How not to get a car out of mud

There is an advert on TV, where a car with three girls in it stop at the gate to a field where an event is taking place.  One of them begins to get out of the car and as soon as she tentatively puts her foot down her lovely high healed shoe begins to sink in the mud.  So she puts it back into the car and takes out a yogurt to eat.  Which is what the advert is about, yogurt.  Every time I see this advert I get a flash back to a scene involving Sparkling.  Sparkling and I, her car and a muddy field.  A scene from real life in which I learn a little about mud and Sparkling's driving.  To my unfortunate experience, but funny.  Well funny for Sparkling.

Not far from where Sparkling lives there is some pretty nice countryside.  If it were not for the fact Sparkling is definitely a city type girl who doesn't like walking in the countryside I'd see more of it.  On a number of occasions I had said the hills nearby were beautiful and it would be nice to see them.  So after doing a shop Sparkles decides she will actually take me to have a quick look at the hills and then we can head home and unpack.  We meandered for about fifteen minutes around fields and then headed up a small hill which looked down a dip and up a much, much larger hill.  On the brow there was a farmer's house with a 4x4 parked beside it.  Sparkling waited a moment looking down from the brow into the dip and then  thought about parking her car next to another car also in the dip.  The other car was empty.  Dog walkers no doubt.  So she slowly and carefully drove down the mud like road.  The council obviously no longer considered their responsibilities stretched here.  She swung the car round next to the other stationary car.  I was a little alarmed by this manoeuvre because although the stationary car was on a slight hump the ground where Sparkling parked was inclined a little more.  I had a sinking feeling.  NO, a sinking feeling.  I opened my side door and could see the front passenger wheel was on grass which in turn was submerged in about half an inch of water.  The front wheels looked to have bedded themselves in the mud.

At this point I looked at Sparkling and said I thought we were stuck.  It didn't take much to come to this conclusion, my interest in the hills had wained somewhat by it as well.  I directed Sparkling to try and reverse the car a little bit onto the more solid ground.  My reasoning was as the car had only just been parked there was likely the chance it would reverse.  So Sparkles puts the car in reverse and puts her foot down on the pedal.  Here a lesson in aqua planinge was learnt by me.  A car on water doesn't grip, it's fact.  The front wheels then span round.  As Sparkles pressed down harder on the accelerator the wheels span faster and so the beginnings of a little trench had started. She sat an looked at me.  OK.  I said try to go forward and got out of the car.  Sparkling put the car into gear and again the wheels span.  The wheels were having a great time while I got more and more alarmed.  There seemed little chance of getting it out now.  But I'm a man, I had an idea.  I told sparkling to put it in reverse again while I went round the front and tried to push it.  She did.  and nothing much happened.  I then changed position to try and get a better grip by the open front passenger door.  Again the engine revved up and the wheels spun.  I move position next to the wheel rim, "more" I cried out.  Nothing.  Then I said "try turning the steering wheel."  I took another grip as the car rocked and I strained with all my might, back right into it.  Nothing.  I looked up to Sparkling just as she had moved the steering a little again.  This time the wheels angled out from the body I pulled, she pressed the accelerator and then I was spattered with a ton of wet, cold, soggy mud, in my face, up my coat and generally all over me.  In a manic craziness I shouted above the revving engine "Sparkling stop!"   I did it loudly and with a little bit of anger as you can guess.  The passenger door open, Sparkling looked at me and could not control the laughter on her face.

The dog walkers turned up at some point, but were of no help at all.  They got in their car and drove off.  I could of killed them and stuck them in a shallow soggy grave.  Sparkling suggested I go up to the farmer's house and see if they could help.  I refused so she went up there and got them to help. I got out of the car and helped by giving hand signals and directions to the farmer as he pulled Sparkling's car out of the quagmire with his 4x4.  He then stopped and put the hand break on.  He got out of his Range Rover to untie the rope, at which point for some completely unknown reason sparkling decided to move her car forward a little.  As she did so she began to drag the Rover down the hill.  Again I shouted and the farmer ran back to his Rover to stop it from slipping.  After some stern conversation with Sparkling who could only but laugh at the whole affair she stopped her car and waited so the farmer could untie his tow rope. 



So how do you get a car out of the mud?  Easy, ask a farmer for help, because how not to get a car out of the mud is to do it yourself and take up an impromptu course of beauty therapy.  Mud baths anyone?

A Great Uncle, at last

Well I knew I was good, and even considered myself a good uncle but now I can officially say I am a Great Uncle.  Yes.  I am great.  My niece Bam Bam has had a little boy.  This may well be one of those additional signs of getting old.  Getting very old, or getting bloody old.  I  hope not though.  I don't have my own children on account you can't give away your own children, because they kind of get attached to the hip.  Except as honorary step father to Rock Chick.  But I do have nephews and nieces and now a great nephew as well.  Blimey.  It is so good to be great rather than just good. I'm chuffed.  All day long since I woke up this morning and checked my mobile phone to the message I have been in a happy mood.  Though I'll not see the little one at the moment.  Mum and babe will stay in hospital for a couple of days to recuperate.  Bam Bam eventually had him by cesarean section and had gone three days and nights without sleep.  Poor thing.  I hope she now gets a chance to recover. 

Now I have to work out what the duties are of a Great Uncle.  Besides the usual bit of pocket money and feeding false information about my girl friend being Kylie Minogue.  Which Bam Bam actually thought was true for a number of years.  I tell little Monster Boy the same thing but also add in Lady Ga Ga.  Well, you have to keep up to date with the latest pop scene and impress them.  However, I get the feeling Monster has caught on to my little fibs because he can carry an air of witty sarcasm.  He's too sharp for his own good at times.  The he is a nephew and not a Great Nephew so he's probably holding a grudge, until the next time he goes out for a bicycle ride and the ice creams are on me.  Well, I'll keep my hair on as long as I can, just so the new nephew can see his Great Uncle isn't a baldy.  I might be a little fatty, but I'm not a baldy yet.  Unless you happen to hear the comments from Sparkling.  Who believes the hair line is in recession.  Awwe.  She's just jealous of Kylie and Lady Ga Ga.  I certainly am not jealous of her fling with Michael Buble.  He can sing but I'll let him have that for now anyway.  But he definitely isn't great like moi.

A momentary Oompah Loompah

A few days ago I was dressed as an Oompah Loompah, one of those little men from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory films.  Comments were made, I fitted the costume well with my belly sticking out, the orange face make-up was good as well.  I looked like the genuine article and completely mistaken for a real Oompah Loompah.  Sparkling was similarly in fancy dress, her's was Princess Fiona from the film Shrek, but in her ogre state.  She looked wonderful as the princess.  From three days of partying and little sleep I then headed back to London and look back on a wonderful moment of mistaken identity, now I'm back in the world of the real.  However, being an Oompah Loompah for a short time was satisfying.

It's a pity my princess is now a few hundred miles away.  The next time I see Shrek though she's sure to come back to mind.

Am I forgetting things or is it dementia?

Do I seriously ask myself if I am suffering from a mental illness?  Well, not seriously, it's something I am more aware of each day.  I'm forgetting things.  All kinds of things.  People's names, words, places, they go missing, it's like they are there but I can't put my finger on them.  Very much the-tip-of-the-tongue phenomena.  For example, today while sitting on the sofa Sparkling's next door neighbour came in to wish Sparkles a happy birthday, she sat on the other end of the sofa.  The conversation between Sparkling and neighbour went on, in the meantime I had somehow forgotten the neighbour's name.  I knew her husband's name but I'd forgotten her name.  It was completely gone.  I sat there racking my brains but it was not coming out of them.  Where had I put the name?  What room of my memory palace was not working?  I don't know, but whatever room it was in the door was locked.  I was trying to peek through the keyhole but it would not reveal itself.  Another example is with words.  When watching a film I two soldiers in an army decided to leave the army, they grabbed horses and rode off.  They were 'vacting' the army, or was it 'absconding' from the army.  Both of my alternative words were closeish approximations but were not the exact word I was looking for.  I could describe the definition of the word, I even had an idea of what letter it began with but the missing word was missing.  Which is errrm.  I forgotten again.  No, it's 'deserters' see I knew it but just could not put my finger on it again, even though I have heard the word a couple of times since.  So, by imagining myself back into the forgotten state of mind, I really did get back into the same forgotten state.  The words were there, I just couldn't pull them out.  So I am wondering if I am a candidate of dementia, or not. 

I discussed this with Sparkling.  Her response was to nod her head and agree, then to go on and add some more to it.  She seemed to think I was talking a lot of rubbish lately and so this must be one of the symptoms as well.  My digressive discussions on subjects which mean little to Sparkling except for 'getting on her nerves' are confirmation to her that I am nuts.  This is completely untrue by the way, I enjoy my right to freedom of speech and talking rubbish to Sparkling because when in her company which isn't everyday I have to make up for it.  It's a way of keeping contact, trying to be on the same wave length, unfortunately whatever wave length I am on Sparkling doesn't quite appreciate it.  It wouldn't of been so bad if this was the view of one person.  Rock Chick made a similar comment in relation to this possible self diagnoses Alzheimer's.  Rock said:

"maybe because you have got so much shit in your head, you have to forget some of that shit so more shit can go inside."  This was like an Epiphany when she said it.  I jumped up, a light had been switched on, yes you're right I said.  It just seemed right.  Then I wondered and answered,
 "Hey, I don't have a lot of shit in my head, it's all useful stuff the lot of it, just some of it is being forgotten."  Rock laughed she had managed to tongue tie me quite easily.  I had been fooled.  I have no doubt though, I am getting slower, the brain cells are not reacting in the way they should be.  Sparkling thinks so.  Being this is her last year of her forties, she has said she will have a mid-life crisis.  Except she has some kind of crisis every year.  They are lovely crisis.  Sometimes they maybe about starting a new life in a field with cows and chickens and sheep.  As well as wanting a younger man, Michael Buble is high on the listing.  What man can compete with him?  None, none in their right mind.  Being I may not be in my right mind then maybe I can. 

I don't know what is going on with my mind, I could start wearing a white handkerchief on my head with knots in each corner for the things I've forgotten.  Except four knots wouldn't go very far and I'm sure then Mr Buble would look even better.

A dream about oyster soup

OK got up this morning from a dream about oyster soup.  There was a manic desperation because the soup had to be correctly flavoured.  Vinegar was missing, I think there may have been single cream as well.  I don't have the faintest idea where this dream comes from but then the unconscious mind works in mysterious ways.  I was laying on my back and may of also had a snore.  This is happening more often nowadays.  In the background the cat was meowing and wanted to be let out.  The only thing of matter though was my soup.  I was making it, tasting it and desperately seeking seasoning. 

It's cold out.  I'm awake and about to leave.  No oyster soup insight.  However, a little Irish stew wouldn't go amiss.

A Quiet Sunday and a Ukulele Omen

This morning I went for a cycle ride along the Thames.  The sun was hard, bright, and on a mission. It was a cold morning, frost had settled on cars, grass, pavements, the wheels of my cycle picked up white crystals and as they turned their tread grew white as well.  Revolving they crunched. .I wondered if I turned sharply or had to stop suddenly would I slide or skid.  Along the Thames the walkway was shaded so the whole path was white.  Out of the sun I felt even colder.  The gloves with no fingers exposed skin so I could not hold onto the handles without a chill freezing my hands.  I put them in my coat pockets to keep warm and rode no-hands style.  Sitting up straight and balancing my weight to gently steer.  The tide was half out and mud banks were exposed.  Sea gulls and other birds waddled about with a Sunday morning saunter.  The ear flaps on my hat were pulled down to protect me a little more.  Dry, crisp and very cold air inhaled then exhaled as as though I had just smoked a cigarette, but without the fumes.  The skin on my face began to numb and I was losing feeling.  Yet I felt alive and privileged to cycle along on this morning, it felt better than laying late in bed, it was doing something.  I was energised and enjoyed the ride.

An hour and a half later I got back to the house to make lunch for Big Momma.  She had gone out to do some Sunday shopping.  A text had at last arrived from Sparkling as she didn't text yesterday, so I knew she was OK.  I put on the radio and blow me down, music came forth, it was George Formby on his Ukulele playing "when I'm cleaning windows" this I took for an omen.  I listened in amazement.  How could Formby be on the radio?  It is a sign.  You should follow the signs, especially if you are motivated to follow them.  It's like the inclination I have been getting lately to begin looking for another career.  Even to the extent of feeling motivated to make a move.  I can no longer sit and let things stay as they are.  It's a matter of taking control.  Rather than allowing myself to be the victim of circumstances.  Follow the signs.  Ukulele man.  No.  However, it could mean I should be looking to play the Uke just as a pastime, something completely different from anything else I do.  Play it and look for a career at the same time.  Sometimes there are things which I know get in the way, things which I know are not helping me.  No I don't have two left hands, I'd never get to play the Uke if I do.  Follow the signs.  When that internal motivation gets kicked in who knows where it will lead.  Last time it happened I ended up with two degrees.  It's the long game as well.  Ukulele man.  There may only be four strings but it's how you play them.

I know what I am capable of, I know even on a sunny day it can be cold.  Listen carefully and what can be heard?  Formby.  No.  The rotation of cycle wheels on ice crystals.  The lap of the Thames, a cold intake of breath, even on a Sunday, inspiration and exhilaration can be found.

False happines is a give away

In catching up with a radio news program I heard an article about people who work in the service industry. Those who smile to customers when they may not feel happy, but have to present the smile face.  It was found they suffered from burnout.  Otherwise known as high emotional exhaustion.  When I worked in the service sector I used to think why should I try and put on a happy face when I was not happy.  The research indicated, service sector employees would get jaded and cynical.  Further their mental health would become an issue.  As Shakespeare said "be true to yourself."  If you feel sad be sad.  If happy then be happy.  It's OK, but if it goes on for too long then people can think you are strange.  There is an individual who comes into the Fish Factory with a happy face.  Says "good morning" and asks how other fishes are, however, when on the receiving end it does not feel genuine.  It does not feel like a real "hello" with content.  It consequently becomes difficult to reply to this person.  I then don't want to say "hello" because in the back of my mind I want to say "for feck sake be miserable and show your true colours" or maybe a little sarcasm along the lines of "Yes, I am so happy I could take my clothes of and sing the national anthem while dancing to the Birdee song."  I can see the puzzled look on their face now and most likely the startled look of all the other fishes in the organization.  There might even be the odd one asking I do just what I said, then getting out their camera phone to video it.  Fine think that would be.  I'd be unemployable for the rest of my life, I'd have to change my name or go into an employee witness protection program.  Perhaps get plastic surgery so nobody ever recognises me again.  Hell, better take the sarcastic thoughts out of my mind, I could get into serious trouble.

Then I got to thinking why should someone believe they should come into a workplace and put on a happy face all the time.  They certainly don't get away with it, because other people will think or know the same.  Know there is something off about the individual.  It's like they have not accepted today is going to be a crap day.  Personally I accept crap days.  I don't care what other people think and sit with my head down getting on with my job with as little communication as possible.  Except for the fact of being a middle fish there is always someone who wants to talk to you.  I stick in ear plugs and they still talk to me.  I need to get a big sign made and hang it above my work station, "having a bad day nobody fecking talk to me, or I'll kill" it might just do it.  It might just keep away those vexatious questions form fishes who already know the answer and just want other people to hear them out. Hell we could all bloody moan for hours on end, but the moaning doesn't help, just get on with it.  I should shout this out, but I'd probably then become unpopular.  Hell there are times when I wish I'd just speak my mind and be damned with being unpopular.  Let them get both barrels of the double barrelled shot gun of discontent.  I'm sure it would startle and perhaps shock a few.  But they deserve it.

I once heard it said, some employers do not employ people they think are smarter than they are.  There is probably some truth in it.  Then the not so smart people can be taken advantage off, like being told they have to be happy when they are not.  Put on a smiley face.  That sort of thing.  I was chatting to my hairdresser a couple of days ago.  He lives in France and commutes to the UK.  He said as a self employed person he is always motivated to do his job.  The motivation comes from within he said.  So his smile would be genuine, being his own employee he could work what hours he liked, it gave him freedom.  Further it wasn't just about making a profit.  For him it was about making a living.  He just wanted to get on with life.  Enjoy his family and pay the bills.  In a way this is kind of inspiring.  It was hard work from what he was saying, but he really didn't mind.  He is the only person he is accountable to, the boss is the boss.  I expect there's a lot of things to think about when self employed.  In his view though work was a means to live his life but not everything. 


Then some of us are born to be grumpy old gits.  It's genetic, so get over it and stop pestering me before I bite your head off.

Block out chatter - be an astronaut

Today my Amazon order arrived.  I had a feeling it would and had taken the day off so I could receive it.  The postman appreciated it because it was a small box taken out of his bag then and made it a little easier to carry.  It is a pair of ear muffs.  I said I'd get them, and I have.  They snugly fit over my ears and pin my ears against my head, but my expectations of what they do are probably a little high.  I can still hear stuff with them on.  What they do achieve is a reduction in the level of external noises but I can still hear the keys depress on the keyboard as I type.  However, I can barely hear the TV on downstairs.  They are better than nothing.  The idea is to help concentration a bit more.  What I would really like is a set of ear muffs which give nearly full sound dampening.  The sort which would equate to being profoundly deaf.  But I don't think they exist.  I am now wearing two sets of ear dampening items.  Some soft inner ear foam plugs and these larger ear muffs.  This gives a double auditory shield.  Maybe I am hyper sensitive to sound, maybe there is a name for it as well?  I'm special.  Yep, I can hear Sparkling now calling me a Spesh, as Rock Chick already has.  It's odd how people are judged.  Mind we all do it. 

In a quest to try and find out about dampening materials and sound I did a little search on the Internet, to understand the phenomenon a little more.  If I can understand something then I can understand the ways to deal with it. 

Firstly the human ear is very sensitive to sound, sound travels through the ear canal, then hits the outer ear and then is converted by the inner ear into electrical signals the brain can interpret.  By plugging a piece of foam inside the canal  this it will automatically interrupt the path sound has to take.  But because the ear is a delicate thing you have to be pretty careful what you stuff down it.  This goes without saying.  Not just physical objects but also from sounds made outside.  Ears apparently wear out over time, like shoe leather, even though most shoes nowadays have rubber soles.  Essentially your greatest ability to hear is as a child and not so good the older you get, depending on noise exposure over a lifetime.  Not just booms and bangs, even music will do it, loud music for instance.  Every time I have been to a concert I've walked out with my ears ringing.  The audience seem to take this as a natural event.  But it isn't natural to have two days of ringing ears after a gig.  Your ears have been damaged, as small hair like follicles in your inner ear have died.  You might as well sit down and pay someone to explode fireworks next to your head.  Hoping they don't ignite your and the furniture in the process.  It makes me wonder how all those concert organisers have not been taken to court for the hearing damage they have inflicted on millions of people over time.  Because you pay for a ticket it shouldn't mean you also sign up for auditory torture.  Well, I certainly haven't been to many concerts in my life which is an advantage.  Except for the occasional tinnitus which I can't explain at all.  So the ear is sensitive and is one of our five senses, once lost it's gone forever, bloody daunting when you think about it.  In my work environment the most annoying sound  is of other people around me when they are talking and I need to concentrate.  If they talked in a language I could not understand it may not be so bad.  I'll have to try that, concentrating while Swedish is being spoken all around me.  All I need is a dozen Swedes and I'm not talking about the vegetable. 

Going on.  Sound is measured in two ways noise and frequency (variety).  Loudness is measured in decibels (dB).  A whisper is 15 dB whilst the sound of a voice is 60 dB, and a rock concert in the region of 120 plus dB.  The frequencies of sound or the different varieties of sound are measured in hertz (Hz).  Simply sound is the air vibrating and the frequency of these vibrations is measured by Hz.  The human voice has a range between 60 and 7000 Hz or 7 kHz whilst the human ear is able to detect the range of about 10 Hz to 20 kHz.  This is pretty incredible.  The sensitivity to sound is three times greater than which the vocal range can create it.  Ear muffs are designed to reduce these levels.  But as I said there is no 100 percent way to stop all sound.  There are two ways to reduce sound.  One is to dampen it the other is to reduce it at source.  Dampening involves the use of materials which absorb sound and do not allow it to reflect.  To reduce noise levels you have to turn the radio or TV down, to dampen you put as many layers as materials between the ear and the outside world.  Or live in a vacuum.  Which would be OK if  an astronaut, but not so good at sea level.   I certainly wouldn't be too happy being 100 miles up in the air, I mean vacuum, it's too far down. I'd get dizzy.

There is probably a third way, which is not so much mentioned.  This is by psychologically changing your perception of sound.  Which we all do, just go to sleep.  I've done it in front of the TV and barely heard what was happening.  However, in a workplace, snoring might be frowned upon.

Too much gassing? Wear ear muffs then

Today at the Fish Factory I needed peace and quiet to concentrate, could I get it? No chance.  It's like working in market place.  With fish mongers gassing left right and centre, but one particular monger who had a particularly loud voice.  So out came the ear plugs from my glasses case.  I don't use them often, they are just needed every once in a while.  These still didn't do the job, I then sat there and stuck my fingers in my ears while looking at a monitor and trying to work out the difference between one fish and another.  I must of looked a right sight.  However, it's hard operating machinery when you have fingers stuck in your ears, you have to take them out of your ears to do the operating bit.  Then came to mind the man who sits on the other side of the factory floor.  He had his own ear defenders or muffs, OK he may look odd wearing them but I wondered whether they did the job.  So I went over and asked to borrow his.  Walked over to my workstation and sat down again, putting them on.  They clamped on my head like mini limpets over each ear.  He warned me they could get uncomfortable and hot with prolonged use.  There was then an even more noticeable reduction in noise, or rather extraneous chatter.  They worked.  I could see a couple of people looked in my direction, puzzled at what I had on my head.  However, I took no notice and really couldn't care what people thought.  This could be an aspect of getting older.  Why care about the opinion of others, when what matters is I am satisfied myself.

Therefore, being impressed by these ear muffs I've gone and ordered a pair for myself.  OK I may only be one of two people on a floor where 300 people do test out their fishing, OK as well I might look like a cyberman from Doctor Who as well, but if they give me a level of quietness then I'll be happy.  In a busy noisy world a little bit of tranquillity now and again can go a long way.

Stinky the pissing cat and exercise.

Stinky the cat is pissing all over the place.  He's nothing like our old cat Tigger.  When Tigger wanted a piss or crap he would meow at the door to be let out.  Stinky just goes to the same places and pisses on the carpet.  If he's already pissed there he goes to his second best place to piss.  Not only that his piss stinks bad.  I don't know what to do, but if he carries on then there will only be one place for him, an appointment with the vet and a one way ticket to another place.  I love the cat but there is only so much piss you can keep mopping up.  If anyone knows how to train a cat to meow at a door and then piss outside please tell me.

Last night I decided I would hit the gym today.  I was hoping to get up early enough so I'd be there for 8 a.m., but I just couldn't do it, so made it for 9 a.m. instead.  There were not many people about this morning so it was good.  I like it when there's few people around.  There's no cuing up for machines then, no arsehole pricks just standing about by machines or in front of mirrors seeing if they look any better than they did the last five minutes ago they looked at themselves.  It seems with youth and body beautiful types there is a high narcissistic trait.  I bet Eysenck didn't even know it existed when he constructed his views on personality types. On the treadmill I had to take it easy and begin with my usual slow fat man routine, this is alternate five minutes of walking then running for half an hour.  During the walking periods I grasp hold of the bars and measure my heart rate through the sensors.  This is interesting because one measurement of fitness is recovery rate.  The faster you can recover from a strenuous exercise to a relaxed rate the better for the heart.  Well I think so anyway.  It was good to see after my first set of walking and running I'd managed to drop down by sixty heart beats in five minutes.  So I might be a walking middle aged fat boy but there is something there still just waiting to burst out into a fine featured athlete.  Unfortunately this middle aged fat boy probably has two athletes inside him waiting to burst out.  I don't at this moment have much in the way of discipline to get on the scales and begin the hard slog back to fitness.  The reason is it is a bloody hard slog, hard demanding and relentless.  It is so much easier just to be middle aged and fat than middle aged an athletic.  Even if there are certain advantages to being healthy.  Like not losing brain efficiency for one.  I could of course always run around after Stinky with a cloth and bucket, that might make me lose a few calories and slim down.  With the rate he pisses it I could be on a winner here. 

Dogs are much easier to train and get into the mind of.  Cats are too girly like.  Too emotional.  Or it just might be Stinky is an exception and is psychologically damaged.  Rather than the nice soft feel of grass he likes the soft feel of a carpet to put his arse on.  Cats you certainly can't kick up the backside.  If you did they'd go flying and probably lose a life.  Hell they need everyone one of their lives and Stinky could well be running out of his lives at the rate he's going.

Better go and fill the bucket up.  Lose a few more calories and make the house smell a little better.

Too many drinks and the yo yo effect

Last night I had one too many to drink.  Overstretching my usual number of pints.  I'm not a big drinker but it just seemed to slip down so easily, the first was for my thirst, the second had to chase the first, the third had less of a run and more of a trot, the fourth had a dandy walk and the fifth had a snail as for mentor and zeal.  I walked out of the gold fish bowl not so much with one foot in front of the other but like I wanted to ice skate on sold ground.  At this point I was so chilled, so happy, so relaxed I would of easily told the entire pub I loved them all.  I got home, had a cup of tea and went to bed.  Woke up at four a.m. with the room spinning like a yo yo, no, my head spinning like a yo yo on psychedelic drugs and a couple of health drink stimulants.  So went downstairs and got a large beaker of orange to help hydrate my system and climbed up the stairs again.  I pondered with the idea of taking a headache pill as a precaution because this spinney head thing might mean I'll soon be a member of the walking dead society.  I then woke up for breakfast late, fortunately without the worse hang over in the world.  More of a third grade hangover which can be coped with.  My bigger girth likely played a part of inoculation.  There are instances where a pot belly can have it's advantages even if it is a sign of an ever increasingly bad lifestyle.

In recalling the evening I sent a text message to L & B man telling him I loved him.  I also text messaged Sparkling, maybe three or four times in my inebriated state.  Giving her updates as I counted the downed pints.  She sees these messages with amusement, but has learnt not to answer the phone to me when I am pissed, because every drunk talks gibberish to someone who is sobre.  It's not just a matter of interpreting speech their topics of discussion hold no attention even if the drunk thinks they are funny.  Like a comedian who laughs at their own jokes. Not very funny..

I don't know why this keyboard is so unsteady, it's like my desk is on an ocean liner.  I'll get over it and another cup of tea will help.  It's just a matter of keeping my head as stationary as possible so as not to upset the balancing liquids in my inner ear.  I have to keep my caffeine level up and intake of non alcoholic liquids, of course.  Chilled fresh air from an open window seems to be helping.  Things to do today: get hair cut, train ticket, and life jacket for this bloody liner.

A late but relaxing morning

I couldn't help it but get up late this morning.  Arriving in the Fish Factory five minutes before the limit of expectations.  So what!  When I woke up I could tell it was late, for there was a smidgen of light coming through the curtains.  Worse still was the sound that greeted me.  Wind and rain.  Not just any rain or any wind, this was howling and the rain sounded like aspiring hail stones.  It had been rejected from the hail stone select members club, it was in an angry mood and was going to show what it could do even if it wasn't as hard as a nail.  Well it kept me in bed, in fact it probably helped me to get a heavier more relaxing sleep.  I wasn't bothered the covers of my bed kept me lovely and warm.  It was difficult getting up, this morning I liked my bed and enjoyed the lay in.

When I eventually left the house I was lucky enough to get one of those respite moments.  There was a calm.  Little wind and a fine rain of no bother at all.  The train I could of got was waiting in the station.  Yet with my not bothered attitude I didn't worry and let it disappear into the distance.  Another one would turn up soon enough I thought.  When at the platform I checked the electronic indicator and had to wait 14 minutes, a bit longer than normal. In addition it turned out the train was a couple of minutes late as well.  No bother.  The seats were relatively empty, so I took one and sat on the edge of it, relaxed but upright.  I closed my eyes and meditated.  It would be my practise for the day, between now and the next train turning up.  I listened to the sounds around me and relaxed my breathing.  In, then gently out, doing my best not to let my thoughts go off onto tangents, trying to think of nothing and be calm.  My eyes were watering under their glasses.  I don't know if this is a problem with the wind whipping up again or whether they are getting worse.  They shouldn't water if closed.  Strangely only 7 minutes passed and it felt like an eon, at which point I got up and walked along the platform and waited there for the train.  When I then got off the train at my destination I realised at last a calmness had infused itself in me.  I was in a mood which would let me just stare into space thinking of nothing at all.

Last night I saw an article on the news about meditation.  It apparently is good for you.  It helps the mind to cope with pain.  Like being hit with hailstones, whipping rain and jostled by the wind.  I always new it was useful for something.

The mystery of the missing Cat

This is getting odder, yesterday it was my keys today it is the cat.  I saw him this morning and let him out, Big Momma let him in and fed him.  He has not been seen since.  Momma thinks he has somehow got himself in the walls.  Which although very unlikely is possible as they are cavity walls.  But I don't think so.  I'll refrain from putting up wanted posters at the moment.  I've opened the back door and looked into the dark wind swept rain, I've even called out, "come on puss, where are you Stinky, come on in!" alas to no avail.  He is not listening or has got a better offer somewhere else.  Well he wasn't our cat to start of with, he adopted us and stayed in this house because we fed, watered and tickled him.  There wasn't much choice about it.  So Big Momma has been saying "oh the poor thing, he's stuck in the wall."  Of course the horror of him being stuck in the cavity wall and not being able to get out is terrifying.  I could see him now, clawing his way to some point between the walls and he is frozen in position, unable to move any part of his body because he is tired out.  Not a nice thought.  One of those little terrors you hope is not true because there is no way the wall is going to be knocked down or smashed open to try and find him.  The house would fall down.  In addition there's the notion of trying to sleep the next few nights.  Well I just don't want to think about it any further.  I'd rather go along the lines of him being abducted, by aliens.  Of him going back to the home he used to live in, of being lost in the wilderness, or plainly just hiding under some kind of shelter outside which is out of the rain and keeping him dry.

Big Momma insisted she had heard the cat meow.  We got into an argument.

"It's the wind and rain outside what you can hear.  Or it's the neighbour's kids screaming, or even a fox outside.  It's not the cat."
"No it's not outside.  He's in the wall, I can hear him.  I heard him earlier, loud and clear. The poor thing, he's stuck, he's in the wall.  I'm not mad I don't hear things.  You're the mad one.  It takes one to judge one."
"Yes you are mad.  He's not in the wall.  He can't be.  If he is there's no way he is going to get out.  I'm not going to have the house knocked down to find him.  I can't hear him.  You're hearing things."
"I'm not.  He's in the walls, he's not outside either I've looked"
"OK, I'll have a look outside myself."
"Go on then, I've already looked, he's not there."

I went outside, checked under the little old table in the garden, round the side of the house and then by the rubbish bins.  He wasn't there.  Not even a poor injured Stinky.  Where the hell was he?

Back inddors, the telly was on.  I listened and could not hear a thing.  If the cat was meowing then it was infrequently.  Big Momma must be hearing it, she's got to be going crazy.  Unless he was tiredly meowing, and as she predicted stuck in the walls.  About twenty minutes passed and I was wondering whether Big Momma had psychologically screwed up my head.  A bit like Sparkling can when she wants to play about with my mind, telling me things are there when they are not.  She has done this too a whole band of youngsters before with her ghost stories.  Then I'd hear the cat and would be going bonkers. When he clearly wasn't there.  Or of course the worse scenario was Big Momma was right.  Then it came, and if I hadn't of actually been trying to listen for it I would of thought I was going completely loopy.  It was a small "meow," I had to really think and question myself whether I had actually heard it.  Was I mad?  Was there some contagious mental illness which had just been zapped into my head.  Next week I'll be out in the garden playing with the fairies.  The faintness of the meow was disturbing thoughts of being mad or the cat was in the walls.  Bloody great news on two counts.


I turned the telly off, took a torch and began looking in the most unlikely nooks and crannies I could think of.   Behind the immersion heater, opening cupboard doors completely, checking every shelf in the cupboards.  In closed boxes which he could fit only to find the boxes were full of stuff and there was no way he would get in them unless they had been opened and he was doing a sardine impression.  I heard a "meow" again.  It was louder tis time, definitely coming from upstairs.  Big Momma commented.

"Yes, he's climbed up inside the walls, he's in the wall at the up stairs level, we have to keep calling downstairs so he can make his way out.  He has to come out by himself."
"Look.. Just shut up and listen!  Be quite!"

There was indeed a slim possibility Stinky had climbed up into the cavity walls somehow from behind the kitchen fittings.  This was not something I wanted to contemplate.  Or I could expect men in white coats to come knocking on the door shortly.

The only way to get a bearing on the "meows" was to lay on my bed.  Be still. Listen.  I calmed myself after arguing with Big Momma relaxed and tried to heighten my sense of hearing.  If Stinky was stuck in the walls then I had to know.  If his meow was muffled or loud, whether I could sleep through it or not. Would it play on my conscience?  I'm not going to get a builder in or have the house revamped.  I lay there and there was no sound.  Ten minutes passed.  Then I heard it again.  This time Stinky's meow was louder.  There was no way that meow was coming from behind a cavity wall.  It would of been a lot more dull.  Like meowing through a sock.  I took the torch and now moved in the direction of where I thought the sound was coming from.  Even with the lights on they are not bright enough to see in those dark places a cat would seek comfort, solace, non disturbance from human beings.  I heard it again, even louder this time.  He moved as well.  It was coming from the bed.  Big Momma's bed.  How on earth I wondered could he have gotten under it.  The bed has a skirting down to the floor.  I then noticed there were some large draws on the side of the bed.  They looked like decoration and not real draws.  So I pulled one open.  There sitting amongst chrimbo decorations was one, content cat who really didn't mind at all whether he was found or not.  He had been quite happy, and I'm sure wouldn't of really bothered meowing unless he was desperate for food.  Knowing Big Momma's luck he'd of made up his mind at two a.m. in the morning.

Big Momma wasn't crazy and neither was I, thank my lucky stars.  I took of my deerstalker hat, put my magnifying glass, torch and notepad away.

So it was another mystery solved in the life of Sherlock Holmes had passed.  Are these walls really padded?

Lost Keys

There are some things which are unforseen.  Such as Big Momma fracturing her hand in three places on new year's day and only going to the hospital a couple of days later when she couldn't put up with the pain.  Or there's the sudden anaphylaxis allergic reaction Sparkling took on Chrimbo day from a stuffing ball, one eppipen and three medics later she was given the OK.  Today though not quite on the same level of either Big Momma or Sparkling, I lost my keys.  I got to the door after a long day of work, put my hand in my pocket to search in the place they are always kept and they were not there.  Gone.  I'm not even sure where I have lost them.  Maybe at the Fish Factory, maybe at the Chinese where I had lunch or maybe lost on a train as I commuted.  I'm sure if they were tagged with GPS tracking then I'd have no problem in locating where they are, infact when you think about it all keys should be GPS tagged.  There's a million dollar idea for sure, better do a quick search on Google to see if such a devise already exists.  Yes it does, but is too expensive and is cheaper to get new keys cut.  OK it was an idea, I'll not be made a millionaire over night.  Another idea will come along.  Regardless, I rack my brains and don't know where the keys are, my keys have departed, gone to a better place.  Possibly even a warmer place than my pocket.  Ungrateful things.

A moan at the world, government, injustice and my lot

I had a lay in bed this morning getting up an hour later than I would were I at work.  Breakfast and listened to the radio, the Today Program.  I hear fares have increased by an average of six percent.  With the cost of living and inflation higher than any workers wage increase this is yet another nail in the coffin of anyone who has to graft to get their dosh.  It seems inevitable.  A Tory government as usual means the working classes will suffer.  What a wonderful start to the second day of 2012.  I must remember now to write 2012 whenever I do the date, perhaps even have a little practise now so I don't make a mistake.  But it doesn't matter too much, we all make mistakes.  Like the idiots who voted the Tories in I wonder at what point they will realise it was a mistake.  Regardless of this depressive news, I woke up wanting to do something.  As though there is an event or goal missing from my life.  This began last night.

Sometimes there is a period where I get fidgety; like sitting still and watching TV is no longer fulfilling in my life and there has to be something else.  I think back on my achievement, the big marker.  Coming out of school with no qualifications having failed six O'levels, four of which were "D" grades.  Can you believe it?  Ds.  Where we were told the only difference between a D fail and a C pass was five per cent.   Four bloody Ds.  Was it luck, or being unlucky?  One or the other.  The amount of effort didn't relate to the grades.  Growing up in poverty in a family where arguments and rows were the common battle ground of getting through a day.  It was tough.  Education was nothing more than a babysitting service, a convenient place where kids went to get them out of their parent's hair.  Educational support at home was non existent.  I was once told "I don't see why you are staying on at school doing O'levels, I didn't get any exams and you'll not get them either."  Life for a working class family is inscribed in stone.  Don't have any aspirations just accept your lot.  Get on with it.  Go out and put the bread on the table, if you can't then don't bother coming back.  It was OK for those who passed their eleven plus and went on to grammar school, with a great educational system to support them.  Any other child stuck in the comprehensive route was considered a write off.  The grammar school snobs were the lucky ones, they passed their exams and they had families who supported them.  I soon found out my failing at school meant I would not walk into a decent job.  A job where the standard of four O'levels was required.  At a time when there were good jobs going.  I'd have to put up with as low paid as they come.  So I did.  It was only the desire to pull myself out of this quagmire which led me on to tertiary education.  A way out.  Or rather a temporary excuse from the normal tedium of a hard life.

So it was last night I had a fidgety motivation, unresolved issues needing to be addressed, there is an unspent energy, a desire to get on with something, the thing is I don't know what it is I want to get on with.  It is not a clearly defined goal.  This is not to say I don't have goals, I have some but those are long term ones which can't be achieved in a couple of years.  More like ten or fifteen years.  This motivation is a feeling of being unfulfilled but not knowing where I should be going of not being recognised there is more to me than meets the eye.  Especially when I see other people around me and I wonder how such idiots were able to get to the places they are already in.  Their paths of mistakes are open, they are so lucid, just like the politicians of today trying what they will to address the country's financial deficit.  What I know is their path is the wrong one, one which will bring the UK down on its knees where a great depravity is about to bestow itself on millions of working class people.  Something is so very wrong and unjust with our politics at this time.

Were I a politician this motivation would be directed to getting into power.  To changing the country.  I'm not, I follow politics and get frustrated by it, maddeningly frustrated by it.  Anyone who doesn't have an interest in politics or how it effects their everyday life is ignorant.  Of all things there certainly is too much ignorance in this world.  Education is one of the keys, you have to look beyond the immediate.  Short term goalism is another blindness of idiots.  What is wrong with me today.  This diarrhoea is spewing forth from my typing fingers.

I need to get on my bike, have a cycle, get out, do something.  Sitting here I am stewing.  It's OK if it's vegetables and meat in a pot, on a slow simmer.  Nice, meat and veg stew, but I'm a human being.  Now, where's the bike?

First dull day of 2012

The first day of 2012 has meant being stuck indoors because of incessant rain outside.  The moment it stops raining the sky has become dark and I don't feel like going out.  I'm starting to stew, soon this could turn to Cabin Fever.  I could commit murder just to keep myself busy for there seems little else to do.  I think my eyes are on the blink again as one eye is having problems focusing.  There is no reason to pick up a book and read because it is forced and not chosen.  I heard by text this morning how Rock Chick had dipped her toes in the cold water of the sea in aid of charity as an event for the first day of the year.  I congratulated her and then she replied next year it would be my turn.  Yes, sure thing I thought, not.  At this moment flu like symptoms came over me, a headache, dizziness and I wondered if I'd fall over any moment.  Flu or pneumonia, or both.  Dangerous and Rock were lucky there is no snow, next year could be worse.  I'll promise to dip my toes in, providing I'm in a different hemisphere.  One where even in winter you get to see a little bit of sun light.  No sunlight equals doom and gloom.  I'll be jumping under every light bulb I can find to try and top up those missing vitamins.  Was it A or D, or even E?  Though I'm not entirely sure artificial light is quite the same as real sun light.  It might help.  Fingers crossed.

A quick phone call to Sparkling, she is indoors as well, having got home just after seven in the morning.  She rose at one in the afternoon.  How can a person go so long without sleep?  She is tired, I don't blame her, I'd be a complete zombie if I got home that time of the morning.  I must admit to being a sleep whore today, waking up at eight, having breakfast and going back to bed for another couple of hours.  Followed by a weird dream of being a body guard with a sub machine gun, protecting a client who was on someones hit list.  You can guess it was an action dream and quite entertaining, better than being at the cinema.  At least in your dream nobody can answer their mobile phone and talk through it.  Unless you happen to dream it.  Mind, with my sub machine gun I think they would of soon stopped chatting away.  Oh well, must do something with myself.  A short walk, anywhere, it don't matter where, just to break the cycle of boredom followed by car crash TV.  Those American made for TV movies have made my head turn to mash potato.  OK for lunch but not so good when you go out on a wet day.