just happen this year to be related, usually it doesn't get to be cold until late January and then into February, but we may well have a white Chrimbo.  Watch this space.

I've now hopped into YouTube again with a song by Adele, an awsome artist, original music, her own words, written when she was sad and lonely and expressing herself "someone like you" a brilliant song.  I then find myself singing even though I don't know the words and I to am singing with passion, with my heart hoping I'm a little bit in tune.  A little bit is good enough.  I'm tired though because I didn't sleep again last night.   Damn, I think I got a good voice, heck when nobody listens the voice is excellent, it's what other people think.  Shame.  Ok now dropped in to hear a Maroon 5, "moves like Jagger,"  OK am dancing in my seat.  It's called seat dancing, yep we've all done it.  It's the beat I can't help it my body has taken over.   Well that's over with, now for some Amy Winehouse and "monkeyman."  Well who'd of believed the best way to keep warm on a cold night was to do some seat dancing.

Finding the murderer

I have been watching a TV series called "Death in Paradise," by the BBC.  It's a who-done-it type of series set on one of the islands in the Caribbean and I highly recommend it.  The main detective is an Englishman through and through, the stereotype of what the rest of the world thing an Englishman should be.  No matter how hot it is he is always wearing suit, he enjoys a cup of tea  and is emotionally withdrawn.  Not prone outbursts.  So there is a comedic element which makes it good viewing.  The actor is Ben Miller playing Detective Inspector Richard Poole.  Poole's counterpart who is emotional and opinionated is Camille Bordey played by french actor Sara Martins, she is Poole's thorn, but she also adds a little feminine sex appeal as does Bordey's mother.  Again you could say there is a bit of stereotyping here because the BBC have chosen a sexy French woman to play the part.  The program is delightful, however as I've now watched seven episodes, even I am beginning to work out who the murderer is.  Unlike the Piorot series where it is always difficult to work out who the killer is.  Then Agatha Christie did go out of her way to make characters like cardboard and weave so many superficial red herrings so as to make it impossible to guess who the murderer would be.  Cerebraly challenging to an extent but also in the confusion of clues I'd say unsatisfying. 

So on the latest episode of Death in Paradise, I guessed who the murderer was within two minutes.  However, I didn't know the reason why.  To find a murderer there are three commandments to establish: motive, opportunity and means.  The most important usually is motive.  Money is always a good reason, but there are multiple motives all of which are the failings of the human condition.  Anger, avarice, jealousy, blackmail, dishonour but to name a few.  With the advent of multiple CSI based other TV series it goes without even saying forensics are vitally important.  However, these can be limited.  It was really Sherlock Holmes who first used forensics, and his great mental powers of deduction to establish events no other human could, hence came his famous saying

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

There have been times when I have used this line of reasoning to come to a conclusion, however it is long winded and is based on the notion you can think up enough probably and weird events which are possible but become improbably as they are disregarded.  The thing being, you never actually know whether you have come up with the actual reason of something happening.  There is a little bit of crossing your fingers and hoping to die.  For instance, one permanent probability would be little green men from a spaceship did it.  Except most of the time this becomes improbably unless you happen to be viewing an episode of the X files in which case anything would be possible.  Note, Fox doesn't always get it right.  So what have we got then?  The murderer is usually someone who is known to the victim.  The murderer will usually have a reason of vital importance, it is to their advantage the victim is no longer around.  However, when watching a TV program this is usually hidden as much as possible and only comes out fully at the end of the script.  Or if it is known there is a couple of other red herrings with just as much justification for having the victim dead.  The murderer usually makes a mistake.  Well, lets face it.  They have to make a mistake, because if they don't then they are not going to get caught.  I'm sure it wouldn't be much excitement to have a TV series called "How to Get Away with Murder," it certainly wouldn't do the world much good if there was one.  Crimes would be happening left right and centre otherwise.  The one thing no TV producer wants to do is encourage breaking the law.  Lastly, the detective is always out of the ordinary.  They have some quirk of personality which makes you attached to them.  The ones who don't and I can think of a particular detective with no endearing quirks, is completely boring.  For a viewer, you don't want boring, otherwise the channel will be hopped.  Or worse a book is picked up, a BLOG written, or a phone call made to someone you just need to talk to. 

Well, where am I?  No one to talk to, bored of reading, already seen a detective program, ahh dear Watson it must be BLOG time.  The murderer is....

Awake at two thirty : racing thoughts and elusive butterflys

I woke up at two thirty this morning.  It wasn't like my sleep was disturbed because there was silence.  Or anything to do with a bad dream, neither did I feel uncomfortable.  I just woke up.  Fully woke up.  It had only been three hours since I went to bed, by all sense and logic I should of been crying out to sleep.  This wasn't the case.  I felt awake and alert.  Yet knowing I should be asleep kept me in bed.  For a while I tossed and turned.  Hoping my mind would not continue to race along.  Somehow just by laying there I thought sleep would catch me again, like a butterfly in a net.  Except this fluttering need was quite out of reach for my net.  I jumped up but it was way too high to be retrieved again.  So I got up out of bed and made a cup of tea.  Threw the cat out and decided he'd have to fend for himself for a few hours and accept the chill, it would be his own fault.  He should learn to tell the time.  Going to the kitchen to make tea helped, but I didn't have my radio with me, so it wasn't like I could relax in a chair and listen to some talk show for a moment.  I drank up and returned to bed.  Again I lay there for a few moments and decided it was best to try a little reading.  I picked up a book and read about the origins of the phrase Pyrrhic Victory.  It was interesting.  My eyes tired just a little bit.  Not a lot, so I again laid down and tried.  It was still no use.  I lay there and let my mind do it's crazy chasing thoughts.  I was thinking of the earlier day at the Fish Factory.  Too much stuff going on.  Big Momma and her crazy ways.  For a sane person in a crazy world life can be difficult, enough to make talk to the birds in the hope they will actually listen.  A reality is, crazy people are difficult.

I head off to the Fish Factory now.  It will be an early start, a lot earlier than normal.  With a little luck it may give me time and space to do things before other fishes turn up.  I try my best to take note from a Latin phrase Festina Lente, briefly translated it means make haste slowly.  Mind it's not so much the haste I need, more of the sleep.

A twitching eye and a ukelele

My eye has been twitching, or rather the eyelid.  I don't know why, it just does.  I'm putting it down to stress, it's happened before at various times in my existence and it's started up again.  I've been watching American Beauty.  Still the eye has intermittent twitches.  No matter how cool Kevin Spacey is, how he confronts his life and decides to leave the rat race, my eye still twitches.  Maybe it's eye strain as well.  Spacey's character wants to feel alive again and he goes through a second childhood, blackmailing his boss as he leaves, smoking dope and then taking up weights to impress a teenage girl, a friend of his daughter.  His relationship with his wife played by Annette Bening deteriorates a little more each day.  At one point in a scene where he is on a couch and trying to reconcile things with her she then tells him not to spill his beer.  It's another pivotal point of break down.  He's fighting against the machine of normality, breaking free and wanting to be different.  To feel how he used to as a growing up teenager.  We can never go back.  For the moment my eye has stopped twitching.  What is it all about Spacey?  The need to live, to feel alive and not dulled like an overused instrument.  Every now and again we need tuning and only then can we get on the dull drudgery and tedium of routine.  It's routine which pays the bills, a necessary, unavoidable reality of reality.  

I asked a colleague at the Fish Factory who is a serious musician, what's the easiest stringed instrument is to learn. He says it's the ukulele, it only has four strings, is small so can be easily carried about and it don't cost a great deal to get a reasonably good one.  Once you learn how to use it, it's then a stepping stone onto something else.  The uke doesn't seem particularly exciting though.  It's not as if a lot of people carry them about.  There's no famous uke players which come to mind.  It has no reputation at all as far as I know.  But easy to learn does have it's advantages, and it wouldn't be such a commitment.  Hell, learning something from scratch no matter what it is, is a commitment.  Truth is, beginning anything it will sound like crap to start with, just like an old clarinet I have hidden away, I once tried to play it but it was frustratingly slow and I didn't have the commitment.  What makes me think it would be any different with a uke.  Besides the fact with a clarinet you need good teeth, once I'm old and mine have fallen out playing it wont be an option.  A uke doesn't need good teeth to be played.  Maybe I'm just looking for a change.  Something different.  Something to rock the boat.  The uke is small, it will hardly rock the boat, but, if I were up the river in a canoe without a paddle but did have a uke, it might be of some usefulness.  

The film must of done something, because my eye's stopped twitching, either that or the thought of life with a uke.

Idiots and histrionics

Getting slowly drunk on diet Pepsi and JD's.  I chose the diet Pepsi because it was 40 pence cheaper than real Coke Cola, and the diet because I'm fat and have to watch every calorie, though it hasn't stopped me from going to the kitchen to pick up a biscuit, a small and not very good biscuit either.  I mean if you have to blow your diet you really should go for a proper chocolate biscuit Crazy.  I'm happy.  I don't think it is the JD and coke which is doing it, but it's the random hormone displacement of a late 40s male.  It happens.  Even us grumpy old men are happy at times.  This wasn't the case earlier.  When I did indeed feel angry.  I was on the bus coming back from the local DIY store and as the bus passed a group of teens, one of them, the taller teen boy, with an American cool baseball hat, to make him pretend he is something more important than he really is stuck his fingers up at the bus.  In a kind of Gangsta rap, dissing way.  I got off at the next stop and was angry.  I thought to myself I could easily turn round face off this teenage shit and hit him really hard.  An upper cut.  I could see it.  Fortunately for me and for the teenage wana-be; little tosser.  I instead dwelled on why I was feeling angry.  In psychology this kind of anger is displacement.  It relates to something else, something unrelated and the teenager though a complete tosser wasn't deserving of a broken jaw, even if it would of taught him a lesson.  Tempting, yes?  I can see you now nodding your head, whoever you are.  Maybe I should rename this BLOG Angry Old Man, or Grumpy Old Man.  So I deleved into what it was which was making me feel this way.  Feel the red devil, so to say.  It was related to two individuals.  Dopey Sophia and Mrs Talkative, both my sisters.

I am expecting the Talkatives to turn up tomorrow.  It's been about six months since I've seen them.  The kids are great, well nearly, but then we have to accept what we are dealt with as family.  Whether you happen to be speaking to them or not.  Even though there are suspicions of mental illness, which I now have come to understand is most people have a degree of some kind of illness, it's just a matter of whether they can function in a relatively normal way or not.  The truth being we just all get by.  Mrs Talkative, shouts at her children and it makes what would be a relatively quite Sunday into a battle ground as when one child screams at another then she jumps in and tells them to shut up.  Loudly.  It is another instance of a quite Sunday gone to waste.  Like last weekend when Stupid Sophia turned up just as I was trying to cook the Sunday meal.  I had even sliced up and prepared an aubergine.  I was really looking forward to it.  I had it all planned out.  There she suddenly was with Big Momma and a ton of washing to be done.  She was then poking about and nosing about at what I was cooking.  I had to vacate the kitchen, I just felt I could not be in the same room as her.  I was cringing in her presence.  Her whole demeanour is so self centred and sapping of life it is not normal.  So I removed myself from the situation and sat in the front room.  Watching TV, just hoping she would come into the front room so I could move back into the kitchen and finish the lunch.  She didn't.  I went out after half an hour and ate at a Chinese, where it so happens I seem to be spending nearly all of my lunch times.  I didn't get to taste the meal.  I got angry because my Sunday had been irretrievably invaded and disturbed.  The washing could of been done at any tme.  Sunday was my chill down time.  So again, this week it is similar, unlike last Sunday which was unplanned, this Sunday I've had warning and it was planned.  A different reason, but still the anger.  So I realised after some contemplation, although the teenager deserved his head beaten in, it wasn't by me, with my displaced anger.  Then of course there is always the reality of how I feel and what I actually do.  I'm sure if people saw the withheld angry man they would think I was psycho, they'd probably be right, but the thing is I don't behave it.  This is rationality winning out against irrational emotionalism.  Just as it is so easy when witnessing this histrionic outburst in other people to judge them as unstable.  So stability is keeping control, oh what a waxing and waining war that really is.

I realised, I was putting too much coke in my drink because rather than getting merry and pissed, I just tend to frequent the bathroom and get slightly pissed.  Now with a reduced Pepsi Cola level, the JDs is really working properly.  Strange how the drink looks really foamed up, like it has a tad of washing up liquid in it.  I'm sure it hasn't, it just looks like it has.  I'm happy because I have sat and thought of Sparkling and how happy she makes me feel.  Our holiday to Malta wasn't so long ago, and the memories of it make me smile as well.  It will be good seeing the nephews and nieces, I'll try not to make too much of a judgement of the one who is an idiot, after all, there seems to be lots of them about and now days you have to be as PC as possible.

The Old Witch is funnier than you think

I popped into my local for my one pint of Guinness, or rather two tonight.  Then found myself at the end of a seat next to the Old Witch.  I can tolerate her company but it's difficult.  Especially not being able to get a word in edge ways when she is on a role.  She's like this with other people and a lot of just can't stomach her opinions.  Overbearing can be a word which comes to mind.  But after my first pint and then realising I shouldn't try to get into a conversation with her because a conversation is a two way thing I sat and listened.  She said when she was a girl (a pretty long time ago that was as well) she used to make Dundee cake.  "You know what it's like" she said.  "It had to have all those peels and then the blanched nuts.  We used to start in January."  I nodded my head. "It took forever."  Then "that's why I go to Marks and Spencer's now."  I don't know why but this made me laugh.  It could be because in the last hour or so at the fish factory things had got real manic, moaning fish left right and centre.  I should of got out of there earlier.  So the pub was an absolute must.

There happened to be a group of people in the back having a Chrimbo meal.  A few ladies walked through the front of the pub to the back.  One of them had a paper hat on, the kind which comes out of a cracker.  The Old Witch said, "look at her.  Or is it a him, what does she look like?" Of course I didn't answer this as maybe the start of the second pint was starting to hit me and you really shouldn't encourage comments about the way people look.  I should know I'm scarred by Sparkling saying I dance like a spazz.  Anyway the Witch went on "I can't tell if it's a woman or a man."  It was a woman but perhaps a little on the larger side.  I She looked through the pub to the back and began again.  "There's a few of them there, what do they look like?  Where on earth do they get those clothes from?  Look, look, at the one with the red hat." This was a red cowboy type of hat with white tinsel around it, obviously Chrimbo related.  "You should see them later in the night.  They come in here looking like tarts... mutton tarts."  I don't know what the Witch had been drinking but she certainly was on form. 

At some point in the evening a young lad came in and sat opposite the Witch.  I was introduced to him, Cambridge lad who had just got a pretty easy job doing very little.  She had known his mother and he saw her like a second mother.  Their banter was funny as well.  Unlike me he, told her she was not listening to him or giving him a chance to answer her questions.  Then somewhere out of the blue he slipped in a remark the Old Witch was paranoid and bi-polar.  In a humorous way.  But he had certainly hit a point most others would not speak allowed.  She was not offended by him.  They got on well and he left after a soft drink.  What an interesting short stop in the pub I thought.   After this I braved the weather and stepped out into the chilly air.  Calmed and happy to head home, it must of been the effects of the Guinness and a laugh.. 

This evening I found even those with mental health problems can have a sense of humour and even be company.

Go tell your service provider to shove it where the sun don't shine

This evening I have made the first real effort towards towards getting a different Internet connection.  However, before doing this I have to request a MAC code (Migration Authorisation Code) from my provider.  This motivation has come out of being shafted for an overpriced broadband line and not being given a discount because I had been a loyal customer.  So I thought to myself they can stuff their broadband where the sun doesn't shine.  Sod em.  Though they did give me a phone call about six months ago saying they would reduce the costs of my broadband for a few months if I agreed to a further 18 month contract.  Then they shafted me with an additional cost because now I was going to get a paper bill.  All because my original service provider had been eaten up by a bigger fish, may I add a bigger fish I just did not want to be with anyway.  May I also say the phone call originated from a person who lives in a developing country and not the UK either, I'm sure I wrote an earlier blog on it, where I took great delight in keeping them talking on the phone for at least twenty to thirty minutes.  I'm not saying they were in another country because they had a foreign accent, which she did, I'm saying it because I simply asked her and she said yes she was talking from India.  I considered I had done a great job for humankind in keeping someone chatting for longer than necessary and equally wasting their life.  It's normally OK for them to waste my life, so on that occasion I got some payback.  Oh how payback is sweet.  Except for now.  When my quest was to ask for a MAC code, because I felt like a dentist about to extract a wisdom tooth from the mouth of someone who had locked their jaw tight shut. 

In this instance the service provider was someone in the UK, well I'm guessing they were because they spoke English without any accent at all.  Which was the only pleasant factor.  After jumping through a hundred hurdles navigating the automated telephone system I got to talk to a female called Becky somewhere in this country..  I wondered to myself, how convenient the service provider had used a caller centre based here, where as previously it was India.  It obviously takes into account it's best to be understood when someone wants to break of a long term relationship and so they wanted the message to be clear.  Or rather lets say they wanted to not give out the MAC code and by using a sales representative who could understand or purposefully not understand what you say they might, just might be able to persuade me not to get this code.  In doing so they could linger on our relationship, in bliss while they made more and more money out of the poor unsuspecting sap.  Unfortunately for them I am not unsuspecting or a sap.  Becky, clearly was more interested in giving me a different broadband package, she said they had the cheapest service.  I said they don't.  She said it was because of the paper billing and I'd opted out of receiving telephone sales from them.  I'm bloody glad I did.  I replied sharp but politely I just wanted a MAC code.   She then went on and advised it would take 5 working days to get a MAC code to me and it would be posted out and emailed.  I then asked what address it would be emailed to and she gave me the original service provider one I got when first joining and have never used.  I then gave her the correct email address.  After which she digressed back into selling mode and tried her beset to get me hooked again.  I cut her off and repeated again I just wanted my MAC code and could I have it please.  She said there was some legal jargon she had to read out first but then before she started with the legal crap she again tried to sell me a new package.  Eventually I heard the legal jargon, realised she was not going to give me the code over the phone, abruptly thanked her in my stern-don't-mess-with-me voice and ended the call.  So now I sit twiddling my thumbs waiting.

I guess I will get a similar drawn out discussion when I next leave a provider.  What is it with Service Providers?  It's like they don't like to hear the word "no" and think they are smarter than your wallet.  Let me tell you something Service Providers of the world, wallets have got a hell of a lot more teeth on them so bloody watch it.  Of course you will notice I have not indicated who the Service Provider is on here.  I do not want to give them additional publicity, and after all they are really all the same.  They want one thing "your money!!!!"  That's what they want, your money.  So again I'll sit here waiting and in these five days I'll stew something bad, because when I eventually receive the MAC code I'll change provider double quick and cancel the direct debit.  As I'm no longer under any contract with them they certainly know what they can do then with their service.  Yes, shove it where the sun don't shine.

Its cold out and the cat's pissing in the loo

It's starting to get cold out.  Winter has popped it's head around the corner and blown into the air.  I can feel it, luckily this morning I put on a thermal vest and have felt shielded.  In Scotland there has even been snow and ice, there it's minus one.  Here in London it's been five degrees.  This is a far cry from Malta's 17 degree winter chill I was feeling just a few weeks ago.  I can understand why people go to hot countries in the winter and come back to the UK in the summer.  It makes sense, six months here and six months there.  Keep out of the cold and in the warm, suffer not the burn of chilblains.

Our cat Stinky is pissing on the floor of the loo.  I wonder if he's feeling the chill? There's no doubt about it.  He's a dirty little bugger, if his bollocks weren't already detached they'd be removed.  In fact, I might attach a pair of bollocks to him just to get the pleasure of cutting them off.  The toilet now has a cat piss smell about it.  The door doesn't close properly when it's closed, so it's easy for him to push it open with his paw.  He's now got into the habit.  For a week we'd been pulling the door closed so it clicked in place and he couldn't get in there.  Then Big Mama forgets to do it and he pisses there.  It's no good for the chip board floor which appears to have the surface start of rot.  He'll get more than imaginary bollocks cut off if he keeps it up. I tried searching on the Internet to find out a little about cats.  It seems chastising them doesn't work.  But hell it helps me when I shout at him or stick his nose to the carpet.   It helps me because he keeps away from the toilet if I'm around.  The cat's mind appears not so much a mind as one running on histrionics according to the literature.  I ask, who the hell can get into the mind of a cat?  Surely only a cat can.  Next time he does it I'll get angry again.  I'm pissed off with the smell of cat piss while I shave in the morning, it's not anything like the fragrance of Armani.  One source indicated cats dislike the smell of citrus.  Personally I think he'd dislike the smell of dog.  One big butch Rottweiler please, just to guard the loo.  I'm sure it would keep him out of there.  Only thing is what do you do with a Rotty when that begins to shit in the loo?  Well, I suppose dogs can always be trained, cats are too high strung and need a 24/7 psychiatrist to unfold the workings of their brains.  I'm so fed up now I don't want to stroke him, because if I stroke him he may in some weird cat way believe I am giving him approval.  Which is something I don't want to give him for making me wince from the stink of his piss in the morning. It's not like he is a useful cat, he's never caught any of the pigeons who think our garden is a playground and dance on the roof at four a.m. when they wake up.  In summer that is.  For sale, one screwed up pissy cat.  I wonder what I'd get for him on ebay?  Or whether some group of cat lovers will want to beat the shit out of me for even thinking about it.  Hell, they can have Stinky for free, no charge of any kind.  Just add comments to this post, I'll eagerly check it in the next ten minutes to see if there's any replies.

If it's not the pissing it's the morning meows.  They will begin anytime from two a.m. onwards.  He sure can't blame it on the pigeons because he sleeps in the kitchen.  But it doesn't stop him crying out for a couple of hours just waiting for someone to get up and let him out.  I'll let the bugger out alright, but I'll not let him in. Letting him piss in the cold will certainly not effect the toilet.  God now I got to think about a rotting floor, a plumber and a carpenter will cost a fortune to fix it if the bloody thing gets real bad.  Big Momma doesn't understand these things, no matter how much I tell her.  The reality of this pissy floor could be hundreds of pounds.

OK for sale, One pissy cat, otherwise quite affectionate and lazy to boot.  What will you offer me on this cold chilly day?

Will the e-reader be the demise of the printed book?

I been looking at a new device just developed.  It's the e-reader.  There are two common ones on the market, one is a Kindle and the other is Kobo.  They are very flat screens which display books, but rather than pages to turn all you do is brush the screen or press a button.  At first investigation these may be pretty wonderful devices, they can hold thousands of books, depending on what specification purchased.  Their batteries last a long time as well and they can be read in sunlight.  Also unlike a newspaper there is no danger of getting news print on hands.  However, there has got to be draw backs. 

All objects we use are prone to wear and tear, whether a cheap paperback or an expensive e-reader.  Every paperback book I read will begin to get bent over pages and start to appear a little tatty.  But regardless I love them no matter how tatty they get.  They don't require any batteries to be charged to let me read them, and unlike an electronic device I have books quite a few years old.  Electronic objects become outdated, a book by it's very nature can not, particularly if it is any good.  They are put on a shelf and wait there patiently until their next reading or ad hoc referral..  They get lost, are loaned out and when other people read them they to gain knowledge from them.  Libraries are great sources of knowledge.  I used to love taking a book out of the library and seeing a list of date stamps on the inside page.  A sure indicator of how popular the book is.  Knowledge allowed to spread free of charge to multiple enquiring minds.  In my own books I will highlight pages or write comments in the margin or the back.  I will put post it notes in them so I can refer immediately to a page again which held interest.  The act of writing down is in itself a fete of memorising, it is an additional effort, to write something down is to make it more salient and more easily recalled.  I doubt whether it is possible to write in an e-book and if you were able to type a comment it wouldn't be the same.  The paper book becomes a personal item an affinity grows with it.  The size and the thickness of books varies as well, their covers are different.  It's always interesting to see what other people are reading by the cover of their book.  Just in case it's something you have read yourself and you just might like to strike up a conversation.  With a plastic tablet e-reader this would not happen.  I am not a prolific reader so why would I want to carry around a thousand books I ask.  I simply would not.  The printed word is education, whilst the e-reader is a non social self centred educator, you'll not see it left on a seat and discarded because it is out of date.  You'll not pick up at a charity shop a thriller someone else has read if it's on an e-reader.  Because it will be put away and hidden in some electronic memory, discarded until the battery runs out.  At which a thousand books then become nothing.  Of absolutely no value at all.

Of all the insidious devices to be invented, to be the most dangerous to humankind, the e-reader may well be it.  We could now be stepping backwards to a dark time where book reading no longer becomes a pastime and is no longer available as an educational tool to the masses.  Long live the printed page, long save the printed page, clutch it tight and never let it prised from your fingers.

A disappointing Irish Coffee

I was out with Layabout Lad and directed him to an Irish pub I had been in a couple of nights before.  There the food looked  reasonably priced, but what attracted me more than anything else was a bar mat with a picture of an Irish Coffee.  The coffee looked so dark and the cream on top beautiful and white.  A little like my favourite drink.  I cast my mind back to one of the first times I tasted an Irish Coffee in a pub in central London, just off Wardour Street.  That to was an Irish pub if I recall rightly.  It was warm, alcoholic, creamy and silky.  I enjoyed it because it was well made and outside cold.  I don't think I have tasted an Irish Coffee of the same calibre since, even when trying to make it myself.  Although I researched it, there was always a problem of the cream sinking in the glass and never quite hitting the spot.  The pictures had drawn me there and knowing it was an Irish Pub added a kind of authenticity to it.  If there was going to be a place which could recreate the same glass I had long ago this would be it.  My expectations were high.

The thing with having expectations is they can be quite easily dashed, which makes me careful and pessimistic at times.  A pessimist can only be surprised and happy with a pleasant surprise, whilst an optimist will have their hopes depressed when expectations are not met.  I ordered the Irish Coffees and went to my table where Layabout sat.  About five minutes later the coffees arrived.  Unfortunately I could immediately tell they were not up to scratch.  The coffee was not black and the cream was clearly mixing into the coffee and not making it the classic black and white image of what it should be.  I drank a couple of sips.  Cream, yes, whisky, yes, but when it came to the coffee it tasted of watered down pishhh.  I took it back and said I just couldn't taste the coffee.  At which the bar tender offered to make a second one and would make the coffee stronger with two shots of espresso.  Hmmmm, when he said espresso it was another factor which alarmed me.  The espresso shots had been diluted with hot water, what a idiot.  I also thought this kid either doesn't drink or hasn't had an Irish Coffee made for him because what he served was not an Irish Coffee.  The whole meal had been quite nice only to be spoiled by the last item which should of been accepted as good being it was an Irish pub. 

The moral of the story.  Pictures might paint a thousand words, but they don't live up to the reality, only first hand experience can.  Next time I'll go for a cup of tea in an English tea shop and see if they know what they are doing.

Balls on my shoulder

Today I have felt happy, but I have also felt sharp, in a text to Sparkling I said I was Happy Snappy.  It was like the little conscience on my shoulder which normally stops me from opening my mouth had grown balls.  In fact these balls were so blooming big every time I got up from my seat I found myself walking in a little circle until I had compensated for their clacking and weighing one side of my torso down.  Some monkey was obviously unhappy.  It was a day where I spoke my mind.  I felt like things were not going to be let under the radar.    Anyway, I was different.  Maybe it was because I was a little perturbed over having taken on the responsibilities of another member in the Fish Factory.  There was a fish issue at hand, a very fishy fish issue at hand.  The thing was I knew nothing about it until it was bought to my attention by a number of other Fish.  Then came the perturbed feeling of having possibly been shat on from a height but the excrement hadn't yet reached me.  They could see it  but I couldn't.  I'm sure it will reach me, it's just a matter of time now.  Further, yesterday evening I actually got to chat to Sparkling and she was grumpy.  It wasn't really a great chat, it felt like I was intruding on her doing the washing up with one hand while talking in the phone with the other.  So on this occasion, I came second to washing up.  Sparkling's grumpiness was then compounded by her in turn bending my ear.  Great.  There I was looking for, love, compassion, a friendly chit chat on life and instead I got bashed down the phone with a kipper.  Therefore I was perturbed (there's that word again) for at least two different reasons. The balls on my shoulder were the product of being pissed off.  Yet, it seems a bit of a contradiction, being happy and pissed off at the same time.  It is, I know.  I'm the contradicting kind.  Yes, pissed off was it and my attitude now was one of not wanting to feel the falling shit hit me again.  Sparkling texted I was a Happy Snappy Chappy. 

I also came across something during the day which made me feel like I was being investigated.  Judged on whether there was something I may have done which was wrong.  Something which I know were I not justified would of resulted in an instant kick up the backside and out of the Fish Pond.  A kick landing me in a room where the door has a key and I don't have a copy of it.  I suppose such is the responsibilities of being a Middle Fish.  As I think about it I get more pissed off.  As though I could even be suspected of doing a wrong doing.  Fortunately like all good law abiding bureaucratic fish I always cover my arse as often as possible.  It can get cold if you don't.  An appropriate term for my feeling then would be controlled outrage which made me ready for confrontation.  On a reasoned, deliberate and sharp level which would rip to shreds the accusations of any arsehole who wanted to point a flipper in my direction.  It ended up I didn't have to be outraged and am probably glad about it.

The only thing I can now do is try and get a good night's sleep.  Just drift off into such a deep slumber it feels like I instantaneously wake up the next morning after only just going to bed.  I sure hope those balls don't rest on the pillow as well because if they do I'm likely to bash my own brains in and not sleep at all.

Strike on! so what do you do with your time?

Today a the Fish Factory Union decided all Fishes should go on strike over their future pensions.  Of course not every fish is a member of the union so a great deal of them didn't, but a lot of important ones did.  I to went on strike although I have my doubts about it's effectiveness, as the big fat cat fish on TV says, all these little fishes have got it good going anyway.  So it goes without saying, always be afraid of anything a fat cat fish says, you'd be stupid to agree with it.  The choices for me this morning were the usual, go and picket, go to a rally, and go to a demonstration or use the time for myself and do whatever it is I wanted to do, because I'll be losing a days peanuts out of it.  Not a gold lottery ticket as the fat cat fishes would have you believe.

I decided, to go with my own needs.  In all purposes it was a day away from the Fish Factory.  As my nephew Little Monster boy all of eleven years now was also effected by the strikes the choice was simple.  I would take the Monster out for a bicycle ride by the Thames, we would have something to eat and then we'd cycle back.  Although the day felt a little cold it wasn't bad at all.  The sun was out and the temperature rose.  We both enjoyed the cycle, except of course for the point where we have to pass a very stinky factory.  I held my nose with one hand and managed to endure it before collapsing and dying from the smell.  We looked over the Thames as we rode along and could see the tide was going out.  The mud banks could be clearly seen.  Rivulets of water carved craggy craters all the way back to the stream.  Sea gulls and the occasional duck wondered on the muds looking for food.  The exercise I sorely needed after eating late last night and I can say my little leggies worked hard we had probably done about two hours of cycling overall.  But it was enjoyable.

We stopped at a large supermarket where they also had a catering section.  It amazes me how many people use the supermarket cafe.  When only a few feet away is a plethora of foods just waiting to be picked up off the shelf, taken home and made into something quite sumptious. We had an excuse because we were hungry tired travellers, which was what I said to myself.  Little Monster boy agreed, he had a children's meal of cheese burger and fries, for monsters of course.  Followed by a very large piece of lump dumpy Christmas chocolate cake a couple of cups of luke warm tea drown it all down.  I was pretty surprised he managed to eat every scrap of food.  More so when he polished off a free ice lolly (rocket) which he said was his favourite.  Later on when we got back to the house for a rest I asked him if he liked the day and what he most enjoyed.  The food was his answer.  It didn't matter about the beautiful bicycle ride, the wonderful company or the time he had to chit chat, it was all down to the food.  I was happy he had a good time, if I hadn't popped round and told him to get dressed because he was going out he could of spent more than a few hours playing electronic games.  Afterwards I felt tired and nearly fell asleep while watching the news.  It was hard work cycling.   As for the food being the best bit for Little Monster, maybe this is a sign of his growing up and changing from a Little to a Medium.  I may soon have to find another name for him.  For my affection of his Little Monster status is probably about to be blown out of the water.  Well, everything changes.  Even Monsters grow up, given enough time.

Cycling against the wind

This morning I attempted to lay in bed and enjoy a rest, after breakfast I returned back to bed just so I could read a book and lay there a little longer.  If it were not for Stinky the cat meowing his head off I'm sure I would of got more sleep, he's lucky to be alive.  But something happened and I had to get up. It was about 10 a.m., so much for a long lay in.  So in order to carry on with a week of attempted health I went out for a cycle ride along the Thames.  Which can be quite pleasant especially when the sun is out.  It was half out, but even half is better than nothing.  Except the one thing I didn't account for as I cycled up river was the wind.

A jogger passed me as I took a moments breather to drink some orange squash.   I thought to myself, go on mate, I used to run, but with my cycle I'll catch up with you in no time it will be no effort.  Somehow I then contorted myself to drop the bottle of liquid into a pocket of my ruck sack and began my pursuit of the jogger.  Standing upright and cycling is a good way to get up speed quicker, it allows you to put more effort in especially if going uphill.  On this occasion though I was on a flat, but what I didn't account for was the strength of the wind.  It was full on and incessant.  I had a large surface area on account of my mountain bike forcing your to take a less aerodynamic cycling style.  I could see the jogger in front of me about two hundred yards.  However, it seemed I was going nowhere fast and using a hell of a lot of effort, I wasn't even sure if I was going any faster than the jogger.  My coat flapped open as I unzipped it, the effort was making me pretty hot.  I kept pounding rotations of the pedals, even trying to bend down a little so the full force of the wind wouldn't use my surface area as a break.  It seemed to be of little use because of my ruck sack on my back.  I kept changing gears hoping to find one which would be a little easier, but the easier gears meant I was dropping to a slightly faster than walking pace.  I kept pressing forward and the wind whipped tears from my eyes streaming down my face.  It must of taken about a mile before I was able to overtake the jogger.  It was one of the hardest cycles I have done and most of it was on flat ground.  The worse bit was being overtaken by a female cyclist or a road cycle.  I tried to consul myself road bikes are made to go faster, mine was more for rough ground.  I soon veered off and went to a cafe, in need of sustenance.  Sausage on toast and a cuppa tea, which went down so quickly.

It is day seven of my regime.  So it has been, no crisps, chocolate, biscuits, one sweet, and a little alcohol but less than normal.  Well going completely cold turkey is difficult.  Tomorrow I'll weigh myself, but I'm a little dubious whether I lost any weight, because nowadays it no longer drops off.  The fat on my body feels like it's attached stronger than a limpet mine.  I've done my best to reduce carbohydrates but I don't think it is enough so tomorrow morning could be a disappointment.  So losing weight is very much like cycling in the wind, difficult to say the least.

Day three and notch three

So far it has been a successful day on the food and exercise front.  I cycled to the Fish Factory and I cycled home.  But I will admit this morning it was cold with a little mist about, the cycling though soon warmed me up.  Each time I reached my destination I felt an exercise high and remembered why it was I used to exercise a lot before but now have become complacent. Odd but I'm even getting to feel my posture is a little better. Like I am standing up straight rather than hunched.  As though being hunched is some kind of disease which gets everybody in the end.  Well it doesn't.  Or maybe it's a belly thing, you know the bigger your belly is the more the body has to somehow balance itself out.  I'm not sure whether I'll cycle tomorrow, one day a week might be sufficient or I could give it a day's break.  Tomorrow is also going to be warmer and I don't want to sweat and stink more than the Fish in the Fish Factory.  The problem with being fat is persperation and normal deodorants just can't always cope when things get hot. They might be OK for the less gravity challenged person, but not for the higher impact gravity individual. 

Besides the exercise and the change in diet in the back of my mind is a little devil, he is waiting for me to give in, waiting for temptation to take a hold and as the notches are passing those temptations are all the more salient.  It is so difficult.  Especially mid morning and mid afternoon when I'd make a coffee and go for a healthy biscuit which isn't healthy at all, it's just packaged and masquerading as something one of the skinny people would eat.  The reality is skinny people don't eat much at all, which is why they are so skinny.  Day three and I haven't been in the pub either.  I'll be going cold turkey soon with all this clean living.  One thing I am beginning to realise is how I am ruled by my appetite and my belly.  Or rather the effect of different foods on it and I am feeling better for the abstinence.  How long it will go on for I don't know.  It could be just one of those little phases or it may be the beginnings of a completely new life style.  I know one thing, when I stop counting the days and the notches I'll have even more control, but that could be a little way off.  Especially with the season of festivity soon upon us.  Which reminds me I must purchase my next ticket to see Sparkling.

Chrimbo is a time to really pig out, but the end result isn't much good.  Being more stuffed than a turkey could ever be.  Farting, burping, sleeping and instead of walking, rolling everywhere.  Chrimbo should come with a health warning.  It is dangerous.  Odd how at a time when human kind should be thinking of other people that it suddenly digresses into an orgy of glutony.  A good example of which is the Chrimbo pudding, a grenade of intense over sweet flavours which has been designed to sink ships.  If unlukily enough you get a pud which has coins in, then it's only purpose is to break teeth.  It's hardly anything to be excited over.  A broken tooth on Chrimbo day and no dentists open.  It's almost as though the creator of the Chrimbo pud was a less than philanthropic dentist.  They should be banned.  I notice nobody has developed a cellery pudding, or a carrot pudding, both of which certainly sound a little healthier.  Of course things could be worse, at least I'm not a turkey.

Two days and two notches

In an effort to try and lose a pound or two of weight, this week I have decided to walk more than usual and to do my best and keep an eye on my eating habits.  So gone out of the window are those little snacks I used to have between meals.  Those wonderfully tasting high calorie posing as healthy food supplements.  The ones who are guilt of unhealthily contributing to my waist size.  You know them.  In addition to cut out all the usual junk I would eat.  Thus far after two days there have been no biscuits, crisps, sweets, chocolate, cakes and even alcohol.  For a pint of Guinness is approximately 350 calories.  If I have 7 or 8 in a week it soon mounts up.  I've also been getting off the train one stop earlier and walking an additional fifteen minutes each way.  Day two and all is just about working OK. I've even temporarily reduced my caffeine intake, as it seemed a cup of coffee or two or three cups which were only being partly drunk in the mornings was not making me feel well.  Lets not forget I stood on a set of scales.  No wonder Sparkling laughs more at me when she sees how much rounder my girth has got.  If being content means putting on weight, well, I'd better learn to be discontent all over again.

It's just I'm in one of those phases.  Where being overweight is making me fed up with myself.  Fed up with finding I pant when walking up two flights of stairs, fed up of belts straining and needing yet another hole in so they can expand a little further.  Not to mention the many other changes which happen to the body when it gets heavier.  They are just not nice little things, perspiring more easily being one of them.  Although I must admit there is a kind of bearing one has when one is larger which does make other people get out of the way.  Or could it be you're more likely to push other people out of the way without realising it because of size.  I know having a pot belly isn't good for a man.  It is one of the symptoms of heart attacks later on.  Yep, pot bellied men will tend to grab their chest, or arm and suddenly get taken to hospital.  There is no doubt about it, I have to up my exercise routine, hence the walking. 

I don't know how much longer this dedication can last, but I'm now at the point of wondering whether I should find something to carve notches in.  Like a walking stick but if I had a walking stick then I would really have health issues.  For the time being I should be glad.  Better not count my doughnuts before they to stale though.

An interesting Canadian in Malta

While in Malta on holiday, I met a nice Canadian man, who I liked.  He had a sense of humour on par with Sparkling.  On one particular day, it so happened the President of Malta's wife was visiting the hotel.  We didn't know it at the time but there was a little give away.  Especially when all the staff, chefs, chamber maids, waiters etc all began to assemble around the reception desk.  It was clearly a group photo opportunity, as a photographer was there, however the occasion was a mystery.  Then a black limousine parked itself outside the hotel and the first lady popped in.  Sparkling and the Canadian, then loitered about waiting and watching what was happening.  Someone said it was the president's wife (who actually looked like a pretty plain looking woman to tell the truth) had come to visit.  Sparkling and Canadian of course had to then somehow get a picture with them standing by the President's wife.  They did this when she sat down to sign the guest book.  First Canadian sneaked up in the vicinity of the desk, behind the President's wife, while sparkling too a photograph.  Then Sparkling did the same, gesturing with both thumbs up and a big smile.  The both of them then had photographs of themselves next to the equivalent of Maltese royalty.  I did my best to ignore the entire situation, on account of having the belief such people are not important to me.  I then was told what they had done, like little school children.  I shook my head, but thought it rather funny and good luck to them.  I by the way, don't have such a picture and now think it's a shame.  I suppose it could of been a little bit towards my 15 minutes of fame.  Or infamy or no fame at all.

Canadian was definitely an interesting person.  He was advancing in years but didn't believe in letting this get in the way of life, he liked to get out there and do things.  He was a little unusual as well, in doing what can only be described as a Bus Man's holiday accompanied by his mistress.  Who happened to be a good 13 years younger and had in a previous life been a geriatric nurse.  She certainly kept an eye on him and I'm sure watched what he ate and drunk with a sharp eye.  I believe were she not there, he would of drunk and eaten as much as he liked and not given a damn about the consequences.  Like me.  Except I put on half a stone as a result of it and am surprised the air carrier didn't charge me extra when I returned on account there was a bit more of me.  It was the mistress who had divulged their relationship.  In fact she said they all got on quite well.  The Canadian seemed to live with his wife and had is mistress living in a house next door.  Personally I've found one woman quite enough, Sparkling deserves all of my attention all of the time, if I had to divide it not only would Sparkling be very unhappy and I'd be pushing up daisies, I'd probably go insane with wondering where I'd be on a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc, etc.  The thing with the Canadian I liked was he seemed overall happy with life.  I liked him very much.  I know I'll not see him again in my life, but I did like him because he was easy to get along with and good company.  I know Sparkling felt the same. 


We are already planning our next holiday and family of Sparkling have suggested a trip to Poland.  Apparently there the zloty exchange rate is good.  I also used to collect Polish stamps so now I will be visiting the place for myself.  Look out Poland, and Englishman and a Scotswoman are about to pop over.

Fat and feeling the cold

After a wonderful holiday with Sparkles in Malta, where they like cats by the way, I've come back feeling a little fatter than usual but also finding I can feel the cold more.  Even though it is not particularly cold at all.  In Malta in November I was walking about in a T-shirt.  In London, in November, it's not going to happen.  However, as I said for this time of year it is pretty warm here.  Autumn hasn't fully got into gear as there are still leaves on trees, there has been no frost I can speak of, but it has been dreary and overcast.  So, the Russian like depression of going days without actually seeing sunlight is here.  Which for some reason I read was an inspiration to Russian writers such as Chekhov and Dostoevsky.  What I do know is days or weeks or even months without sunlight can be depressing.  Yes, months actually does happen.  Further is the feeling of cold.  In Malta their cold days are probably in the region of about 16 degrees Celsius.  In London, a winter day can be minus 16 degrees Celsius and over night even less.  Not all the time I'll add because it's certainly not as cold as other countries.  But we are really never properly prepared for it, we still engage in cheap fashion clothes than practical functional clothes most times of the year.

When I wake up I am feeling the cold.  It could be I am still shaking of a cold virus I got while in Malta, which I'd put first down to drinking the water, but maybe it was just a cold.  Is it the weight thing I ask myself? Maybe a few extra pounds in weight means a few extra shivers.  Or worse of all could it be related to getting old.  The nastiest of all problems which only gets worse and never gets better.  Unless you happen to be Benjamin Button.  Or quite possibly it's because Malta was mild and warm and I quite liked the mild warm effect for a few days.  Perhaps it really is a process the body has to acclimatise to, going into winter.  They say it is possible to get used to practically anything at all.  I mean, soldiers learn to sleep while bombs are exploding all around them.  I once saw a documentary about a man who had an ability to endure the cold more and swam or ran while there was snow and ice about, wearing very little clothes.   The body can acclimatise, it's just a matter of having the balls to acclimatise.  Putting yourself out there.  Just doing it.  I know one thing, sitting still doesn't help.  Sitting at a computer, typing away generates very little in the way of heat.  Even an energetic key basher wouldn't create a great deal in the way of body heat, though they would be pretty noisy.  If I sit still on the weekend and do nothing I will be unhappy all weekend, just waiting to get to the fish factory, where I can sit still and feel warmer than in the house.  Perhaps it is the house.  The house has not been engineered to suit adequately the climate lived in.  It's just the basic bricks and mortar and that is the problem.  I don't know.  Just it's not good to feel cold toes when we don't even have snow on the ground.  I'm going to have to get out there and do something.  Move, generate heat, exercise, anything.

The morning mist looks like it is lifting.  Sitting in it's place under the stairs in my bicycle, it is now crying out to me.  It's saying "take me out, ride me, cycle those little leggies," and if it is not saying such a thing I must be having auditory hallucinations.  Yes I am.  It's gone quite again, but now my toes are getting unhappy.  They are rebelling.  Great.  The little fat man is going to get some exercise.  Well it was going to happen one day.

The Odd Balls of Interest

I mate I see once in a while in the pub asked me if I had done any BLOGS recently, unfortunately I could only answer no.  Lets call him the Gas Man, on account he knows a bit about fitting central heating.  The Gas Man believes I am a pent up and angry individual, probably one of the most angry people he's met.  He's said this to me before, but it makes me think he hasn't read my blogs.  It don't matter.  Gas man revealed to me how he had began to write a book on annoying things.  It was going to contain 101 annoying things and be a kind of story.  However, he soon reached 101 items and then lost interest in writing his book.  It's a shame, I always find his opinions interesting to listen to, he thinks outside of the box and has this chip on his shoulder about badly run organizations, or rather their hierarchical systems of authority.  Get my gist? lol.  He's a nice enough bloke though and to an extent has helped me get re started again in the BLOG-osphere universe.

Also this evening I met another fellow who goes to the same pub, but not too often.  It must of been a couple of years ago since I last saw him.  Unfortunately some people do avoid this bloke, but again I don't know why I just find him interesting in his own way.  It's like I have a thing maybe for the unconventional, the odd, they are always so much more interesting to talk to, don't you think?  Well, I do.  I remember this fellow because a few years ago he recommended to a colleague a book.  It was called the Book Thief.  I went ahead and read it myself and enjoyed it.  So I'll call him Book Man although this is a temporary handle on his character because I just don't get to chat to him often.  Anyway.  The Book Man told me about how he to had been on holiday not long ago, and of all places had gone to Malta.  Wow.  What a coincidence I thought.  He talked about Valletta being a beautiful place and I asked him if he had drank in the same pub Oliver Reed had been to before he died.  Blow me down, he had as well.  Blimey.  Then Book Man described the pub and his little experience he'd had there.  I like the Book Man.  He's definitely odd, but definitely a nice enough fellow I'm sure he would never harm a fly, unless provoked in the righ circumstances of course.

Earlier as part of Gas Man's philosophy of life he had told me how he considered when young i.e. a teenager, the kind of people you hang about with are usually a good indicator of what you will turn out like later in life.  Giving an example of teenagers nowadays hanging about with dubious fellow teenagers who cause trouble and are then more likely to get into trouble themselves.  Perhaps, by association, perhaps because they feel the need to live up to the notions of what their peers expect.  I thought of my own fellow teenage mates.  None of which I am in contact with, and yes maybe, just maybe they were a little odd.  They certainly were not troublesome because my name was more of "scaredy cat" than "teenage heartthrob hardnut-nutcase," oh yes, the girls always like the hard or rather "rough" lad.  Until they grow up become adults and decide life is weary being battered by a Hasbeen with hang ups because although they were big fish in a little pond when it comes to the world, they become nothing more but little fish again.   Awwe how sad, not.  But if you have never been a Hasbeen as such, there is no difference in growing up, you remain the same little fish, you're comfortable with it.  However, things change, they become better and even themselves out.as merit and hard work and motivation take over where Hasbeen left years ago. 

Right now, I wouldn't say I'm angry, though it is probably a trait I do suppress at times, maybe I'm one of those odd balls now.  If so it makes me more than happy.  Yes, karma ensures things even out.  It's all about the long game.

Return from Malta

Well a few days ago I was in Malta, now I'm back in London.  I and Sparkling had a great time.  As always time is rushed and I can not do justice to a good thought out blog.  But I'm back.  When abroad I realised how important it is to remember your passwords to accounts.  I couldn't get access to anything.  Couldn't update a thing.  I think I have the Maltese flu because my nose is blocked up.  Maybe it was something I ate.  Or even drunk because the water was suspect.  Such a little thing so easily taken for granted, drinking water out of your own tap.

It was great to get away from everything for a short time though.  Sparkles has more sparkle in her eyes.  I have dominated a possible fear/anxiety of flying and I now know what a Malteser looks like.

5 Sleeps to Malta

This was my last day at the Fish Factory, I just let myself chill more than ever.  Bombs exploded around me but there was no disruption to the thought I would shortly be somewhere else.  Some other place, away from it all.  Nothing mattered.  It's an odd perspective, a little like realising you are only human and everybody else is human.  We are all in it together and nothing mattered.  I must of been having some funny turn.   I feel more human than I have felt for a long time, as if every second is precious and important.  A very odd notion, but quite a nice one. 

There are moments and these are the things which link us together.  Finding our own breaths of fresh air.  There was no way Sparkling would get away from her Fishes unless she was taken away from them and given this space.  So in 5 sleeps she'll be completely removed, over a thousand miles away.  The Fishes may call out for her to return to the pond and be on their demand, but they will get no response.  Instead, we'll be sat at a table in the autumnal Mediterranean sun, sipping a drink, eating a snack which Sparkles will not be allergic to and soaking up the atmosphere of a different land altogether.  To the north approximately 90 kilometres away will be the island of Sicily, whilst heading south over the sea is Tunisia and the now free country of Libya.  Northern Africa.  A far cry from Scotland, where the summer was pretty much non existent as far as Sparkling was concerned.  Rain and overcast most of the time and now with winter on the doorstep Sparkles will be delighted.  I can see her now pulling her pink suitcase, and smiling.  Saying "I am so ready for this."  My thoughts will echo the same.

Malta is a strong catholic country from reading the literature.  I'm not sure if I will kiss the ground when I get off the plane, something the old pope used to do.  I don't think the new one would it would be a blasphemy to his designer shoes.  I might do though, just might.  Come get me sunshine I'm waiting for you.

6 Sleeps till Malta

It is now only six sleeps till Malta.  Boarding tickets for the plane have just been printed off, I now have a luggage case which was a steal at fifteen quid, what a bargain, I just hope the wheels hold out for the trip there and back.  Sparkling bless her cotton socks has been working like a slave in her Fish Factory.  She is tired to the point of dropping, so has taken a little bit of a back seat while I get all the finer details sorted out.  Tomorrow I start packing.  I also have to buy a train ticket to see Sparkles.   I'm thinking I'll be up there on the Friday and must not forget about how we'll be travelling to the airport.  It will be pretty early in the morning when we head off, unfortunately it will be even earlier when we head back from Malta to Edinburgh.  Malta has three pin plugs and the same power supply.  Fantastic.  They speak English, fantastic. Sparkles has been checking out the eating and partying places, she said to me "I'll do everything Rock Chick would disapprove of."  This leads me to believe Sparkling is going to let her hair down and very much enjoy herself.  It's great news. Sparkles also told me not to pressurise her into running around the Island, trips here or trips there.  But it don't mean no adventuring, it just means measured adventuring and holidaying.  I think I can do that part.

I believe Sparkles is already wanting to squeeze every moment of relaxation out of her holiday before she sets foot on a plane or tips her toes in the Mediterranean waters.  I can tell from the excitement which comes through even though she is a walking zombie at the moment.

When we are away for the week, Rock will just have to fend for herself with Dangerous Sports lad.  I'm sure there will be some dangerous discussions between them as they arm wrestle who will get the hoover out or who's turn it will be to do the washing up.  We may find the cat has packed his bags and left.  Or there has been an ASBO served because they have partied for 6 nights and slept on the 7th night.  No.  I'm sure Rock will be sensible.  Except for the hoovering, which is more to do with an aversion than sensible.

Whatever happens, it will not matter, a week of escape is just what the doctor ordered.

7 Sleeps till Malta

I am now on a count down to a vacation in Malta.  It is 7 sleeps away.  With each moment more excitement bubbles up in me.  I really can't wait.  It has been way too long since I and Sparkling were away from it all.  It will be fantastic.  But there is still so much to do.  Such much preparation.  Get a piece of luggage, make sure I have enough euros certainly to start of with, worry about the euro and whether it will go bankrupt while I'm on holiday, do an online booking of the plane tickets, have I got the right clothes and enough clothes to think about, do I need to get hold of a euro health card right away, can I get a train on time to get to the airport on time when leaving, how will I be when I am on the plane.  So many thoughts and so much to do.  But it is all in aid of a great time away, a small calendar of relaxation which both I and Sparkling have not had out of this country for a few years.  Each of these small worries are exactly that, small in comparison to the need to get away and I know they will be overcome and really not things to worry about at all.  In the end it will be fine.  We will get away and we will be on holiday in seven sleeps from now.

Look out Malta Sparkling and Crazyfirdayman are coming to get you.

A smell which was not there

Some time in the early hours of this morning I smelt something awful.  It came to mind the cat had used his dirt tray and must of done a particularly big dump.  A big stinky dump for it to have travelled through two doors, but drafts and dissipation of smells can act this way in a house.  I did my best to ignore the smell.  Thinking it wasn't really bad and it would go away.  I had to sleep and was too lazy to go downstairs throw his present out and then go back to bed.  In a sense I'm glad I took this decision.  Then I had to get up.  Being it was morning and made my way downstairs.  Funny I thought, the smell had sort of gone.  I opened the door saw the cat, saw his dirt tray and started to think something must be wrong with my brain.  There was no package left.  Just a piss he'd had but no dollop of smell.  Yet I had definitely smelled something.  So now I have a worry.  When will my brain go kaput and I keel over?  The signs seem to be there.  I also heard a high pitched whistling sound.  Tinnitus related I thought, which I'm sure I have also developed in the last five or six years.  But this tinnitus was not continuous, it buzzed on and off.  Almost like a Morse code message.  It was probably saying something like "you are going nuts Fatboy." 

As I piece together this puzzle I can't wait for my holiday.  It will not do me much good to keel over in Malta or the UK but at least I'll be warmer there and possibly a bit more relaxed.  Chilled.  And maybe not so paranoid.  I just hope I am not getting some mental illness.  Meltdown I can cope with, being completely nuts will just tip me over the edge.

Farewell, and a shitty day

I heard this evening that my mate interpreter (Belgian man) has decided to go and live in Spain. To be precise Valencia.  He went out about 4 weeks ago, liked it and decided he'd had enough of London.  It was going to be his new home.  So in three days time he will hop on a plane and not return unless he has to back to Britain, although technically he is more British than Belgian.  Not at all related to Tin Tin may I add.  It is a little sad for me as now it means my circle of mates has got one person smaller.  I enjoyed his company even though he liked to drink, it didn't matter, he is a nice bloke.  He gave me a very hearty hand shake, as this is the macho thing to do when you are a man and not going to see another friend probably for the rest of your life.  I'm sad for myself but also happy for him.  He did say he was a little nervous about it, but had two jobs waiting for him, one in a language school teaching and the other in marketing.  To me marketing sounds a little vague, so it could be anything to tell the truth.  It's one of those words you use to be ambiguous even though he has no need to be.  I don't care if he is feeding peanuts to elephants as a living,  I like him.  What am I going to do now?  Find another friend I suppose.  Which is something interpreter man was good at, making friends, just talking to people, no matter who they were or where they were from, he was good at it.  Mind I think he put himself and made himself do it, rather than it being a natural thing.  Because meeting people, getting into conversation and knowing people is an art.  I sat in the pub with interpreter man on one side and the Old Witch on the other.

It is the Witch who has a habit of collaring people, of joining in conversations and giving her opinions on everything.  She can be a little overbearing when you really don't want to listen to her crap.  I'd had a shitty day at the Fish Factory and even walked to the back of the pub past my drinking companions for a pint before coming to the front of the pub and joining them again.  So I sat between the Witch and Interpreter man.  I really wanted to talk to my mate but he was engaged in conversation with other various drinking company.  So I was then caught with the Witch.  But the conversation was interesting as well.  I learnt she had been bought up from a privileged background.  Her father had apparently worked as a big cheese at B.P.  She had herself gone to a convent school.  She got engrossed in an eclectic set of self related stories.  Of course everything for her is about herself.  But it did get my attention as I listened with half attention hoping at some point I could jump into conversation with my Interpreter friend.  She told me how her mum and dad got the last plane out of Iran, with gun fire around them.  How her mother had come from South East London and was a down to earth worldly woman, not phased by much.  She spoke of her conversation as her mum related to her how she got out of Iran.  I couldn't quite determine the punch line or the end of the dialogue because it just seemed to stop somewhere, trailing off into a forgotten land.  I suppose what we all want is to be heard and listened to.  Even though I'd had a shitty day, I still managed to put up with other people's crap.  I very nearly walked out the pub and considered strolling the two and a half miles home without the aid of a train or bus.  But no, I enjoyed another pint and then went.  Saying farewell to a man who for a short period was my friend.  Enjoy Valencia my Interpreter friend.

Shortly I'll be off to Malta, with the most wonderful woman in the world.  Even on shitty days some thoughts are life rafts in a turbulent sea.

Booking a trip to Malta

I have been quietly celebrating the booking of a holiday.  I and Sparkling Eyes will be going to Malta.  We will be in each other's company for one week.  No distractions.  No phone calls from our Fish Factories, no meowing cats, no wondering what we're going to cook tonight, no thinking about whether another blanket will be needed for the bed as autumn throws it's tentacles and shivers up us.  Of course there will be no getting away from Sparkling or for Sparkling to get away from me.  It's not that we will be on best behaviour it's because when two animals are confined in a limited space they circle.  But our space will not be limited.  The hotel is big so if we wish to play hide and seek it will be quite an easy case of get away from each other.  On the other hand I really am going to enjoy a week in Sparkling's company.  The reason is, she will not be able to get away from me, I will be able to sit and talk with her without any problem.  Normally just ringing her up can be a logistical nightmare with our different working hours.  I will be able to sit and talk a complete load of codswallop and just enjoy chatting.  On the other hand Sparkling may decide she's had enough of my incessant chit chat and throw me off the balcony.  If there is a balcony, I hope so because it would make a change to see the see rather than the top of garage roofs.

In Malta the temperature is about 20 degrees Celsius, which is absolutely summer as far as Sparkles is concerned.  For Scotland has had a wet dull summer period.  Not much at all has gone on there in the way of sun shine and barbecues.  It's been more of umbrellas and days in doors.

I had discussed this holiday with Sparkling and we had simultaneously surfed a web site where I was going to book the tickets.  There stood out a particular hotel, because it just looked good and seemed to tick all the boxes.  On call doctor if necessary, in case Sparkles has an allergy attack.  Great big rooms, very modern looking, in a nice metropolitan area, perfect.  We had both ogled and liked the look of the place.  I said I would consider it and look at other places.  I had a drink last night so was not going to book anything online when I had a slight dizziness going.  You never know what you could end up with if you don't concentrate and have a clear head.  Anyway.  Tonight I booked it and rang Sparkles.  She in turn already knew exactly how many miles it was from the airport to the hotel, 18.  She had already put photographs of the hotel on her facebook account and she had done a little reading and told me about a nice little bar come cafe which has a dubious name but apparently is a great place to go.  I was a little taken back at this preemptive research, because she knew more than me.  But it really didn't matter, because once I'd booked it and then told Sparkling we were both ecstatic, both so very happy and bubbling over.  For now the little discussion, the meanderings, the wants, the needs, the on the boiler dream had become real.

Yes.  I am very happy indeed.  Providing sparkling doesn't decide on cashing in on the insurance and bumping me off the balcony while I have just spent the last three hours talking a load of cobblers.  No, I'm sure she wouldn't.... would she?

Lying scales - yes Fatboy

Some really great news, the scales which measured my weight at the gym were indeed lying, they were out by a full stone.  For a moment there I was in an almost happy place, but now I'm back to where I was, fatboy.  Only for my hopes and aspirations to be dashed because of a set of scales.  I should of known, it takes a hell of a lot to lose a pound in weight.  It can't be done in an instance and certainly not in a few weeks, a stone is a mile away.  A true mile, perhaps even more.  Yes, much more than a mile. Oh help me someone.  A little over dramatic perhaps but you have to keep it all in perspective.  Yep, call me fatboy, I'll have to take the long view.  Bit by bit climb my mountain and one blooming big mountain it is to.  Give me strength, but don't give me a donut it will just tip me over.  Pun intended.

Lying scales, a monster and a Great Uncle

I don't know if the scales are lying, but when I stood on them at the gym they didn't groan like they usually do.  I think there is a combination of factors all coming together at the same time.  First there is the four weeks of having a dodgy tooth and only being able to effectively eat on one side of my mouth.  Then there is the sudden and inexplicable desire to got to the gym and actually to exercise.  I am now even able to run for thirty minutes on the treadmill again, which is an achievement.  In addition rather than eat two slices of toast in the morning I now just settle for one, I could say "it was the toast that made me fat" if this is the case, but it probably goes hand in hand with everything else.  There is the new premises the Fish Factory has moved to, which seems to make me walk about more often than I had done previously, partly because it really hasn't been designed well enough for people to work in.  And lastly but not least there is the odd bicycle ride.  All of these things must be having an effect.  I just might be losing a pound here and there, but I can't tell fully because the scales could be lying.  As we all know scales do lie.  Ask any woman, and the odd bloke.

Yesterday was little Monster Boy's birthday.  He became 11 years old.  He's not so much of the little and more of the growing boy, but small for his age.  I rushed to the shop and got him a book of 1000 scary horrible things and some colouring pens.  He seemed to like them both, marveling at a face full of boils and staring in disbelief at heart surgery.  Horrible thing interest little boys immensely.  I did ring him up this morning and asked if he wanted to go for a bike ride but he wasn't up to it.  It seems I am now being shrugged off by an 11 year old.  What will I do with myself now on a Sunday I wonder.  I saw Monster Boy's sister, Bam-bam this afternoon.  She is 18 years old and pregnant.  It is a young age to have a child, but she is positively happy and glowing with it.  Unlike her mother, Bam-bam has said she wants to return back to work within a few months of having her baby.  It's also remarkable to hear a young lady say this kind of thing, and certainly is admirable.  The bump she has is low in her belly and she is now at 26 weeks.  It makes me wonder if she will see the whole term.  It is odd.  I used to get bored senseless listening to women talk about babies and pregnancies in an earlier life, but hearing Bam-bam didn't bore me at all, she has an excited smile on her face and gives a commentary in delight.  The bump did a lot of kicking apparently when she was on a hen-night, he either liked the music or it was interfering with his nap.  I will be a Great Uncle.  Not just a good one, a blooming Great one.  Unfortunately it will take a few years before he can kick a football or go for a walk with me to the park, but I look forward to it.  Especially as the Monster has now decided to become a recluse to a play station.  Such are the whims of life.

In a short while, I shall be going to see Sparkling Eyes again.  We are hoping to have a holiday, or something along those lines depending on what is available.  My passport is ready and I'm waiting.  We will just have to wait and see what happens, but whatever it is, whether a week away or just a few days it will good to be in Sparkling's company again. 

I also need to get back into writing BLOGS, they seem to have stopped for the time being.  But like anything else, it will happen.  To date this is the most promising BLOG year against earlier ones.  A new high number is sure to be reached by the end of it.  I hope so anyway.