It's a girl

It's a girl, that is the news on little wee fro, now it's just a matter of names. But you never know because these things are down to interpretation. Rock says she is going to keep all the receipts in case the nurse got it wrong. When I saw Rock and Dangerous walking towards us after the scan I could feel myself welling up. Sparkling kept a cool head, I kept a hold of mine to stop it falling off. It was great news. As I and Sparkling waited for them to emerge from the corridor which had maternity ward above it, we contemplated what the gender would be. I suggested tossing a coin, we both chose, one toss was boy and one girl. Regardless we thought it was was going to be a girl at the end of our discussion. A girl who would be a tomboy and was going to be a lot of fun. Heaven help Rock she will be a Daddy's girl and no matter how dainty Rock is I can see the little fro being a handful. I can't wait.

Boy or Girl, what will it be?

It's the morning before the scan, when we'll find out what gender baby fro is, boy or girl. Text messages have been flying through the air, Rock Chick is excited and Sparkling Eyes didn't sleep all night long. Hit by insomnia and worry everything is OK. She tried her best but had to get up for tea at two in the morning. It' an important scan Sparkling tells me. A lot can be told from it. Rock thought it was unfair there was only the choice of two sexes and not a third one. Personally I'm glad there is only two genders, imagine, three would make life a whole lot more difficult. During the night, Olly the cat did his usual but I didn't think he was so bad.  it frustrated Sparkling and she threw a cushion in his direction. He seemed to go quite afterwards. I couldn't tell what was happening because of the dark. A few minutes later he was up on the bed and purring instead of meowing for attention. Cat and baby I'm lucky I got any sleep at all. Sparkling has told me this is now 5 months in Rock's pregnancy. I saw a picture last night of what the baby should look like, between twenty and twenty four weeks the foetus grows a lot. Which suggests Rock's bump is going to get particularly large over the next month. She got some maternity clothes and showed the stretchy leggings. Such leggings looked pretty comfortable for a big belly.

Today is hogmany, tonight Sparkling and Dangerous will be working to an unearthly hour for the hoards who are getting completely pissed in celebration. I'm now fed up of over eating and over drinking, it's getting more difficult to roll out of bed. I'm beginning to look like one of those toy weebles, the round bottom ones, which are so heavy, you push them and they don't fall down they just right themselves again. There certainly will be something to celebrate this afternoon, boy or girl, it could be head wetting time. Blimey, am going to need a new liver at this rate if not larger jeans.

A Duelling Uke, a stroppy man and an unknown gender

Most of the day I've been practising the Ukulele. The same tune over again and again, it's the "Duelling Banjos" from the film Deliverance. There is only two chords which are played so there is no need to worry about strumming pattern because they are played briefly and don't require much in the way of timing. A great deal of this music is then string plucking, as the music is familiar it's then just a matter of plucking to the correct time of music from the tutorial video, and how I recall it. It's feels good having a go at something which sounds quiet complex but isn't as complex as might be. Saying that, for a beginner, anything you do is difficult and it is a learning process. What is amazing though is the sound of live music, live music which I am making. The intonation and quality of the sound is nothing like what could be heard on headphones. Even very good headphones. Real music has class.

After doing about three hours this afternoon, Sparkling said she'd had enough and we had to go and see Rock Chick, she further stated any additional Uke playing would have to be upstairs in the bedroom with the door closed. This way nothing could be leaked over the airwaves. I'd be isolated. I asked whether I could take the Uke over Rock's and play it. Sparkling said I could only play it if she had to make a cup of tea. In the circumstances this would hardly give me enough time to get the thing out of the bag.

Rock was dying to see Sparkling. She was bubbling with excitement, her face a big great smile,  tomorrow's appointment for the baby (fro) scan would determine the sex of baby fro. I didn't get out my Uke because I didn't take it. So went to make the coffee, then having to wash up cups and as I popped into the lounge again to unfortunately see a brief glimpse of Rock shining a very bright torch at her belly. I closed the door quickly and let out a little shirk, the sight of a sticky out belly button always gives me a shiver. Dangerous was being accused of  being in a stroppy mood  because he was not doing as Rock wanted him. They are both stubborn, I could see Dangerous's point of view, and was then also seen as being stroppy. Girls stick together and men are then strops. But it didn't have any effect on Rock, she was just happy and excited about tomorrow. I doubt if I will be allowed to take the Uke there as well. Bertha will be put in her bag again, but I'll find a space in the day.

Sparkling is showing signs of jealousy towards Bertha, she has said her feet have not been moisturised because I was afraid of making the skin on my fingers soft again. Changing Chords is a matter of pressing hard down on strings like cheese wires. I said this was not true, Sparkling was a lot more beautiful, but Bertha did have a better tune. I've heard Sparkling on karaoke, it's a time to wear ear plugs. Bertha just has a beautiful tone, but she is killing my finger tips, I could barely pick up a bonbon sweet without saying ouch, ouch. I'm not a musical person, I can't sing a single song all the way through, but this obsession with the Uke has been with me for a year. I said to Sparkling, it had been a full year of watching Youtube videos and giving hints and wanting a Uke and waiting until Chrimbo. Now I got it and I can't help it I am overdosing on the thing. Spending hours and hours on it. I will be advancing more in my ability to use it now than probably any other time, but it's necessary. When I return to London, I'll be stuck on a train for six hours and will not be able to inflict a carriage full of passengers to the finer art of learning to play it. So I just have to cram the time in now. They'll all be treated to a Uke session when the Duelling Banjos is off pat. It shouldn't be more than another dozen hours, or perhaps less.

Maybe I should get ear plugs for Sparkling, or I could be wearing Bertha as a New Year's hat.

A boring post Chrimbo day, got to get out

It seems learning to play the Ukulele is a lot more elusive than, originally thought. Each time I watch a video on Youtube, write down what is said and then practice it all goes out of my head the next day. Even with hours and hours of practice and Sparkling's ever lasting patience, she's may think I'm getting better but I'm not sure if she has been inadvertently brain washed to believe it is better.  A bit like listening to a song repeatedly put on the radio and not liking it at first but because you've heard it so many times it actually sounds better. Brain washing, with lots of suds.

The weather is overcast, not a single ray of sunshine in sight, there has been no snow as yet, but a lot of rain. I need to get out before I get Cabin Fever again. As I did yesterday and got accused by both Rock and Sparkling of being in a confrontive mood. They were just unable to deal with me my back chat. Unusual when it's me who has a problem with having to deal with the both of them. Just as last night Sparkling said she'd only listen to more Ukulele playing if my face was put on a Gangnam Style video. I had no choice in this matter as I was blackmailed, put my face on the video or else. So I did. It's one of those days where if I don't get up I'll just sit here vegetating and end up doing nothing at all.

After the last paragraph I went upstairs and put together a reclining chair and feel so much better for doing something constructive rather than continuing to sit on my fat arse and do nothing. Yes it feels better. I'll be out shortly, it's dark and with this moustache I'll not scare so many people and most certainly I'll refrain from doing the Gangnam dance, which would be ludicrous, unless it's cold and there's a need to warm up. After all not many have night vision to see if the fat short moustached man is dancing as he walks down the road to the local supermarket. All I'm dying for now is a session practicing the Ukulele, walk, shoppping back home and then Ukulele. That's the plan.

I got a Ukulele

It has been more than a year since deciding I wanted to play the Ukulele and this Chrimbo the dream has come true. Sparkling after many hints, over several months did what she had to do, got me a beautiful black soprano ukulele. The Uke is going to be called Bertha, she is small, she is black and she is beautiful. Sparkling said I'd make love to her if I could. My response was no it's a Ukulele. I'm an older fat man now and I have never played an instrument in my life, but now I will. I chose the easiest thing I could, it's easy because it only has four strings to it, so shouldn't be so difficult to learn the chords. It is small though, and getting your fingers in the right position around the neck is not an easy thing to do. I didn't realise how much finger tips get such a bashing either. They are so sore, it's like pressing down on a cheese wire. They are sore, numb and probably starting to get tough with callouses. Bertha came with a small tuner, it's great, I just clip it on, turn the knobs at the top and they tighten the strings or loosen them. The tighter the higher the tone. The strings have to be re-tuned every time I pick it up and play it. But I so love the sound it makes.  Bertha has a beautiful intonation. I've been spending time with Bertha every day now and we are getting quite acquainted. Last night Sparkling endured many hours but was very good and content while she played Candy Crush, it hardly effected her concentration at all. She must be getting to like the sound as well. It's one of those things which grow on you. Mind I think listening to any live music is a better experience than piped. It's now just a matter of learning to use Bertha.

There are many things to think about when learning Ukulele, things I could not of considered if I didn't have it. One, of which must be the strumming pattern. It's not just an up and a down strum, it is patterned, just as the timing of the strum is. To an extent many beginners tutorials indicate strumming is everything, this is followed by chords. Keeping time over a period of time, well, I mean at least four minutes and also being able to change chord isn't easy. It's taking a lot of practice, and if I hadn't of cut my finger today I'd of put in more time. They say white men don't have rhythm and they, (whoever they are) are probably right. If the strumming wasn't difficult enough to keep, changing from one chord to another is just as hard.  It's a matter of both remembering where to put the fingers and then doing it as smoothly as possible. Doing it without looking is a hell of an achievement, you have to feel the way and in all reality it's almost like being blindfolded. In a sense this reminds me of when I used to do photography, learning your camera so it could be worked in the dark is essential. I've decided to learn how to play "somewhere over the rainbow."  Which gives an opportunity to learn several chords and to play a sequence of them. Remembering the sequence of notes is another thing, and I haven't even considered reading music, which for now is a matter of writing letters on a piece of paper. The dots on lines will have to wait, I wana produce sweet music. Or at least a version of some kind of music, which can be recognised. We shall see.

There have been a lot of comments made, many comparing me to George Formby. The shame is I can't play the bloody thing and am just learning. I'm sure if I was able to give everyone the finished product of a song on the Ukulele, when it's in tune, the right chords, strummed to time and not forgotten they'd all be impressed. I've seen what can be done with a Uke on Youtube and it's amazing. A Uke can sing and has a beautiful voice, but perhaps it's all a matter of taste. It could be too much with Chrimbo Turkey, Chrimbo pud, Chrimbo bits and pieces which has effected minds. Or it could be the Uke is seen as a not serious instrument, a fun thing which you'd give to a child to play with. But it is necessary to start from somewhere, there has to be a beginning and I can't think of a better beginning than this. Yes it is a fun instrument, but it has a serious side. I like fun things but maybe am not so happy with being made fun of when this passion for the Uke has been stewing for such a time. I'm so happy Sparkling has been really helpful and supportive even though she must be at a stage of pulling her hair out and smashing Bertha over my head. L & B man said he would, and that was only only after about an hour, Sparkling has endured many hours. I'm sure Rock wanted to make me wear it as a hat as well, but Sparkling is still enduring. I wonder if she is upping her does of prescription chill pills. Could be, but I wont ask, she always seems so happy.

Who's shot is it anyway?

Last night I was treated to the full attention of both Rock Chick and Sparkling Eyes. The worse part of it was they were both looking for some entertainment. Usually I am lucky and am not in the position of being the main item on the menu. It's not a matter of ducking and diving but rather of someone else being there to take the heat instead. Which really is more the role for Dangerous Sports Lad. Last night the dice was thrown and it came up with my number on it. Both were in various stages of boredom, Dangerous unfortunately had to hit work. What I did get to see was how Rock Chick had trained Dangerous. He doesn't bend as much as Rock would like. It is humorous to watch.  I could see Rock's will being tested as she expected Dangerous to jump when he didn't, her face gave it all away. The evil eye and tense jaw. When he had left for work she confided how she felt like beating him up because he didn't do as she said. Dangerous had not listened to her again and then had to deal with the consequence of not taking her very good advice.

From somewhere the question was asked, "how about having some shots?" I don't know who said this but the game had began. The first shot was called a lemon drop, it was written on the shot glass as well. Lemon juice, vodka, a slice of lemon and the rim of the glass dipped in sugar. It was very sweet sugar. The juice settled in the bottom of the glass and I was required to suck the lemon afterwards. Down in one, gone, but I couldn't help the screwed up expressions on my face with both sweet and sour. I tried to play my Chrimbo Ukulele called Bertha but it was hard going. Alcohol definately helped to relax my strumming and chord change but it wasn't the only effect. I was getting drunk. But I saw Sparkling also downing the same number of shots I was, the same shots in fact. I thought to drink water, lots off it. So every couple of shots ran out into the kitchen filled up large beaker and downed at least a pint. I thought to myself Sparkling was going to have a hell of a head in the morning with all these shots. Hopefully it would not be so bad with the pints I was knocking back. With the alcohol my emotions were out of control. I cried, I laughed. Sparkling and Rock both cried with laughter at me. They listened to my dribble finding it entertainment. I reached for the beaker of water, but it had a strange taste to it. Someone had spiked my water, there was definitely a gin like taste. Not too bad either. I knocked it back.  At about mid night or nearly mid night I went to bed.

The night was full of frequent visits to the toilet, all that water had to come out and did on an hourly basis. I was dizzy, very dizzy and hoped there would be no hangover. Oliver the cat pestered as usual to be let out, in and out again and again. I'm now used to sporadic sleep and sporadic not sleep. The thought of Sparkling having a hang-over even made me chuckle. Yet I had not considered the power of Rock and Sparkling together, a power which can not be denied, one which is full of mischief.

In the morning Sparkling confessed all. She'd only had one or two shots to the ten I'd drank. Rock was dealing her with water and diluting juice. My water had been spiked, I had become the fool. Why on earth did I let Rock Chick serve the drinks? What was wrong with me? In classic double act fashion they had worked, I was more malleable than putty. When the two are together no man is safe. I certainly wasn't. Next time I'll poor my own shots. Where is Dangerous when you need him? His function as fall guy had befallen on moi.

Lemon drops anyone?

First night out and a bit of a drink

Last night I was out on the town. or rather having a piss up in a couple of local pubs. I'd arrived a few hours earlier and then it was a matter of being hauled out with L & B man and Crazy Carpenter.  Mr Crazy Carpenter loves to get completely blotto, L & B man loves to have a drink and let his hair down. Then there's the one who can only drink three pints before getting pissed, moi. So with this in mind I made sure three or four rounds I'd knock back Cola rather than Guinness, a wise decision, even if it resulted in L & B callling me a Fanny. Which he did a few times. There were a few comments about the moustache I'm now wearing.  Sparkling of which thinks I can not be taken seriously while it is on my face. She wants it moved to a place far away. Even though I said I liked the Tash and wanted to keep it so at least Rock Chick could see it. So some reactions are not quite as anticipated, but hell, if a man wants to wear a Tash it shouldn't have to become a major incident, unfortunately it is.

We went to two different pubs. The first one we sat and talked. Carpenter has a way of facial expressions to deliver his points, these and profuse swearing. He works very hard so this maybe why he enjoys a lads night out. He can be funny, the only problem I have is understanding what he says. His accent is even worse L & B's, but I am getting better at understanding Scottish in all forms it comes in. It has to do with familiarity. To the extent I moan to Sparkling how radio commercials are in an English accent and not a Scottish accent. No wonder Scots are fed up with the English.

The second put was a lot more lively. There was a karaoke, drunk people went up and sang songs. Fortunately the man who was doing the karaoke was a good singer and he kept filling in so there was constant music, it was great fun. I would of loved Sparkling to have been there as well, she would of loved it. Her voice isn't the best karaoke voice, but I know she would of had a lot of fun. It has been raining constantly in Scotland for the last few days and after being thoroughly pissed I decided to just head back to Sparkling's pad. Through the poring rain. I left L & B there as he was talking to someone, and as for piss head Crazy Carpenter, well nothing he said made any sense and he'd been farting the worse smelling farts all night. I know mine could be bad but he's beat my odours easily. At one point I told him to go and evacuate his bowels. I don't know if he did, but there was an improvement. or rather I was avoiding him even more.

It was a good night out. In 24 hours I'd had about 4 hours sleep so the rest of the evening Olly the cat toyed with waking me up and being demanding. I'm now walking about not sure if I should be in a coma or not. I ran upstairs and woke up Olly a couple of times so he knows what it is like being interupted while trying to get shut eye. Unfortunately, so far the cat is winning. He just gets jealous, who would of thought a cat can get jealous, but they do. Certainly in his case. I wonder if he'd like a night on town, he might not be much company but a glass of milk for a round wouldn't be too expensive. And I'd likely get back not drunk either.

A Chrimbo Train Journey

Tomorrow I head up to Dundee, it will mean having to get up early in the morning as my train leaves locally at 6:38 a.m., so it's definitely an early rise. I'll be in Scotland for Chrimbo and for the new year. Sparkling will be doing various periods of work, but I'll get to see her most of the time. The only thing I'm not looking forward to on the journey is changing train at Edinburgh and waiting there for half an hour. Then there is the trolly rush for the train at Kings Cross. It's the time of year where everyone is heading off somewhere and they have in tow one of those wheelie bags, trolly like things. Probably loaded up with clothes and prezzies for the people they are about to see. It is madness though when the train platform is eventually confirmed on the notice board. The travellers come in all forms, old, young, wrapped up in coats and scarfs, but they all do one guaranteed thing, the trolly rush. There will be additional porters or ticket checkers all over the place, guiding and making sure the holiday groupies are in the right place, on the right train and hopefully stashing their bags in the "Guard's" carriage. I carry an old black and purple ruck sack which is older than any of my nephews and nieces. Carrying a ruck sack allows for manoeuvrability, but this time round I will probably have a laptop as well. In other words, I'll be partly loaded up. But with a sense of veteran long distance train travel, I know what I'm doing and where I'm going. Which is more than can be said for quite a proportion of the travelling public. You'd of thought they only just found out what a train was, and had probably been sat at home playing trains before they got to the station. They can be a hazard, because there's one thing they don't do, it's think.

Being of calm mind is of great value, in any situation I might add as well. However, you don't have to be in a calm mind to think, but to be aware and conscious. A calm mind helps in thinking. It helps in observing, following directions, opening your eyes and observing. These novice commuters who can tell the time and pack a trolly bag don't always have the full appreciation of being of sound mental faculty. For example. When getting on a train it is usually a good idea to get on your carriage rather than get on a carriage further up from your designated seat. But there will be commuters who see the train and think in their little heads "I must get on this," only then to realise they have to walk through a number of carriages till they get to the right carriage and find their seat. Of course this means they will have to pass a few hundred other passengers who are trying to get settled into their own seats and put their own little trolly bags away. It will happen tomorrow morning. As well as the passenger who thinks somebody else is sitting in their seat, only to find again, they are either in the wrong carriage or on the wrong train and should of got a later or earlier train.  There will be people with the wrong ticket. They will then be asked by the ticket inspector to pay up or get off the next station, if the ticket inspector is feeling reasonable. There will be groups of people who are obviously together and the trip to never-never-land is a wonderful adventure. They will talk loudly, laugh loudly and make themselves a nuisance to all around. Lastly, if unlucky, there is always the possibility a couple of toilets are out of use, or some of the travellers on the train don't understand how to actually use the toilet, because they should push and hold the button down so it can flush but think it should flush with just a quick button press. Not very nice at all.

I may be in a sociable mood or an unsociable mood. It depends on how I feel tomorrow morning. If I am very, very unlucky, I'll be sat next to a person who wants to talk to me the entire journey and I learn is mentally ill, racist, fascist, toffee-nosed, stupid, or boring as shit. It is highly improbably the person I sit next to will have a conversational ability to engage me for six hours. As it equally is unlikely I will. With my new Mexican, come Charlie Chan style moustache I will likely be different from anyone else in looks. Which I am not worried about. I will try and close my eyes and nod off, just hoping if a moments sleep shrouds my weary demeanour the time will pass just a little bit quicker than normal.  As I am not moving about I'll sit there and for a few hours get fat. Hope the weather doesn't get too cold, the in carriage refreshment trolley service is working I am not sat next to a mother with a small baby which has the shits. But as they say, worse things happen at sea, I just can't think of what particular things but only an oversized ship eating octopus might be a little more unfortunate.

Chrimbo time, look out for the merry fat man

Christmas is nearly here, I must admit to not being quite bothered about it. There's other things on my mind. Besides Sparkling evading my phone calls, pulling my leg, and occasionally helping to make me an emotional wreck, I've now got Rock Chick doing it as well. In her case it is by proxy. With a bun in the oven, the succeeding emotions of a little "fro" in this world seems to be making me emotionally unstable. I know Sparkles is going through the change of life but nobody said it effects men as well. So the fat man in red with a white beard, really has little effect on me. Babies and soppy films however do. Way too much. I repeatedly ask Sparkling the question "what is happening to me?" She doesn't know the answer but laughs when these things called emotions get a hold of me again. I hear Dangerous is having similar issues as Rock tells me he now sets of greeting (crying) over silly things which would of had no effect on him before the prospect of fatherhood.  Hell, every man Rock has contact with seems to be having some ongoing emotional episode. Maybe she's giving off some kind of I-am-pregnant-hormone. One which just makes men drop their guard of manliness and become more girlified. I just really didn't know it would be so draining at times.

I'm not in any form of Christmas cheer, but I am happy and content and emotionally unbalanced for the previous listed reason. I also am affirming more my belief in the non-belief option of this world. So one lazy excuse for not sending out Chrimbo cards is I don't believe in it, another is I haven't got any to send. This week is going fast, it's almost half way. Then next week and full count down to the end of the year. I'll be in Scotland on Saturday, taking the low road and the high road. Curtisy of East Coast main line. Which used to be GNER and in-between the two it was National Express. I suppose asking the fat man if he could re-nationalise the railway would be too much to ask. Even if it would be the right thing to do. For me it would be, but I'm sure there are a lot of commuters out there who feel the same. A bit like chess. Sometimes the hardest move to do and to understand is to move a piece backwards. It's rarely ever done, but usually there is good reason for it. It can be like losing a move. In this case I don't think it would be. No, the merry fat man won't do it, because he is probably one of the people who wanted it privatised. The fat belly is a result of too many mince pies. Just like the politicians. There's always room for more.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. I'm looking forward to it.

Things to do when the shit hits the fan

Whenever I go into the Fish Factory it is like a continuous stream of stress. One thing after another is thrown at me. I dodge to the left, to the right and then straight in the face I'm hit by a custard pie. Not a little one a blooming enormous one, it was thrown by Goliath. The right dodge and left dodge worked but only so far, I should of ducked as well. But sometimes when shits is coming from all directions you get hit. It just happens. So I did a little search on the internet to see if there is anything I can do to try and avoid flying turds.  If there are techniques to dodge the bullet, hop, skip, jump and waltz if necessary. Here is a list of them.

1. Avoid stressful situations - This is not going to happen, when you get paid to take stress you can't avoid it. Only an idiot would come up with this idea.

2. Set realistic goals - Hell, everything which is thrown at you has to be done, first it's necessary to work out what is realistic, what is achievable and what the time frames are. Realistic goals is all relative.

3. Set priorities. - Shit, this sounds a bit like realistic goals. Everything is a priority, how can you prioritise the priorities? With extreme bloody difficulty.

4. Change the way you react to stress. - This is an interesting notion. It doesn't say how you change the way you react, just that it is necessary and important to change the way you react. What if that tendency to yell out loud and kill a few cuddly cute giraffes is changed for the tendency to laugh and tell jokes. Well there wont be much stress but then there would probably be no job either by the end of the day. Saying this, changing the way you react is proactive. It just needs a bit more definition.

5. Use different relaxation methods. - This seems an utterly useless suggestion, because anyone in their right mind would of looked up different ways to relax and wouldn't want to read a solution which says find a way to de-stress. It's not rocket science Einstein. Whoever said this was a moron. Come on be bloody constructive. In the meantime I'll try a quick swig from this whisky bottle.  It's different.

6. Avoid extremes. - Sometimes it is not at all possible to avoid extremes of anything, because it is other people or outside forces which decide what pressures will be applied. Lets be realistic this is on the unrealistic of solutions.

7.  Change how you see the situation. - I like this one. It's like saying you know the situation is difficult but you're not going to let it get to you. It reminds me of Kipling's poem "If" which I have read a few times over in the hope it would  help me.

8. Sleep.- Hell, I'm stress, how the earth am I going to sleep? Where's that bottle another swig of this might help.

9. Replace bad habits with good habits. - Easier said than done. Better put the bottle down, nothing yet about double vision and staggering.

10. Take control of the situation. - Kind of useful. If something is running at you like a freight train, step to the side and don't just stand there.  But trying to control the uncontrollable might be difficult. Mind nobody said dealing with pressure would be an easy thing to do.

11. Work off stress. - Yep, I'm trying to do that right now, then I'll go to bed and sleep, sleep it off.

12. Listen to music. - Guess what, this is one of mine. I think it helps, slow, funny, whatever it is you like, get jiggy to it baby, coz the jiggy will release natural endorphins.

13. Think slow. - Mine again. In a stressful situation there is usually a requirment to think quickly, but in thinking quickly things are missed, the basics which even a kiddie can see. So, do the opposite. Think slow, think methodically, let the pile of shit line up and take its place one item at a time.

14. Take long lunches. - Mine, taking a lunch breaks the day up. It gives you a chance to temporarily re-charge those batteries or listen to some of that music you were going to get jiggy to, above all you should remove yourself from the place where the stress is being generated. Hence lunch and luncheon out of the workplace.

15. Meditate - I'm always one for meditating, now don't mix this up with another word which starts with the same letter, you'll get arrested.

So when I think about it there are many things which can be done when the shit hits the fan, I forgot to add, buy a helmet and a lottery ticket. Hell you got to have one for protection and the other for something to look forward to, just incase you have to return to the same place tomorrow morning.

Fed Up

Yesterday I had a fed up thought. I was "FED UP," a number of thoughts then came to mind and stamped all over me like an elephant doing an Irish jig. Fed up with the untidy state of my room, a pile of gifts which need to be wrapped, fed up with not being as organized as I should be, fed up with spending too much of my time watching movies and TV, like there is nothing else which can be done, nothing more productive I should be doing. For a moment the thought of making furniture came to mind, because flat-pack furniture is made for one thing, being put on a skip or a bonfire. Nothing has any staying power to it. Fed up when I thought if I'd spent the same time writing or researching I'd of been doing something much more important and useful. Hell even learning a different language. Fed up with being woken at 1 a.m. every morning because Big Momma has got to get up and go to the toilet to relieve herself. After which trying to sleep again becomes a waking nightmare. Fed up with the food I eat which is going to lead me to only one place as my arteries fur up,  because everything eaten is fried. Fried this, fried that and a good deal of fried the-other. I feel untidy, a mink, in need of a good tidy up and a good high powered electric shock up my arse. And I don't want it to be a short termism thing. I'm fed up with poxy chocolate, cakes, crisps, sweets and biscuits. I want to be alive. I want to be healthier and fitter and ontop of things. This room is a mess! Again.

It is all down to habits, bad habits rule. They take over, they permeate all aspects of life and are as difficult to get away from as sitting on chewing gum on a hot day. Getting up and finding a long elasticated sticky bit stuck to your lovely pressed trousers. Then to find for the next eleven hours you're stuck in the same trousers in more than one way. I just feel like getting a bin bag and throwing away loads of shit because this room is so small. I got stuff on shelves which is years old and collects dust and is there from sentimentality. I look at it and think, I should pick up a certain book and re read it. It's got knowledge, owning knowledge is power. But this is wrong because it is knowing knowledge which is power, not holding something on a book which has been forgotten or even unread.

I am so Fecking fed up, I want to change things and get control back again.Some of this stuff is definitely going in the bin. I need to get some of myself back, I'm lost in this untidy mess. Do something, anything. At least even writing the occasional BLOG is productive. Thank goodness for the BLOG. A minor achievement in a room full of untidiness. 

A plan is what I need. Or The Plan. The Plan. I know doing these things with a burst of energy usually ends up with them being just little trinket things. Bursts of energy are prone to being used up and worn out in a very short time. This has got to be a slow charge. A trickle charge, a little bit every day. Just one small step followed by another. Making the change, diet, health, productivity, room, all have to be tackled.  A small bit at a time constantly plugging away at them. It's about getting something done. Taking back from the nasty bad habits. Removing them in a subtle way, a life improving way. I just have to do it and get on with it. Simple.

Just stand there - London's changing population

The art of getting in the way of others is not lost in this country. It goes side by side with how-to-be-a-moron-in-twenty-easy-steps. It used to be a cultural thing in London where people would also cue up to catch a bus, but this can no longer be relied on. Londoners do not line up they pounce on the bus entrance when it turns up. When doors on a train automatically open they don't let the people off first, but would rather barge on while people are still trying to get off. To add further insult to injury Transport For London (TfL) do not announce on the train platforms, bus stops or radios the necessity of passenger etiquette. As if it is a taken and accepted thing. But it no longer is.

I'd like to put on my hedgehog suit. The one I made while at metal classes. It is covered in six inch spikes, they are sharpened to a fine edge, if someone decides to push too close then I am not to be held responsible for their self impalement. The suit is black and I have a half mask not unlike Batman. I will put in on when out shopping at the supermarket or going to and from work. I'm not sure what the reaction will be to it, but of course there is likely to be pain, not mine, other ignorant people, people who probably deserve what they get. Some just stand still and do nothing, they stand and they talk but are in the middle of a busy pathway. It doesn't seem to matter what these commuters and general public think, but this could be the thing, they don't think. They only think of themselves and do not consider they are surrounded by people. Just as the MP3 junkie with popped in earphones which leak more tinny music than the stuff which echoes around in their little mind's. Culturally it is now accepted London has changed. The proportion of ethnic grouping is so high in some places that it is higher than the indigenous population of yesteryear. It has become the new indigenous population. One which at times is even unable to communicate with itself. English used to be the medium by which everyone could understand each other, but this is not a guaranteed assumption. There are people who in London and have lived here for years who can not speak English. I feel sorry for them, they can not make friends so easily. Although we have a population of 7 million it can be a lonely population. People everywhere, but no friendly attitude. They just don't mix these different cultures, they mingle every once in a while, but it is evident cultural segregation becomes a self imposed norm.

My Turkish neighbours keep themselves to themselves. They've been here for about two years now. A family of four, mum, dad and two boys. The father avoids eye contact. It's odd, I view it with suspicion. It's the mark of someone who doesn't want to engage and alerts the senses no matter what culture you're from.  Otherwise, they are a lively family. I hear them shouting through the walls, and the small boys run up and down the stairs while their dad runs after them yelling out. I chuckle and wonder what they have done this time.  They are boisterous and I'd love to know them more, but it's not going to happen.  Perhaps it's that kind of fear people hold about getting to know strangers. Maybe they see me as one of those English people, as if we are a typical kind of people and not to be befriended. If I see them I'll say good morning and do my best not to take Dad's tacit nature offensively. Even if it's offensive. The smallest boy who must be about three years old, gets himself into trouble constantly and I'll hear him crying. Awwe poor thing, what did he do this time round? He has a cheeky smile and is shy, he just wants to have fun. I offered once to take the family to our local park, but they never took me up on it. I couldn't understand keeping young kids in a claustrophobic house when they should be outside using their batteries up. They are Turkish Muslims, which is different from other Muslims. It seems like Christianity there are different versions.

I've got to learn accepting other cultures is just as much a thing as tolerating them. Then understanding your intolerances. OK I might not like Turkish delight, but I really am sure my neighbours are OK. Otherwise I would be putting on adapted spiky clothes every day.  It is difficult at times to judge people in this world, and misanthropy can easily kick in. I am not a fish in a bowl, I am also a social animal. Think I'd better go and stick corks on those spikes. Afterall I don't want to be seen as a hedgehog, not really.

Poverty and personality

This is like any of my posts personal. It's a little of my story, of growing up. I am also writing after two JD and cokes, so will fight to keep my words on the straight and narrow even if my head has a tendency to wonder. Enjoy.

Next year I'll be hitting the half century mark. It's a little like hitting the 40 year mark and having a complete re-evaluation on life. This is something we should all do. I think of today's age and what is happening around me and cast back to memories of the late 60s and the 70s, on how life was, particularly how hard it was growing up. I have two sisters Silly Sophia and Mrs Talkative.  I am the oldest. Sophia came after me by three or four years. I can't remember how old she is, but I do recall how I felt as a young boy it was an inconvenience having a baby sister. A baby who couldn't do much at all and how my mother's love was then diverted from me, as the first and only child now to Sophia. Maybe this is something they call part of sibling rivalry. My father, who was actually my step-father worked in a factory which was a bus ride away. Though I'm not sure if he took the bus or whether he walked. Strange how such a small detail and question comes to mind now. His factory was about a mile or so from our home so he could of easily walked, and so probably did. I remember how my parents used to get up early in the morning. Or it seemed early to me. Probably five or six a.m. Mum used to make Dad sandwiches so he could take to work. He was unskilled and illiterate, but he did provide a house for three children and a wife.  Money was always tight. It must of been something to do with paying off a mortgage and high utility bills. Still on a Thursday night Dad would give us a few pennies and we'd immediately go and spend them on chocolate.  Before we went to bed though all the electrical items had to be unplugged.  To make sure they could not use any more power or cause a fire. There was no such thing as double glazing, if there was very few people had it at the time. Our house was on a main road and had a small front garden and what then seemed like a pretty big, or rather long back garden. As an adult now I can see it was just a back garden which through child eyes would of felt like a vast expanse.

The seasons effected the family significantly. Summer was great because I'd stay out as long as I could. My best friend while growing up lived on the end of our row of houses. His name was Stephen.  We were what you'd call whipper snappers, we enjoyed each other's company and I think we must of been friends for at least five or six years. As we eventually left this  house when I was between 9 and 10 years old.  We would scrump (steal fruit) or forage for summer fruits. We'd build secret dens and I liked going over Stephen's house. He had a smaller brother. Who barely comes to my conscious mind now. I can't remember many specific things we did but I do know we had a great time and his Dad unlike my Dad (Step-Dad) was a member of the local working men's club. Where we would sometimes go and be treated to a soft drink. There would be bottle tops from beer near the club, I recall they smelled nice. When you're a kid you don't understand or know much about life, you're just cared for by parents and have happy or sad times. A lot of stuff easily falls away into the deepest darkest recesses of memory and to this extent is forgotten. But i do recall winters. How desperately cold they felt. How I woke up in the morning and found ice on the inside of my bedroom window. The condensation had tried to dribble down but had turned into knobbly rivulets. I knew nothing different and only now actually realise we were not just a working class family we were poor.

Mum used to fight with Dad over all kinds of stuff. Usually money orientated, she never had enough. Once I remember she wanted to open a tin of peaches for sweet and he didn't. She was violent towards him but he would never be towards her. He was a nervous man, he would please with her and beg with her but she never listened to reason. I hated it when they argued. I wished I had another family. I was scared and used to pray at the time that they would stop. As a kid you're powerless to adults and their ways, even if they are more emotionally immature than you. The prayers were never answered. Her temper, aggression and unreasonableness always won out.

I didn't like my sister much, I don't know if this is something which refers back to the notion of her taking my mother's love away from me at an early age, or whether it was because she would cry at anything and didn't do the same things I did. Boys are quite like that. I recall one incident when trying to get Sophia to cross the road. We had been over the road to gets some sweets. Conveniently, a paper come sweet shop was opposite our house. I took her hand, looked both ways for cars and judged it was clear enough to get to the other side. As I was used to crossing the road I knew when to cross.  Sophia was afraid of the road, to tell the truth she's afraid of a lot of things. I hated her fear.  I looked the road both ways, it was clear enough as far I could tell, I took her hand but she would not move. She shook her head and said "no". In reply I must of said it's OK and come on. Time seemed to stand as she refused. She would not cross, so I stepped into the road and pulled at her hand, yanking her. She stayed firmly still, I pulled harder to get her to cross. She must of put one foot on the road and then because of her resistance slipped and fell on her backside. I think she had a dress on. The time it had taken her to argue with me and not cross now made it unsafe to walk.  She picked herself up. Crying. We  got back home and I got told off, it was all my fault. It wasn't, and it still isn't today, it was her fault. She still is a scardy-cat.  Nowadays through her life she has constantly suffered from depression, been on and off Prozac. Lives with an alcoholic partner and has exceptionally low self esteem. She does not understand she has control over her own life and no matter how much she is told she'd do better without a partner who raised his fists to her it doesn't go into her pea brain head. Talking to her can be so draining.

I went to state schools like everyone else I know did. My mother was not interested in supporting her children in their education. She was just raising kids, she did not and still does not understand the enormous responsibilities of education and parenting. She never encouraged any of her children to become better than the world would have them be. I have two sisters, and it was the same for the both of them. To tell the truth, my mother should never of had children, or she should of certainly of had better family support from her own sisters and brothers. There were 5 siblings in her family. We didn't just live in poverty, we lived in a family which had been downtrodden by the circumstance of finance. There would be times when my mum being fed up of staying at home would walk us all to see our gran and grandad. They lived about 6 miles away. These were long walks. Gran and grandad always gave us fare money to get the bus back. The one thing though with gran and grandad, was they loved us immensely, and showed it more than our own mum. Her parenting skill was to tell us to do something or to shout, and she shouted at every opportunity. Psychologically I believe shouting and children is damaging. We all grew up with various extremes of poor self-esteem.

I saw education as my way out, and through evening classes and many years ended up with two degrees in psychology. It was long and expensive. I had left secondary school with five failed O' levels, so had to start on the bottom of the ladder.  I then decided to target the Civil Service and sort not to just get a job, but a secure job. I hated the way I was evaluated on my CV. There was little I could put on it but no employer could understand what it had taken to get where I was. I'm now in middle-management and in my mind more qualified and able than my own senior manager. Fortunately she is not a bully. She has her view of the world and I've learnt to adapt to it and meet her demands. I've learnt to be tough minded when it comes to problem solving. I know what my abilities are, I know given the right circumstances I'd of been a high flyer in a bank and of been a millionaire. But life is equally about opportunities and connections as it is about upbringing. I do my best to support and be there for Sophia's children. Who have put up with a lot in their own lives. They youngest, Monster Boy is now 11 years old and the biggest Trekkie fan I've every met. He is smart, very smart, but again he is living in an environment which is not the best in the world. But, at least he has an Uncle who tries to be the best Uncle he can.

Poverty changes everything in growing up and in personality. If you've been poor you know what it is like to be hungry. You know what it is like to be cold and to not have the possessions others take for granted. If you are also raised in an environment which doesn't support all your, psychological, educational and nutritional needs it will have an effect. However, and there is a however, you make your own choice if you want to pull your socks up and escape it. Then you make your own choice on how to see the world. Being poor doesn't mean you have to be depressed, and downtrodden.  This is a free choice people make for themselves. Just as Sophia has cut her own cloth. Fortunately, my cloth has little smiley faces on it and a big red nose. And once in a while a blow a very loud raspberry.

A migraine day

Last night I stayed up late watching political programs on TV. It was gone 12 before I got to bed and my head was beginning to ache. With the added difficulty in getting up early in the morning, which by the way I believe is something to do with winter hours, i.e. long dark periods and little daylight, I knew it was going to be a struggle emerging from bed. I awoke late but had the feeling of being in need of at least another four hours. This was going to be a difficult day. Slowly I got myself together, as if my body had broken up into pieces and breakfast was a matter of gluing it back together again. Put the armoured suit on ready for the Fish Factory and headed out the door into a cold morning. There was a little bit of frost, but fortunately no slow. My pace to the train station was just as slow. There's no rush when the entire world is seen through the eyes of a migraine. I didn't even attempt to run to catch the train which had just come into the station. Another would come along and I'd be there, for now this head was in control as though it was on strike. Getting me back for the late night. Which in part I do believe is true. There is only so far the body can be pushed and it will push back with illness. Coughs, colds, flu, and now an awfully painful head.

At the Fish Factory we are taunted by an IT system which also is suffering from some kind of get-out-of-bed problem. A blue circle pops up and rotates on the monitor. The fishes get impatient, some deny they are impatient or angry over it. Me, well, I don't deny my anger, it is let loose in my imagination every time the blue rotating doughnut pops up on the monitor. I have seen myself rip the flat monitor from it's stand and crash it down over my knee, or eventually pull it away from it's attaching cords to drop it out of the window and see it descend to the ground and smash into a million pieces. The entire office would look on in both shock and admiration and cheer loudly as the busted new IT found it's rightful place on the scrap heap. I am sure we all think it but dare never do. Held back by the thought of losing a job, or the notion if we wait yet another day, for tomorrow, it will be faster and better and just as good as it was expected to be when they first connected it up a couple of weeks ago. Today with this blue circle and my recalcitrant head  it didn't bother me at all. The patience was there and it could not be incited into rage because rage would hurt too much. The last thing a poor demented head needed was a blown blood vessel as well. The circle moved on, going round and round and getting no where, as useful as a chocolate tea pot. The circle is virtual, it's not a wheel of a car or the wheel of a lorry. It's perceptually turning but going to no destination at all.

On lunch, I went to my local comfortable pub, it would be more welcoming if the music had been turned down a little. More secluded were it not so close to Christmas and people decided to visit it for a lunchtime out. Mostly old people. Mostly marked by their grey hair and curiosity of the place. They feel they have found a welcome spot hidden away, but it's not actually hidden, it's just not used as much on account of the prices being slightly above average. But for me sitting there at lunch time is to sit with a cup of coffee and where I'm lucky have a chat with Sparkling Eyes, when she's not accusing me of stalking her and pestering her for attention. I plugged in my head phones and listened to the radio on my phone which was also having a bad time of it. There was  no network coverage. It had come out in sympathy because of my head. Awwe so considerate. Both for me and probably for Sparkling if I wanted to talk to her, I couldn't.  The radio drowned out most of the overly ambient pop music. The pub was warm and relaxing. Except for the grey haired people and one who was for some reason taking photo's of this and that in the place. Bloody grow up you old stupid git, do they never get allowed out? And of course only old people can afford these places because they have good pensions. For they worked at a time when work was easy to come by and it was easier to get a good job. Employers listened. Lucky old bastards. The flash went off from somewhere and I could feel it seer through my eyelids. My eyes got tighter and I felt like sleeping. I could of easily just sat, cup of coffee on the table and dropped off to sleep. Doing my best to find salvation away from this bloody headache.

I staggered off through dizziness back to the Fish Factory and mindful of over extending lunch. I was not myself today. Not myself at all. Not even another person altogether, I was just no more than a walking head, one which hurt. ouch.

Moustache versus politicians

There are some Fishes at the Fish Factory who have not seen my moustache, consequently when they do get to see it they have to comment. Usually it is not along the lines of "what is that caterpillar doing on your upper lip" or "have you ran out of razors" but rather they say, "I didn't recognise you at first." It is like the Moustache has changed my face to the extent I am nearly but not quite unrecognisable.  Certainly no at a glance. It's unexpected.  Unlike our Chancellor of Exchequers Georgie (Boy) Osborne, who I believe if walked down the street wearing a dress and carrying a handbag would still be recognisable because this is an image I get of him every time I see him.  I'm sure he is a transvestite in private.  Personally, I'd rather be unrecognised with a moustache than a recognisable tranny. Even if I had the power of the County's finances.  Lets not forget the right honourable Eric Pickles who must of been a butcher in an earlier life because I can see him quite clearly in a white coat, straw butcher's hat and a wrapped up pound of sausages in his hand.

If I were to describe my moustache I'd say it was a Mexican for sure. It has the Mexican look about it which could only be completed by a Mexican hat, which I do not possess. Of course there are some politicians who could never grow a moustache, Nick Clegg being one.  It would not suit him. Some moustache wearers have given the humble moustache a bad name, dictators. They have unfortunately been associated with the moustache as a power thing, opposing this I'd say those poor moustaches were out of their little furry minds and didn't know what they were doing. Saddam was one of them.  Quite rightly he is no longer with us, which was not because of the moustache but because he was a nasty man in every way. A little like Nick Clegg who has gone back on his party's manifesto promises more times than the reverse lights on a car. It is a fact politicians lie to get into power and then pretend they didn't mean what they said when they said it.  There is no good reason, they just like to feel important and important feeling people don't do what they say if it is not to their personal advantage. Nick is a man who has no moustache, so I could equally ask how come bare faced liars are not generalised to every bare faced man? No doubt this is because it would be an absurd over generalisation. But it is certainly a reason for the promotion of facial hair for men, and women if they are able.

Yes let us not forget women. For they to have facial hair and do their best to ensure it is not noticed. I am sure Margaret Thatcher had to shave every day, and possibly twice a day. It was said she had more facial hair than her husband. Of course only he could tell the full story of why his razors were always blunt when he went to use them. Because women don't have moustaches it doesn't mean they would be ugly things to have, it just means fashion hasn't yet caught up with a very natural phenomenon. Angelina Jolie is rumoured to have a tash. Yes, it's true, I wrote it myself three seconds ago. My moustache is growing on me. In more ways than one, i'm getting to like it. It makes demands on me, requires trimming every couple of days and I have to be careful of eating food which can get attached to it. But it doesn't charge me taxes and keeps part of my face warm. My tash is here to stay, well for the moment, about as long as the coalition government will remain in power, and in the light of all things political that will likely be brief. The briefer the better.

Growing a moustache

I've been growing a moustache now for a couple of weeks. It's odd how people view you when you look different. Sometimes they can not even recognise me. They look twice. The smallest of changes and visual perception is completely turned upside down. As I grow my tash it begins to change, or rather I am growing it differently. Shaping it more. It's going to be a bit bigger in the next couple of days as I start to train it downwards just a very small bit at the sides of my mouth. When I was looking in the mirror a thought occurred to me, I wondered, if I put on a cowboy hat whether I'd start to resemble one of man from Village People. I hope not. But I just couldn't help wondering. Growing this thing on my upper lip is actually challenging. It challenges everyone who sees it. Some want to say something and the odd one hasn't made any remark at all. It's odd, because I'm expecting them to at any moment. I'm waiting, it's going to happen, probably, so it's just a matter of time. When you look different people just cant help themselves, they have to comment.  The ones who don't are just suppressing it, or they have already had a good gas to someone else.

It's a thick looking moustache. Mostly dark brown but as the years wear on I can see tell-tale signs of grey in it. So it's more of a salt and pepper moustache.  The kind which is utterly unique and comes at this stage in life before I go completely grey and lose every hair out of my head. It's always been a bother why my beard growth has been so thick and uniform rather than being musketeer like beauty which is naturally shaped and looks handsome.  It just grows and there's nothing I can do other than shape the thing. Which has to be done when I shave, well round the sides it does, but the actual length of the tash is a bit thicker than it was. A right thick hairy caterpillar it be. As it has got a little more length to it I find myself grooming it with my fingers as I run my index and thumb over it. It's not as hard and prickly as it was, the ends have softened. Maybe it's to do with drying out and getting washed a lot. However, the thickness does remind me of how thick my hair used to be, hair on my head.  I would actually like a more whispy delicate one, but it's not going to happen.  It could very much be mistaken as something which belongs to a Gay man.  If it is the thing some Gay men wear nowadays.  I so hope not. Well I am old enough now and ugly enough to pretty much not care what people think.  Now it's getting grown out of bloody minded abstinence at those who have commented. It's like sticking up two fingers to them, in their face so to say. It's good to be a rebel even a thick moustached rebel.

Sparkling knows I've been growing it but she has not seen what it looks like. I am wondering what she will think, I know she will say something, and depending on her opinion it may be on or off or again depend on how bloody minded I feel.  It is good to be different from anyone else. The number of people I know who have moustaches is small, certainly less than a handful. So maybe it says something for moustache growing men. They are different, they don't need to impress and don't have to worry about public opinion. Either this or they're just saving on razors. Well there's always more than one reason for doing something.