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. 

A white shirt

This morning I have on a white short sleeved shirt.  I try not to wear this one so much.  I don't want to be confused with a waiter.  But white shirts are cheap in comparison with other shirts.  It must be because there are so many waiters out there.  Then of course white is the ultimate in bureaucracy.  Something I prefer to keep away from with various other colours.  Even a pink shirt, or rather faded off red.  Because pink is too girly a word to say or acknowledge when male.  Unless of course you like your bread buttered on the other side.  But I do like to wear faded red now an again, and I do like white on account it's nice and crisp.  But I just don't wear it.  I don't want to get lost.  Amongst the white shirted people. 

Well I'm off.  No sir I'm not here to take your order, what was it? 

Open wide then count your blessings

I saw the dentist again. This time for an impression.  Every time I use the word impression I see Tommy Cooper in my head saying "just like that" or someone else trying to do the same shoulder shrug as his Fez sits on top of his head.  Unfortunate for me as I lay back and had an anaesthetic needle plunged into the saliva glands I then tasted something disgusting.  It was the liquid being pushed out again.  I could feel my heart pounding away this time.  I told the dentist because otherwise it would mean excruciation pain and he had another go.  It didn't seem as though he put so much Novocaine in this time.  It worked but didn't seem to be as numbing as last week.  Like my jaw had built up a bit of resistance to it.  There then happened to be a period of drilling out the old temporary filling, cleaning it and throwing a moulding cast in my mouth.  The plaster like material and a pungent smell, like lots of chemicals had been put into it.  I wondered whether this would mean I'd glow in the dark later.  I'll check my skin when I go to bed and find out.  It'll save on electric if I do.  I gagged and choked a little as the top impression was some kind of suffocating torture.  The dentist said "breath through your nose."  I was hardly  going to breath through my arse.  He had two fingers in my mouth at the time and was holding the mould in place.  I kept trying to relax and open my mouth wider.  Thinking to myself the image of walking through a park with my nephews.  Chestnuts scattered on the ground and autumn leaves everywhere.  It didn't work so much this time.  I have to undertake some serious auto hypnotic suggestion practice if it is ever going to help.  Maybe I should try carrying one of those pocket watches.  Who knows?  Anything to help.  Importantly the impression of the lower jaw went smoothly and this was the jaw with the troublesome tooth. 

I pondered as I endured the entire experience.  Should I have asked for it to be pulled?  Then it would of been the beginning of the rocky road to toothlessness.  Then I'd be called the short, fat and gummy man.  It has to start someplace, this might of been the place to start it.  Lower right jaw a vacant space.  But like anything else it's the fear of change, of old age and another sign of physical entropy.  Bloody old age, you gotta fight it, stave it off and it's effects at every turn.  Reminder get you belly down at the gym again.  Going through the experience of drilling and impression taking is time consuming.  Whereas, to of had it pulled may have been quicker.  Except for the healing process and a hole in my jaw where there was once a tooth root would be present.  I suppose we are all like this and don't want to admit to the change, it's daunting is all I can say.  Then I'm not the only one.

I had a series of weird text messages from Sparkling this evening. There was a problem with communication.  I couldn't understand what she was writing.  Half of it was gobbledygook.  Very odd.  I got the just of it somehow, after a few minutes of concentration and head scratching.  She wanted me to ring her.  I tried but the signal could not of been good enough for a phone call.  Sparkles had forgotten her glasses.  The small text of her mobile was hardly readable from her point of view.  Which makes me wonder how she managed to read my reply text messages.  Sparkling confessed to not being able to do much without her glasses, like me she's been effected by the aging goblins.  I have two sets of glasses, one to see normal things and another older prescription set which work better with close work.  Their prescription is slightly weaker but they are perfect for close stuff.  Falling apart.  As they say, you should count your blessings.  I still have my hearing, good looks, half of my hair, it would be worse if all my hair had gone, I have a full sense of smell possibly on account of my nose getting bigger each year so I can smell more.  It's one of the few items which continues to grow regardless of age, and as of yet I have no artificial joints.  I still have a number of people I love, nearly all family related and I get great enjoyment from food.  While I have my own teeth that is.  So counting my blessings I still have more going for me than not going for me.  All I'd like now is for the Monkees to have a revival and for fat bellies to be found scientifically good.

Also on a good note, at it still takes more than two hands to count my teeth.  Yes, I got something to smile about. 

Up at 5:30 a.m.

Got up at 5:30 a.m. followed by a long slow breakfast listening to the radio.  This must mean I am getting old, only old people get up early and enjoy listening to the radio.  So what.  I'm young at heart..

Things to look forward to: dentist.

Too many interruptions

I been watching TV and the provider is Sky.  For some reason now I get to advert saturation point pretty quickly.  A show which should last 40 minutes takes an hour with all the intermissions.  Even though I enjoy the show there becomes a point where I just don't want to watch the TV anymore.  I don't want to see the adverts or waste my life on them.  It's a shame because I don't get to see shows I like to watch.  The entire viewing experience is well and truly marred.  Or maybe it is just me.  Maybe I have got intolerant.  Too intolerant.  It does make me wonder why people subscribe to Sky if this is how they run their business.  They make an awful lot of money, but if they carry on like this surely viewers will migrate?  Or end up as vegetables as they sit in their chairs blubbering away.  Being fed spoon after spoon of brain diarrhea.   There is only one alternative turn over to the good old BBC and hope it's not soap night.

A few days ago for some unknown reason my tolerance hit another low.  I did not even want to view a computer monitor to write a blog or catch up with a soldiers game on Face book.  I had again an awful desire to pick up a book.  The desire of brain needing a feeding.  I also wanted quiet.  Quiet with no auditory interruptions.  Be it the sound of neighbours screaming children through paper thin walls or someone trying to talk to me.  I went to bed and even then as I lay there unable to sleep (because the room was too hot), my mind raced away as though it were full of nothing but distractions.  I couldn't even go into a dream world because as soon as I did another dream wanted to take over.  This is in part a reflection of my time at the Fish Factory where there seem to be a hell of a lot piranhas about all wanting a nibble.  Except their teeth make the nibbles feel like savage tears.   Tonight I could probably stay up awake and fully alert now to 2 a.m. and reluctantly go to bed knowing I have to sleep but finding there are things out there to get me.  Not things under the bed or little green men about to abduct me.  More along the banal side of things.  It's not a matter of being paranoid either, it's about cognitive interruptions and the need for a breather.

As someone once said to me, you're a long time dead, so get over it.

Exercise led to leg ache

I went to the gym this morning, the first time in about three months.  It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.  Probably on account of my doing the odd cycle now and again.  On the treadmill I even managed a reasonable on then off pace.  After an hour I finished.  Once showered I headed out and had to walk down some stairs.  Suddenly my thighs hurt like someone had strangled them with hot pokers.  Each stair was a pain, and under my breath I was repeatedly saying "ouch."  I suppose this is what they call memory muscle.  I remembered where they gym was and my muscles made me realise it.  Why was I going to the gym after such a long time you might ask?  Someone said I was looking fat and laughed at me with a snigger.  I wouldn't mind they weren't looking too thin themselves.  But the harm had been done and their words hit home.

So how do you motivate someone?  Tell them they're looking a bit bigger than normal.  Lucky I'm not an elephant.