Candy Crush avoid it at your leisure and talk to a baby

Over the past few days Candy Crush has been a living hell.  It just will not work on this laptop. It is continuously stuck at 56 per cent loading. In the meantime Sparkling Eyes sits on her laptop completing yet another level.  So she has gone from 40 to 50 levels in front of me. It's not a matter of being pissed off, it's a matter of being very pissed off with the program.  To the point I have to consider when to play the thing at all.  Game manufacturers should not make games which have so many bugs in them.  And Candy Crush certainly doesn't work on many levels, there are moaning posts all over the internet, this is another one.  So I tried to cure it, cleared the casche files, cleared the cookies, cleared the temp files, uninstalled flash player, re-installed the flash player and still it does. Searched and then searched again and there is nothing more to help.  The makers of this game King were sent an email.  Their reply was to post a link to the help forums. Where can be found continuous gripes about it.  Sparkling says she would help me on CCS however as my laptop is not working she can't. I think she said this on purpose, and got a little kick out of it. It's not like I'm hooked on CCS because there is little chance I can get hooked because the bloody thing will not work. But it does feel like I'm going cold turkey at Chrimbo.  Yes, this is it. Cold bloody turkey because CCS does not work at all.

I took a mini talking video of Princess J talking, though at 7 months she doesn't say much, it's way too early. She lets out little shreeks at different pitch levels, but they are so cute. I sat there watching the short video and talking to little Princess J as though she was actually there. Sparkling reprimanded me because of my talking to a phone which would not answer back.  I couldn't help it and kept on smiling, she is such a beautiful little girl, and her character and development is growing every single day. She still has the "stranger danger" face, which pops up whenever anything new comes her way. Even if it happens to be a blue pony Chrimbo present. She doesn't know it is meant to be cuddly, warm and nice, she just sees something scarey. Hell there are really no real blue ponies in live.  A zebra might of been better. Black and white zebra's are a lot more natural than blue ponies, I've never seen a blue pony in real life. Wow suddenly there is a realisation this little girl is smart. Heck if I see a blue pony now I am going to shit myself. Well especially if it moves, and more so if it talks. Princess J has also recently discovered rooms have ceilings, she sits there, looks up at the ceiling and then leans back to the extend she the falls backwards onto a pillow.

Damn wish CCS was working.

Three free turkeys, Micheal Bublé again and an alien

Olly the cat kept us up all night, Sparkling says he knows his bitch is back, me. Wonderful.  The wind is blowing hard outside. There is no snow, just children wishing there was, personally I prefer it the way it is.  I've eaten late for the second night in a row and wonder if it will go straight to my belly. L & B man saw me and said I looked old. Great.  Fat and old as well. My shoulder hurts, Sparkling said it was a symptom of something I can't repeat in writing. I am old, I am fat.  One little girl approximately 7 months old recognizes my face as grandpa Pops and takes delight in trying to rip off my beard. It doesn't come off so easily.  Princess Baby J also seems to laugh when I pretend to be crying or in pain, she takes a delight. What on earth is going on in her mind? Who can tell, but seeing as she's got the genes of Sparkling and Rock Chick this baby will have every man round her little finger.

Eventually at some time this morning, I came downstairs following the meowing Olly and helped him out of the back door. he doesn't worry about me looking old. However he doesn't like the wind, mind I don't like being woken up several times at night, not knowing exactly what he wants. My cat thought reading skills are just not what they used to be. At which it was possible to get some sleep and up at 11:00 a.m. Poor Sparkling had been putting up with this for a few days, no wonder she was happy I turned up.

After time visiting Rock, Dangerous and Princess J we went over to the local cheapo superstore, at the back by the fridges there was a group of people. To tell the truth I'd seen them first but Sparkling who has an eye for deals got there first, and her mum.  By the time I'd got there they had been given a little Chrimbo present.  A free 14 pound turkey. It was big, bloody big. Normal price would of been 35 quid, they asked if there was any more turkeys for free, but it was the last one.  We hit the check out, I got there after Sparkling and Ma coz I was taking it easy.  Ten minutes later I met Ma at the end of the checkout. She said the young lad was going back to the store. He turned up with another two Turkeys (crowns) we'd just got three for free.  Recognizing we could not eat that much turkey between the two of us, Sparkling thought the next best thing to do was give it away to a charity.  Three phone calls later and we found a place who welcomed the turkey with open arms. It was going to a sheltered home, as Sparkling said, it felt good to give it away.

Returning back to the house we prepared dinner, steaks.  Sparkling did most of the cooking, I did most of the prepping and all the washing up. TV on and I pick up Harvey (ukulele) ready to get a little practice in. Then to my horror Micheal Buble is on, I know if this goes on any more I'll be wearing Harvey over my head.  So strategically stop. We watch a little and Sparkling proclaims she has seen it before. Except my time with Harvey is over, I can't practice now it will have to be another time. I think Sparkling is getting a bit annoyed with it. There's a time and place.  We swop channels and there is the comedy sci fi film called Paul. The near perfect Chrimbo eve, with Sparkling it is perfect.

What does Chrimbo mean? The gift verse the giver.

There was I sitting in the pub, ignoring my usual group of regulars because they sat at a small table and there was no way I was going to get a seat with them when the pub landlord thrusts a diary in my direction.  It was his present to the regulars. Though I don't drink a lot there so he probably doesn't make much money out of me, it was a nice thought. Opening up the pages there is a different saying at the start of every week.  One of the said the following:

"Love the giver more than the gift."

Brigham Young

I looked up Brigham Young to find he was some kind of religious (mormon) fella in America during the early 1800s, which shouldn't be held against him, as some very nice people are faulted with religious beliefs and some understand the sentiment and act the sentiment.  These are beautiful words. It stands to reason, except for an unfortunately quirk of society; in which it feels the materialistic nature of significant events has taken over.  Advertising has distorted what Chrimbo is about, human beings are so easily mislead and lose track of what is important. To believe owning an object makes a person a better person is what they sell.  No object can make a person better, only self understanding and compassion to all other human beings can do this. These are incredibly difficult traits to engender and not even a life time can fully change a person.

There are some gifts which are not wanted at all. Like the smell of a fart, the deadly silent but violent type.  However, the above quote reminds of another quote.  "It's the thought that counts."  You can not give thoughts away because we are not able to read minds, this is where gifts come in.  What is the perfect gift to someone as well?  The perfect gift is a thing that person actually wants. It doesn't have to be expensive either.  How do you know it is the perfect gift? This is difficult as it takes years and years of knowledge, you have to know the individual, know what they like, know what they really appreciate.  It doesn't have to be a yacht moored in the South of France, it could be as simple as a photograph in a frame. 

Sparkling Eyes is a socialist and a true believer in going against the advertising movement.  The most precious gift she's had is the title of nanny Ga Ga.  This isn't even a real gift, but Baby Princess J most certainly is.  When she laughs an infectious happy giggle changes the world, if only for a brief few moments, it is incredible.  I shall be seeing my family in Scotland shortly and certainly can not wait to spread the warmth. It helps when you have a big belly, gradually whitening beard and the words Ho ho come quiet naturally.

Crying man

Now men are not supposed to be touchy feelly like people, men stereotypically are rough, tough, enjoy man like things, such as building and breaking stuff  Except of course we're not always so good at the building things up at all. Just as women are suppose to be all feelings and demure, in a stereotypical fashion, but again a lot of them don't fit the stereotype. So I wonder why it was yesterday I just felt the need to cry, it came over me.  I can usually keep some kind of control over my emotions and may even appear a cold fish at times but underneath this poker like face there is a man who is in utter turmoil. Yes, utter turmoil, emotionally that is.  Not all the time let me add, just sometimes when things happen and they have a particular meaning to me. This could be an age related thing, but then thinking about it when those old Lassie movies were on they seemed to never fail to make me feel like a cry. I'd occupy myself building things with toys and then try to stop watching the telly.  I'm definitely not a girl, even though there tends nowadays to be a bit more of the man boob than there used to be. It happens.

This has now got to the extent Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick make wagers on when they think I will shed a tear or two. Whoever, chooses a time after I've had a couple of drinks is also more likely to win this bet, for it's more difficult to control sentiment when slightly intoxicated. At other times a couple of drinks will make me so merry as to laugh at anything, and to cause mischief. This is why sometimes nobody answers my phone when I ring them up on a Friday evening. Many a time has Sparkling put the phone down on me, getting too fed up and pissed off because I was either winding her up or she just didn't want to get involved in a silly discussion with a half drunk.

Today though I feel in a lot more control of myself, a lot more. Then Sparkling tells me how little Baby J is growing up and how she just wants to be nosey about everything around her.  She's not even crawling yet, but this feat is certainly on the cards soon.  Awwe, and then I can see her curiosity getting the better of any adult around her as she puts yet another item into her mouth seeing if it has got a taste or whether it will help her teeth to break through. She is such a beautiful little baby, I'm sure she will draw a tear or two when I next see her.

A crazy day of excessive exercise and music

It might be Sunday but it has been a crazy mad day for physical exercise.  As if all the days of continuous sitting on my arse has effected my head and body, I just had to get out and walk.  So did two and a half hours of walking. Got back, had a cup of tea, then went out again on a forty minute bus ride to do some shopping. I had in  mind a nice winter coat for Layabout Lad.  Even though he works now, he still is lazy so I'll stick with this name.  The coat looks good and I know from previous years he just doesn't wrap himself up warm enough, so this would hopefully keep him dry and warm.  I returned home, had lunch, went to sleep for an hour and then got up again to see Layabout and his girlfriend for a few drinks and a catch up.  He and she seem to be very happy and have been enjoying a week off work together.  They have another week and I'm sure this will be good for them as well. It was so good to see them both so happy.  I felt happy as well, like it was contagious.

This evening some other madness has overtaken me. It has been listening to music on Youtube.  The thing about youtube is it makes suggestions based on what I'd already listened to.  These are good because they are similar genres, but they are are bad when three hours later you suddenly realise it's gone midnight and your eyes are feeling distinctly heavy.  It's the exercise catching up with me.  How on earth have I packed so much into one day?  Well, I haven't because it's now Monday. Shite.

Shop at Bluewater, no thanks I'm not genetically engineered

I have been in desperate need of a pair of boots to see the next winter through.  Inexplicably we have been dealt the terror of the last two or three years of very cold winter weather. In Scotland the snow drifts are piled up by lorries or rather snow plow converted vehicles on gently curved corners and are about as high as a double decker bus.  For weeks on end you walk on compacted snow because it just doesn't melt, and driving becomes a bare knuckle affair as it becomes compulsory to keep an eye out the window for the next Council gritter to come along.  Some cars parked outside houses get stuck.  There they wait until the snow melts or a determined individual spends a lot of time digging them out. Then of course there is always the worry about where do you shovel the snow you have already moved from your own drive. The only place it can go is in the neighbour's.  So getting a pair of boots was for me paramount, in consideration of the amount of walking I try to do.

My first choice was to visit a shopping complex called Bluewater, it is a retail park which got developed in an enormous chalk quarry.  Visiting it you are reminded of this as the complex is based in the bottom of this quarry with chalk faces and vegetation all around it. It is easy enough to get to especially if you have a car. There is also access by buses but these will take longer. A hell of a lot longer. There are three retail giants who put in the largest amount of finance into Blusterer being developed. House of Fraser, Marks and Sparks and lastly yet significantly John Lewis.  Together these three practically own the place.  However going to this complex was probably the worst choice I could of made. As I walked around and saw the over inflated prices and designer labels everywhere I found myself getting angry. It is a place for the ponces, the toffs, the people who have money to spend. For example, I saw a coat in an outdoor shop, it looked ideal for winter, the type of coat which would keep you warm regardless, keep the heat in, the cold out, the snow off and the rain away.  I saw the price tag, which was beyond justification to purchase. It is incidents like this which make me angry, it is almost like there is a different set of human beings who live in a different universe and also have a different set of genes. People who are not effected by the recession.  I could not in any sense of my mental faculty justify the purchase, although I had the means to, I just didn't have the motivation or snobbery.  It makes me wonder if these wonderful individuals actually have smelly shit. It also makes me think when will the revolution come? When will we rid ourselves of the obnoxious genetic freaks, what have we done to deserve them.

I went home after wasting a few hours and as I left the place made a mental vow I will never go there again, of if I do it will be on the guarantee of a bargain. The place should of stayed a quarry in my mind at least people would of had jobs out of it still and aggregates help to build the country. I got the buses back home and feeling tired slept for a couple of hours. On waking I thought of another place I could shop, not so far away and definitely not as pretentious as Bluewater.  It was then in a shop called Sports Direct I got the perfect pair of boots I had in mind.  At the price I expected to pay in the first place, perhaps one or two pounds cheaper even.  I was verified in my purchase not to be a genetically engineered super rich human being, I'd got a bargain, I was real, am real, am alive and got a sensible head on these shoulders. Lastly, yes my shit stinks just like anyone elses.  Although I wish it didn't. But hell, it is good to be a normalish human being. They also had a great line in coats at very reasonable prices as well. I'll be going out to check these out at another time. Possibly tomorrow.  After all, if you have dry feet you need warm pits as well.

Learning music and a healthy brain, but not for armchair sports fans

It has been thought exercising your brain somehow can make you brainier.  Some electronic games manufacturers also use this as a selling point. The more I think about it though the more I can't help but question how true it is.  I really don't believe people become brainier with age, they just learn more and relative to their age so their intelligence is steady.  However, I was intrigued to find an article about Mick Jagger starting up a new group called the Super Heavys on account all the musicians are famous, e.g. Joss Stone.  There's four of them, but the other musicians don't mean a thing to me,  I'm not good at knowing band members and their histories. Then in another on another tangent, curiosity led a search to find an article about life long musicians. It said they were more able to discern both music and voices in a crowded room, because a lifetime of experience had made their brain function to a point there was very little in the way of auditory perceptual degradation against much younger persons on similar tasks.  In a big jump the literature suggests studying and playing music prevent the ageing process, mentally of course.  I mean Micky looks what he is, 70th birthday this year. Old rich git, but a great musician.  One thing I am sure the research did not look at was the long term effect copious amounts of alcohol or recreational drugs had on the long term professional musicians.  They are not all like Sting, with pure bodies and into tantric sex yoga.  He's in better shape than me.  He'll be sure to live to 100, another old rich git for sure, but a great musician.

The thing is with all the cerebral challenges people can immerse themselves in you'd of thought our brains got bigger and we'd be a lot smarter, but it just is not the case. Not in any sense at all.

I'm presently learning the ukulele, it is my passion and my hobby.  Playing it takes up time each day and I love it.  In addition the research points out whatever you do it must be something which is participative.  Not like armchair football fanatics, who scream at TV sets and don't actually bother going outside of the front door to do any exercise. For some reason I don't think singing a footy song counts as music, but I'm sure it makes them happy.  It is a pet hate I have, football crazy men, who talk more passionately about the team they follow than their family, their wife, children or their pets.  Like football is everything and if you can't talk football then you are not a member of the club. You are not worth talking to.  I can't talk footy, I don't watch it unless it just happens to be on TV when I walk into the pub. But it means nothing to me.  In fact I can say I care more about my ukulele (Harvey) than I do any football game. Well unless it happens to be my country playing, but I'll sit down during the national anthem or better go to the toilet, which is always a good time to relieve oneself. 

Time, memory, a tune on the Uke and a rasp

Time is relative and it goes by very fast. I need to talk to my dentist about this as I'm well overdue a check up. However, with my mouth open and his arm down my throat it'll be difficult to discuss. It's been ages since my last blog, blooming ages. It feels like it. Outside of my window fireworks going off. Bright sparkles explode in the sky.  So what have I been doing with myself which keeps me from writing words?  Working. Simple as pie, and 1, 2, 3.  Working.  However, when I think about it I'm lazy to a large extent. On account of taking an  hour lunch break and actually using it for lunch rather than going to the shops to do things. Hell, I need new shoes and it would be productive to get some, but instead the heels and soles wear away because my belly says it wants food. However, my head has being saying I'm fed up with being fat and it is about time I felt more comfortable and lost some of it.  As usual it's always getting the motivation to do it. Not to mention the time as well.  It's bloody weird, I may have got to be a middle fish in the factory but there seems to be a hell of a lot of admin tasks I do.  It makes me think why on earth am I doing these things, there should be a clerical little fish to do them.  It's all bloody maintenance work.  Always on the go and always fire fighting. In one training session this week the trainer seemed to think private sector employees worked harder, I'm not so sure of that, and they soon found out this was not the case when the reflex response was voiced.  Have I ever said I hate accountants, on account of them only looking at finance and saying things like "we must get more done with less," for if they got paid less then the extra funds could be used to get extra fishes.  Something which I'm sure an accountant of any description would not even consider.  BANG. There goes another firework.

The last couple of weeks I have been completely infatuated with trying to learn and sing a song on my ukulele (Harvey).  It's by Asaf Avidan and is called "The Recogning Song." It is short and easy enough to sing, I like the rhythm and the notes they go well together.  It also kinds of strikes me how songs and music are sung to different melodies. Singing the words to a song is follows a different tune to the actual tune. This I think is probably true with a lot of songs.  Either that or I am completely stone deaf or is it tone deaf.  It's the age. When in fifties I didn't realise forgetting things would be as big a problem as it is.  I can walk from one room to anther and forget why I did it.  Go back to the original room, sit down, remember what I was about to do, then go into the second room again and forget.  You couldn't make a comedy out of it because people wouldn't believe it, but it is true, I'm losing my marbles.  They are just dropping out of my ear and going rolling down the street. Someone will be lucky enough to use them for something.  I just hope the new memory of Asaf's song stays in my head so I am able to sing it at some time, to someone.  It's odd but I'm even starting to get over the hysterical laughter as I play a tune on Harvey and sing the words. As Sparkling has told me before, it's a matter of getting both the tune and the words right and she's told me it's not working.  Well it's starting to get there now, even if I can't remember what is getting there, something bloody well is. I hope so anyway.

Little Baby J has given us her first raspberry.  I saw a video of it on Face-book.  It was wonderful, I must of watched it three or four times in a row and laughed so much, because she is really a very cheeky little girl. This stage of development isn't something I learnt about when I was studying psychology, which when I think of it could of been a bit more descriptive. But then the problem with psychologists is they are always trying to figure out what is going on in someone's head. Hell, it must be the hardest thing to think about when talking about a baby who can't talk, is teething and the best thing since sliced bread is being able to ween.  Baby J is so beautiful she has everyone around her little fingers.  She will never be short on love. Sparkling spent an entire day with her and told me how it tired her out in the end. But she really enjoyed every moment of it. Sparkling is the proudest Gaga there has ever been. She's also a naughty Gaga as Rock Chick has said she is not to feed Baby J chocolate, even if it happens to be a very small amount.  Awwe, poor Baby J.  I can't wait to see her again and see her smile and see if she will rasp at me.  Cheeky little monkey. 

Three IT problems

I'm having a bad IT day today. It has happened on three items, this computer which I write BLOGS on, a laptop computer which is used to while away hours in the pub and my new smart phone.  This computer just refused to switch on and work, it kept freezing in the Windows start up screen. Eventually it has re-booted but it doesn't look like good news because a new computer will likely mean I've got to get a new internet set up and go wireless.  My laptop would not connect to the internet in the pub, I turned it on and off at least three times but it would not connect on the browser. This has happened before and cuts short what would of been a relaxing doing very little time. Lastly my smart phone just decided to turn itself off and not turn on no matter how much I pressed the button. I thought maybe it had somehow ran out of charge. Which didn't make sense.  So I took the battery out, put it back in and it worked.  If bad luck comes in threes I'm about to have three lots of IT bad luck in the coming days or weeks. Though this may only actually be one, and it's the biggest one of all, this computer I use every day. Shite.  As the saying goes sometimes shite happens.

Winter begins

Poor baby Fro or shall I say Baby J, has a virus, over the last night both baby and Rock Chick were lucky if they got two hours sleep. It must be wearing the both of them out. To the extent Rock was due to go out on a girls night out but her mummy duties completely took over. Poor things. Sparkling texted me, she was at work and was fretting. I could tell she wanted to be there, to try and help, and try to make things easier. After a visit to the docs they were told there was no choice but to let the thing run it's course. Awwe. I can just imagine what her wee face looked like, as Sparkling told me, she looked sorry for herself. It's amazing how much expressing a 4 month old baby can have, when she smiles though it is like the entire room smiles as well. I have seen fewer beautiful things, and think Baby J's smile must beat everything.  I'm sure in a couple of days time she will feel better. No wonder mums are given so much maternity leave, the fact is they need it.

So it is officially the first day of Winter. The clocks went back, and some of them went back without any help at all. Such as my smart phone. I suppose you don't get called a smart phone for no reason at all. In fact it fooled me, which isn't too difficult nowadays. Perhaps I should call myself dumb man instead.  I woke up, looked at the phone, thought to myself "is that all" and I've still got to turn it back. Listened to a little bit of radio and then realised it was the right time and I was being greedy wanting two hours instead of just the one.  Hell, it's dark, not quite 7 p.m. and pitch black outside. It was a rush to get out of the house and head to work.

This momentous first day of winter has come with a weather warning. One which has been on the news for the last four or five days. Torrential rain and near hurricane force winds are due to hit the south of England. This very moment we should be getting a house shaking. I think it may have decided to move further north than hit us poor southerners. We had it once in October 1987, but twice is not on the cards, no, give us sunny days and mild winters, we just can't take it. There's been more wind in this house after I've had a curry than there is at this moment.  Of course on an inside windy night it's always best to open the window not what I'd do on a weather windy night.

The days get shorter and another year wears on. Chrimbo is round the corner and the fat bearded man is wearing red again. I wonder if he has any wind problems?

A chat about a coloquial word, being 13, and humour

This afternoon I took Monster Boy out for a walk. He happened to mention his birthday is next week and he will be 13 years old. For a growing teenager it is amazing to reflect on the time which has passed. I like going for my walks with Monster, although I'll have to think of a new pseudonym for him as he is no longer the little boy of yesteryear and is becoming all worldly knowledgeable. Certainly in the realms of Star Trek, Star Wars and Marvel Superheroes anyway. It is so unfair such a bright young lad is disadvantaged by his upbringing, a family in poverty, depressive mum and alcoholic father. Well I  hope I bring a little bit of mad sanity, which is an oxymoron I know. Monster could not believe he would be 13 either, so I mentioned he had not yet walked around the lake with me and so still may not reach the age of 13. I had referred to his birthday in a non eventful manner and he pulled me up on it. So I put my arm over his shoulders and told him it was a very important time. It's my grumpy old man hat getting being put on when I should of been more cheerful.

He told me about an event which happened in class to do with colloquialisms. He asked what the word "knob"meant. They had been playing  a game where sitting in a circle each person took a turn to say a word which was in some way associated with the previous word. The words came, door, handle and he said knob. There was laughter from the group including his teacher who must of been overhearing. He was serious in his answer and didn't immediately understand. He knew the word "knob" was a colloquial word as well, but didn't fully appreciate it's meaning. So he asked his uncle, moi. I gave him my full interpretation of what it meant and also advised him he had unknowingly created a comic moment. In the fact he was serious in his answer and this was one of the truths of being funny. Saying something funny but being serious, or droll.

On the walk round the lake we came across a tree which had fallen over. It was as though it had been snapped near the base, how it happened I could not tell. There was no tell tale lightening strike. It was a beautiful work of art in a way. I took a picture of it with Monster standing next to it.

Next week he'll be 13 years old. Time as so flown. Flown like an arrow. I recall when Monster was only 5 years old and we sat at the back door eating ice creams. It was a hot day, sun out and beautiful, I said to him this was one of the most happiest days because we sat there together. He said it was good but it would of been better if Doctor Who was real. It's funny how such moments remain in memory for the rest of your life. Just as one of my other most important memories is sitting on a beach in Portugal, eating sardines on bread and looking out over the sea and a replica sailing ship. Sparkling Eyes was sat behind me. I thought this is such a beautiful relaxing view and place to be it must be made indelible. So I visit it once in a while. Of course Doctor Who wasn't there either. 

Another salad day, where's the rabbits

Today I made my own salad lunch, it was an achievement considering I wasn't particularly motivated. The rabbit side of me just wasn't present and chopping up all those bits and pieces took ages. I should of got up earlier, next time I'll just put a raw but cleaned carrot in the box for ease. I'm sure it has cut down on my calorie intake but I can't help the little naughty side come out. Like eating two packets of chrisps, having a Guinness in the pub and also two bourbon biscuits with a cup of tea this morning. It will be all these little extra things which will probably mean I've achieved absolutely nothing. The thing is it could all come down to buying food, if I buy less food then the less likely I'll eat it, but at the same time the desire to eat is great. Food is like air, I'm addicted to it, the worst thing of all is coming into autumn and winter months. At this time of year it is even more difficult to diet and lose weight. I've not seen many rabbits dieting in October, although there are probably a few which have been caught and put into stew pots. Come to think of it I've probably only eaten rabbit once in my life as a child, it was stew. I was told by my mother it was rabbit, my sisters didn't eat it either, the thought of Bright Eyes in a stew pot was pretty distressing. Saying this, it was a few years ago and those memories may not effect me now. There is even a curiosity as to what it would taste like now I'm more adult and much more carnivorous than I was those days. Well, except for the DIY salad lunch things. Hell there should be health warnings on chopping up a lettuce, along the lines of, "warning this product may not satisfy your greed by 5 p.m."

I wonder what real rabbits eat when they are on a diet. Then there are some pretty big rabbits about as well. Surely they can't all be nibbling away at carrots and lettuces all day long. Well, certainly not the fat ones, the real obese ones which are big and cuddly rabbits. They must be secret fast food addicts. I can see little but fat Harry the Rabbit in his hutch this moment, on the phone ordering a take away for one rabbit, probably chicken curry, a couple of poppadoms and some nann bread. He'll not order any rice on account of it bloats him and Harry to is conscious of what too many carbs do. After all he'll have an entire day of rabbit seeds to quietly tuck into. Or perhaps Harry prefers Chinese food instead, me and Harry would get on fine in this case.We'd sit and keep each other company, especially if it had to be done in secret so no one knew we were breaking a curfew.  Harry may indeed be someone I could swop recipes with and learn what the finer points to food preparation for vegetarians is, for example how to disguise a dozen rashers of streaky bacon with a few pulses. We all know vegetarians are only vegetarian so they can boast about it and when they are home behind closed doors they like their meet still dripping with blood. Harry sounds a bit evil now. In fact with those big teeth he's got and those long ears, in the right lighting he may well be mistaken for some nefarious character of the underworld.

Hey, not everything in fur is soft cuddly and loveable, but unfortunately you always know what you get with a lettuce.  Not much at all.

A beautiful October day

It's Sunday 6th October, by all rights the ground she be frosty, instead as I went out this morning there was a dew on the ground. It looked like frost but it was definitely a dew. The forecast was an unbelievable 20 degrees C, and so it actually was. The sun was low in the sky but it was bright and hard. I could hardly recognise what is a late autumn. Very late autumn. I got up early and decided to spend time with Monster Boy, who because in a short while he will be 13 is nearly no longer a boy at all and nearly a teenager. We did have a little debate about this, wondering at what actual age does a teenager begin to be a teenager. For some are wild earlier than 13 and others later. It is the stage when an individual starts the search to find out who they are and what they are. To date Monster Boy has been straight laced, but I can see the start of rebellion in him. Parents of course are the first point of rebellion, he has his own mind and he is a smart cookie. Unfortunately he still has an infatuation with Start Trek and Star Wars. I am sure now there is no particular hope for him and he will be a Sci Fi junkie and certainly a Trekky for the rest of his life. Even if he manages to live through his teenage years. Apparently he'd been advised he might not get to be a teenager by his brother, his dad and me. I'm sure he will and regardless, I enjoy him talking back to me and also making fun of me, just as I make fun of him.

We took a long walk, up a steep hill, along a main road and then around a lake. There was a lot of people about and although it was great to be out I must admit to being a selfish person and preferring to walk around the lake when there are fewer walkers. Today there were a lot of fair weather walkers enjoying the sun. We chatted all the way. Though I think Monster was not on top form, it seemed he was half tired and I felt a little guilty getting him out and about in such a state. He said he didn't mind. I'm glad I persuaded him not to wear his new trainers because they would of been killing him otherwise. We stopped in Tesco, then went into a cafe for a cup of tea which had suddenly got very busy as it was lunch time, then we left and headed home with a couple of bags of shopping.  The walk back was a little shorter.

At the end of my time with Monster I asked him what he liked and it seemed to be most of the walk. Except he chastised himself for not being able to come up with only 6 alternative ways in which you could help someone who didn't have the sense of smell, and stop them from being killed by a cloud of poisonous gas. It was an exercise in imagination you see and he got ten pence for every idea. I said it was a warm up so as to make him feel a little better and then gave him the challenge of naming ten uses for spaghetti, he came up with 8 uses so it showed he was certainly getting better. In the afternoon I gave him a short ukulele lesson and he laughed as he tried to strum a G chord getting his fingers tangled up. Taking him back home I gave him a slice of cheese I'd bought for him from the supermarket, a banana and a box of chocolate orange matchsticks. Not to mention he ate 8 chocolate biscuits with his glass of milk. He got home happy and as always it was good to see him smile and laugh. Should I now give him another name as soon he will no longer be a boy, even though he says he wants nothing to do with girls. Well, not just yet I'm sure, but I told him if he needed a few lessons I was here, and that my new girl friend was Rhianna. Yes, Kylie just isn't doing it for me at this time.

A pampered hair cut

This morning I planned for one thing, there were considerations but the one thing had to be done more than the others. To get my hair cut. It is simple enough getting hair trimmed but with the demands of six and seven day working weeks this can become difficult in itself. I chose to hit a different hair dresser. Not completely different, just a shop I'd been to a couple of years ago and stopped going.  Getting hair cut isn't like choosing a new car, you get a hair cut many times a year, so I choose to go where I choose to go. I'm not a slave to the habit of a single hair dresser. Further I don't like the idea of any hairdresser getting a bit over smug they got a constant and reliable customer go there. So I spread myself about, depending how I feel. If only it was as easy with going to the dentist, getting a hair cut is a hell of a lot less pain inducing.

So I tried a little bit of chat on the hair dresser but he didn't seem to want to engage a great deal. I think he was run off his feet. A trainee finished off my neck and just as I was about to get out of the chair it had been reclined and he said, he hadn't finished. Next was a hot towel over my face, which is a bit odd considering I have a beard still. Why on earth use a hot towel on my face. I tried to relax into it. He pressed the towel into my face, a glowing warmth permeated through. The relaxing bit wasn't so difficult. I kept my eyes shut and he removed the towel. Then a cream of some kind was put on my forehead and before I knew it my forehead and temples were being massaged. There was also the smell of some perfumed stuff. But hell I got a beard, which didn't seem to matter because he just spread it into my beard. I was starting to smell like a French tarts boudoir. The chair was raised into a sitting position then his fingers were massaging my neck and eventually my shoulders. What? This was good. More than attention than even Sparkling Eyes gives me, I mean she demands I do her feet but it's only like twice a year I ever get any kind of massage. Unless of course it happens to be the wooden massaging cow, then it's a quick run over my back and that's it. Blimey, this guy was doing a job or what. I liked it, but hell did I now smell.

I considering how perfumed I'd just become I decided to not get the bus, I'd of been the odd one out. Short, fat bearded man smelling like a whore on a hot date.  Feck, they should use non perfumed. It was nice though. I texted Sparkling and later had a very short conversation with her. She thought it was weird, and made aspersions. Hell, I didn't realise they could smell me in Scotland.

Three Salads

For three days I made my own lunch, each one was a tub of salad, the ingredients of which were bought on a Sunday. This is the start of healthy eating, of the new me, I'm fed up of feeling fat, uncomfortable and like nothing actually properly fits me. Except today I didn't eat a salad and went to the usual Chinese.  But for three days I ate food which had been grown from the ground. Food which even prepared still looked close to its natural state. Why did I break down? Tomorrow is a new day an new start, there isn't enough food there to make a day four of salad. I'll try and do something else. Hit the shops for a sandwich, made with salad instead of eating inside. Or maybe I could use my imagination, use the existing bits and pieces and see what turns out, it could be another vegetarian feast. Which makes me wonder, do vegetarians feast at all?  I shouldn't of eaten those three dark chocolate biscuits earlier, I need to get on the road again. The straight road not one which twists and turns, taking detours at every fast food place there is. Not one which desires a curry at the weekend. Exercise. This should not be a dirty word, yet it is something I don't do and heard on the radio most adults don't but yet this is the main ingredient to a healthy life, to living long, fighting all sorts of human illnesses. From cancer and heart disease to illnesses of the mind. That's it, it's all in the mind. When I see food I don't really need it, I am feeding the desire, but hell the desire to eat is a pretty strong one.

Got to think. When I die will they need six skinny men to carry my coffin or will it be a fork lift truck?  Exercise, it's almost like garlic to a vampire, hmm garlic is nice when mixed with ginger it's the basis of a lot of foods. Back to food again, how can this meandering stop?  Three salads, tomorrow lets make it a mixed salad sandwich, one day and I'll try to see it as a little blip, better than a big fat elephantine looking man.

The Battle of the Bottle

There is in Scotland a little individual who at the power of her desires has at least three adults running around, whatever her want is they satisfy it. Until now, until this point in time where Babyfro is about to get some gentle persuasion. From breast feeding to bottle feeding. For poor Rock Chick has now survived four months of stolen sleep where ever she could get it. Oh to go 8 hours, Rock Chick the one who loves her bed and the comfortable feeling it's sheets provide. Dangerous, like a caveman of olden days goes out and works. But he's a good daddy, he doesn't mind getting up to his elbows in baby poop. I've seen him, for his little girl he'll do anything, except of course the biological thin he's not equipped to do; but he can hold a bottle. He could hold a bottle, if only Babyfro is amenable to a little coaxing. It will have to be so slowly and so carefully for this little one is not for being fooled by anyone, she knows what the real thing is, she knows mummy is an entire entertainment centre and feeding machine, Babyfro has the stare. A stare where nothing can get between her and her mum, a stare so transfixed it is like she sees a wonder of the universe. And this is true of every mum, they are bloody wonders when it comes to their babies. Dangerous goes in for the mission, bottle in hand, aiming in then out, she's not having it, he can clear up Fro's crap but he's not going to get away with sneaking a bottle feed. This is an altogether different ball game Mr Dangerous, for Babyfro has you twined around her little-lest of fingers. Go away daddy don't try that thing on me she says. A grown man whimpers away, losing this battle.

It will have to happen some time to Babyfro she can't win out time and again, perseverance will have to change the tide of this sea.  Rock Chick is needing a break but baby is not convinced when a bottle is pushed in her mouth from Rock. Out it goes.  In then out, in then out. She knows what she wants. So it is this little bundle of joy not only knows what she likes she is not for turning. Dangerous takes the helm of the battle again, with bottle in hand Rock stands back. In fact she has to be out of sight, for baby can smell, see, and hear if mummy is there, she's not going to be convinced at daddy if mummy is around. Then left on his own Dangerous tries yet again to coax the bottle into baby's mouth. She is not having it. He gives up. What are they to do, who will come to the rescue?

Here she is Sparkling Eyes, otherwise aka Gaga. Gaga is on call, it's now her turn. She's doing baby sitting and she's on rota for walkies, while mummy and daddy are out. So with rolled up sleeves Sparkling goes to battle, bottle in hand, warmed to just the right temperature. Babyfro is still too smart to take it on. She moves her mouth from side to side to avoid the rubber teet. As if to say "not again, even Gaga is at it."  She will not accept the bottle, where's my mummy she would say but at this point in life says it by expression, looking around, being fidgety and telling Gaga it is not going to work. Gaga might be super woman but this baby is super baby as well. Mummy and daddy are out, having a break. OK then if it's going to be like this Gaga thinks I'll have to get the industrial machinery out. To the pram she heads, baby in arms, all swaddled and comfortable wondering what is going on, wondering why Gaga isn't turning kart wheels just because baby wants her to. Door open, door closed, out goes Gaga pushing pram and Babyfro. The industrial machine of walking soon gets to tire out the ruler of the world. Pram wheels turn, rocking gently from side to side. She looks up and sees the face of Gaga, in turn they stare at each other. Yet the movement and the air and the noise and everything else is just a little too much for Fro. Her eyes fight the exhaustion of being taken for a walk. This is even worse than the bottle, how underhanded of Gaga to do this, to make her tired and sleepy.

An hour later Sparkling returns back home, with baby, gently napping. There she lay, eyes closed and world domination in a land of pink elephants, purple dinosaurs and yellow talking sponges.  For a few moments Sparkling can rest, for a few moments neither Sparkling, Baby or bottle are at work. A little peace, a little quiet and in a few more moments round twelve for the battle of the bottle will begin.

Ukulele and a Burning Ring of Fire

This evening I have spent hours watching Youtube videos of people play Johnny Cash's Burning Ring of Fire. You name it I seen it, of course in all incidents they had a ukulele and the odd guitar rendition. The song is simple and short, the chords used are few and the strumming isn't overly difficult but to combine the whole lot and singing is a little harder. I also spent nearly two hours strumming away on Harvey and singing along. But I must admit it is hard to hear yourself when you have headphones on and are listening to someone else play the same song. Not to mention trying to keep in time with them as well. I saw, men, women, groups and one woman and her dog sing along to it.  I added a few viewings of the real thing in as well as Johnny sang it on different occasions during his music career.  There was one old man who liked to play a version of melody ukulele and it was amazing how his fingers fluttered over the strings he must of been an expert is all I can say. There are different three if not four things which all have to be synchronised together. Singing and preferably in some kind of tune, I also find it helps to wear a hat and kind of look the part so have an old cow-boy looking straw-like sun hat. It sort of helped on one try anyway.  The chords are simple, just G, C and D it is however a matter of playing them in the right order and to the right tempo, i.e. up, up, down, down, up strum. Checking out the videos kind of helped give me a better idea of timing, although I don't know why but I like to sing it slow. It's odd practising because you just can't help but listen to the strum, try and sing the rhyme and then get the chord changes right at the right time.  Watching the videos it's good to see people get it wrong as well, it means they are only human. However as for timing some did it a lot faster than others. Even watching Johnny play he seemed to play the song fast, it comes in just over two minutes long. Which is about half the time of a normal song.

This is two nights in a row I've been hitting the strings. I laughed again a couple of times and it is like a chemical release in my brain, I think the ukulele is a drug. The thing is drug users don't know it. Perhaps every NHS rehab clinic should give users a ukulele they'd learn how good a natural high can be, either that or I'm suffering from some manic disorder which only happens when I got my hands on Harvey. That sounds a bit odd saying it like that, Harvey the Uke I mean, nothing else. 

I think another couple of practice sessions and I'll of learnt the words off by heart, which will be a first. Come along Harvey, Ok, 1, 2, a 1, 2, 3, 4.

A Police interview in Poland

A young woman opened the door and entered the waiting room, she then spoke to Policeman through his intercom. He pointed over to myself and HMRC lady. My eyebrows shot up in acknowledgement, she approached us.  At last someone who could speak English. She explained we would have to sit here for another five minutes in order to be seen, and then she would come with us and interpret.  This seemed pretty quick to me considering the last Police station it was going to take an hour just to be seen. Five minutes passed, ten minutes passed and another middle aged woman popped her head around the door. She looked at us, pointed a pen she held in her hand and spoke Polish. We shook our heads like idiots in unison and feebly asked "Do you speak English?" No reply. She stomped off.  Great back to square one again, where's the nice admin girl who spoke pretty good English. A few more minutes passed and said young lady turned up again.  She led us through the security door, advising us as we followed what was about to happen. They didn't need my DNA, saliva, piece of hair, to blow in a bag or to be beaten with a truncheon, thank god. We were about to be interviewed by someone and then we'd have a report written out. Of course everything would be in Polish. Well naturally it would be.  Up two flights of steep concrete stairs, the décor was uniform yellow paint. I guess it must help in the interrogation process when prisoners are led away.  Blinded by the blandness of style in an old building. Miss Admin pushed open a heavy old door, there sitting at the table was the pissed off Polish lady who'd pen pointed us earlier.

We had in mind just one objective, which was unfortunate. For when you have one objective it is easy to forget about details, those little things which are important. Not knowing the language probably worked in our favour. So it was, HMRC lady did a great job of describing what had happened; my camera had been lost or stolen but we didn't know what it was. HMRC described the walk from restaurant to bar or was it bar to restaurant and the alleged process of finding I'd lost my camera. To tell the truth I didn't feel of much use in the entire matter, on account of not being sure of how the thing had got lost and how it had really got lost in a different town.  Not this one.  Would they see through these untruths. HMRC got stuck on a point and looked at me. Oh shite, what did she expect me to say? We didn't get our story and facts sorted before we sat in this place. Hell I didn't want to contradict what HMRC said and I had a dose of rabbit in the headlights come over.  Were we put into separate rooms, the statements would of been a little bit different to say the least. Hell, in situations like this some people break down.  Fortunately Sparkling Eyes, (the love of my life) wasn't here she'd of had an anxiety attack walking up the stairs and I'd of been put in a cell for every armed robbery since Christmas, even though I was never in the country, all for the sake of a bloody lost camera. I replied in a confused and agreeable fashion to HMRC woman and reached for my passport. The magical document which opens doors, or could close them in some cases. It was handed over as part of the process for writing the report. The dour faced interrigatoress concentrated writing on her laptop. It was a Lenovo brand, and I noticed the fingerprint reader on it for security.  My details had now been entered into the Polish Police database. It seemed like ages we were in this room but it didn't take too long for the report to be written out. All the time seemed to be taken up by the interpretation process.  It came out of the printer and we were advised a senior officer had to sign it off then I'd get my copy. God, not another delay. As it turned out there was no delay at all, an unknown face behind another heavy door immediately dispatched it.

Miss Admin kindly escorted us out of the building, down the stairs through the secure door and off we went. Sparkling looked at us and said it took an awfully long time. She and L & B man didn't know what had happened to us. She'd even looked in the waiting room but we were gone. She said this with a chuckle and we got a cup of coffee for our troubles. What a relief it was all over for now.

A Lost camera in Poland

Whilst on our long weekend break in Poland I lost my camera. It was in a lovely but snooty place called Sopot and a typical tourist town, beautiful pier, nice sandy beach, not forgetting the obligatory street full of shops, restaurants, bars.  The poser street is technically called Monte Cassino Street, yes

it has a poser name as well.  Somewhere between a wobbly looking building and a restaurant called Pinocchio I seemed to lose, misplace or get pick-pocked my compact camera. There were a lot of photos on it as well. We looked everywhere, around the table we'd brunched a great breakfast and around a table we'd just sat at but had failed to get served. The distance between where I had the

camera and the place it was lost could of been no more than twenty metres/yards. And I was just about to take a picture of myself with a pretty beautiful, tall, chocolate, ice cream. All of this has something to do with being half a century old and preferring food, a lay in bed and a good movie to doing anything strenuous.

I'd purchased a good insurance policy, or I hope its good but yet to find out, from the Post Office, which cost enough so I do hope it is good. However, like anything else you just can't claim insurance unless there is some follow up evidence and this meant obtaining a police report on said missing camera. Honestly I'd of really preferred the camera to making a claim and certainly a lot more than going to a Polish Police station. Walking the length of Monte Poser Street we then took a right along a road and found the Police station. It seemed new and clinically clean. The reception desk could of come out of B n Q and been put up an hour earlier because it didn't look like anybody bothered to actually sit behind it. So I stood there with the crew. Except L & B man who had a call of nature at that time on account of his stomach problems which funnily enough always arise when he is in Poland, it's the eggs he claims.  Eventually a Policeman with a large belly opened a door and poked his head out. His belly was so large I could tell his feet never got wet. Funnily enough it doesn't matter if you have a large belly in Poland you can still carry a gun on your hip. In a bolshy way the fat man had a conversation (in Polish) of course with a young man sitting in the waiting area. It seemed he was trying to dissuade the fellow from brining a complaint to the Police by being arrogant, flashing his hipped gun and trying to make a joke, which failed on tourists who such as I who didn't know what he was talking about. Another waiting man was able to translate as HMRC lady explained with me looking like a out of place plumb in an apple basket. Apparently nobody at the station spoke any English, even though this was a major tourist town, and we would have to wait at least one hour before someone could see us, who didn't speak English. I suggested we should go and forget the whole thing. No wonder insurance companies make a lot of money, people just don't claim when they have to rapidly learn Polish but don't have a phrase book.

The next day we found the Police station in Gdansk. Sopot station may have been modern in stature but this building was old and typical of a civil servant premises. The Police here also wore guns on their hips. It must be some kind of Police fashion statement is all that comes to mind. Nevertheless they are a sight to see. But may I add not as intimidating as the automatic rifles I saw two Scottish Policemen holding at Glasgow airport on our return flight. The crew crammed themsevles into a small reception area, there behind a glass partition and intercom was sat a Policeman writing into an incident log on a table. The hallway we stood in would of been comfortable for a group of small people, under four feet tall, but we were without anywhere to run to. It was small. Sparkling almost immediately decided it would be a good idea if the rest of the crew went for a coffee and just left me in this dungeon looking place. I then said it wasn't right to leave me here all alone and required a bit of moral support. I was about to request a report for a lost camera. Of course our story had to change slightly because if I'd said it was lost in Sopot they could just as well send us back to Sopot for another turn with the fat man and his dry shoes. Regardless, it still seemed a good idea for Sparkling and L & B man to go and have a coffee. HMRC lady stayed with me and helped me tell the story of the lost or possibly pick pocketed camera. I'm glad she did, for Sparkling confessed later on she would of had to tell the truth, would of had to point at me and say "he's lying, it was lost in Sopot, cuff him up and throw away the key." She's like this is Sparkling.  The man looked up from his incident log writing and gave me eye contact. I said "I've lost me camera, do you speak English?" At this point Sparkling absconded, she had broken down into laughter but kept it to herself as she went out of the heavy wooden door with L & B man, abandoning me.

About an hour later we walked out of the Police Station with the report, Sparkling and L & B were enjoying a coffee and wondering if we had been put in a cell, locked up and strip searched. Sparkles had popped her head round the front door after about twenty minutes to see if we were still in the cramped waiting area. She was worried, sort of, possibly, or she could of been planning running away with the Johnny Depp look alike she'd met the previous day.

Only so she could then claim on the wonderful all inclusive Post Office insurance for a partner lost in the bowels of the Gdansk Police station. She must of been reading the claims process while having her coffee.

The camera is still lost and I've yet to put the claim in with the Post Office. It must be those guns, handcuffs and the thought of a Polish pick pocket laughing at my photos. Somethings you just shouldn't have to put up with on holiday not to mention Dippy and Deppy.

Deppy and Dippy

While on a few days holiday in Gdansk (Poland) myself Sparkling, L & B Man and HMRC woman enjoyed a few nights out. Fine dinning, followed by excessive amounts of alcohol, part of which is the obligatory few shots of vodka or Wodka as they call it and just enjoying the entire experience. Sparkling isn't used to doing much walking and when she does she tends to get a dippy hippy. It's the muscles in her leg and on account of one being slightly shorter or longer than the other. So her dippy hippy walk comes into play. Where she leans over slightly to the left and her bag sits on her right hip. Not a lot but it is one of those things. At least it isn't as bad as my own explosive farting, which is I am sure is related to carbohydrate intake. Nevertheless on such occasions Sparkling becomes Dippy. Well for this occasion she did.

We'd had a meal in the Buddha restaurant, which I must say I wasn't impressed by the samosas and then hit a club called Fahrenheit and just at the point when HMRC woman was about to fall off her seat and sleep, we decided to move on. On the way back to the hotel we passed another pub on a corner which unlike where we had come from was absolutely packed out. In due course mentioned this to the crew and said lets hit this place just for one shot of raspberry wodka, Dippy's favourite high spirited tipple. as we entered the small doorway there sitting at a bar was a short man, dressed with a brimmed hat, and long coat, he had black glasses on and his facial hair had grown in such a style it seemed like he could of been a Johnny Depp look-alike, except he was a little shorter and possibly even shorter than Dippy. Immediately Dippy sees him she heads directly to him, points a finger at him and says "you look just like Johnny Depp" followed by "can I have my photograph with you." The earlier few drinks had obviously broken down any doubts or inhibitions in Dippy's mind for the only thing that mattered now for the last part of our Gdansk holiday seemed to be Dippy's infatuation with Deppy. Although saying this Dippy did go walking off afterwards and sat at another table, leaving me to continue a conversation with Deppy. Who it turns out is a pianist and opera singer. His voice is a particular type and there are few people of that vocal range, he also does acting, but let me say not in the same league as the real Johnny, which would be absolutely silly. I chatted to Deppy about the ukulele, he chatted to me about how he loved to play the piano and his theory that there is a magical 10,000 hours of practice which changes a musician from amateur to expert. He was passionate about his playing and although I was non too impressed by being left with Deppy to continue this chat further he was actually better company than the rest of my companions. HMRC had captured to natives in a conversation about the welfare system of the UK, Dippy was in some way involved in this as well, considering how much wodka she had consumed I was better seated with Deppy. In the meantime, L & B man was periodically coming to the bar buying drinks, talking absolute and complete gibberish with the very few words he did speak, and sticking his middle finger up to Deppy from behind Deppy. It very much was a case of pretending L & B did not exist and I don't think he was sure he actually existed at this time as well.

Deppy had discussed with Dippy what he did, which was play the piano and sing in an opera. Dippy thought Deppy was playing the central role at a local theatre, we checked out this very old looking theatre like building and could not see Deppy's face on any of the posters. Dippy just couldn't make sense of it and it didn't help she was trying to remember something which had been said to her while drunk. Whilst L & B never remembers a thing just he had drank too many and was later the same evening found himself sleeping on the first floor hallway of the hotel rather than being in his actual room which was on the third floor. I wouldn't mind but even HMRC woman spent a few minutes on the floor outside her own room on account of not having an entrance card, which I might add I had to go three flights down the stairs to get. It's bloody lucky I wasn't sleeping on the carpet on the second floor hallway. To move on. So the next day on looking for Deppy and wherever he was performing we drew a  blank. Again after a few too many drinks we gently began to make our way back to the hotel and there outside the front of a pub/restaurant, in the rain, under a large umbrella was Deppy playing on an electric and suspect piano. Old favourites were belted out, such as the theme from the Godfather. Deppy certainly knew what he was doing. In order for Dippy and HMRC woman to get a bit of time alone listening to Deppy, I and L & B man were ordered to go walk past a possible prostitute and get some items for the hotel room.  As we approached the young lady with a Pink umbrella, she asked if we'd like to see a stripper to which L & B man said "no, we're gay." About twenty minutes later we returned from a shop back to the pub/restaurant.  Dippy went on to tell me how when we had walked off old Deppy was giving her the eye and she was pretty happy about it.

The night went on and it led to more over indulgence, but Dippy was exceptionally excited she was able to pull Deppy. Whereas I was gay.

Five minutes of being 50

There is now only five minutes between my 50th birthday and the 50 plus one day mark. The day was introduced with a glass of champagne in the company of Sparkling Eyes. It has been a bloody wonderful day, although we did get up late and it was difficult getting up out of bed. Even sunlight came through the blinds. During the day Rock Chick turned up with the ever so beautiful and demanding Babyfro. A baby who at the smallest whim has at least four adults running about after her, either cleaning up her delivery parcels or mopping up dribble. She is truly has a magical ability. I got to play with my ukulele, baby was hypnotized by it. Sparkling even did her best to be good to me all day and hardly told me off for being an idiot.  She put away the disapproving stare which gets pulled out every so often. So in the next five minutes my birthday is over.

Shit, it's all down hill now.

Returning to Scotland for a 50th

Today I've traveled from London to Scotland, it was a hard journey because in my ruck sack there cradled with jeans were two bottles of Champagne. They had been presents and over which were never drunk and I've brought them to Scotland to share with Sparkling Eyes. Now I did actually have a couple of bottles in Scotland and Sparkling was to bring them with her to London on her 40th birthday, we were to drink them in celebration. However, the trip down to London from Scotland was a little boring and she was sat next to a handsome young Spanish University student. He was the tacit type and Sparkling saw this as a challenge to get him to open up. Of course it also meant she opened up the Champs. When Sparkling got off the train, she'd had the young man's phone number (allegedly) in her phone and she also was in a happy frame of mind. I took it on the chin as this is something I could of predicted, it didn't matter and anyway Sparkling said she didn't like Champs so it was all OK. the phone number I believe was never answered.  Of course I would not do such a thing with these bottles and will enjoy them with Sparkles as I'm shortly to be 50 years old. Which it seems a lot of people like to remind me about, well at work they had.

It was arranged when I got off the train that L & B man would pick me up. He seemed to be in pretty happy mood as usual talking about his favourite subjects. I find I have to put an interpretation head on when he tells me about the discourse he's had. How he might disagree with someone, but he doesn't actually disagree at all, he just thinks it in his head. I had to ask him a number of times the question "did you actually say that?" at which he would cock his head to one side, give me the funny one eyed stare which he gives anyone who is being impertinent and he replies "no, I was thinking it." Now he may not get this, but thinking you are saying something is not the same as actually saying it. The two are completely different things altogether. Regardless his conversation makes you wish he had said what he was thinking because it would of been very interesting. He is probably hoping one day all these people he gets pissed off with will suddenly inherit the ability to mind read him. We had a pint in the pub and he actually seemed relaxed with his problems, suggesting we should stay the night and just get completely pissed.

Once at Sparkling's house I pulled out an old key to the back door and let myself in. She had lovingly prepared a portion of piri-piri chicken and baked potato portions. All I had to do was put them in the oven. Just as she had taken them out of the box. But they were very tasty indeed. She left a note telling me to get some wine, cat food and washing up liquid. Already on touch down my first duties were being given to me. Oliver (cat) came down to greet us and did nothing but seek attention by meowing and brushing himself against our legs. He's funny is Oliver, he has a way about bothering L & B man which in turn L & B pretends is a bother, but it's not really, no matter how much he swears at Olly it is affectionate swearing. It's his way of showing love, because all the bad thoughts he has he obviously keeps in his own head.  He even asked if he should kidnap Olly, no doubt to take him home and show his family that someone loves him even though it licks it's arse with the same tongue it eats food with.

In the next few days I'll be 50, half a century old and it will be time to re-evaluate who I am and what I am. Maybe it is a crisis birthday as I see before me a man with a beard, looking somewhat more rugged than usual. What matters though is I'm here with Sparkling and an extended family I love very much.

From foreign accents to white teeth

I don't know how but the evening began with watching the news. Then there was an odd article about an illness called Foreign Accent Syndrome FAC. It was interesting and funny at the same time. So I went to Youtube to check it out so as to see it in action. Some people appear to wake up speaking in a different accent. One which is completely foreign, hence the title. The woman I saw on the news was British but had an oriental type of accent. The more I listened to it the less oriental I thought it sounded and considered it to be Italian. The thing was it was not her normal voice, she now speaks and doesn't recognise her own voice. Occasionally listening to an old recording of what she used to sound like. This illness is thought to be the result of a very small stroke in the language area of the brain. However, it is described as a "syndrome" and therefore a syndrome by technical definition has not been determined to have a specific organic origin. To the extent anyone with a syndrome could actually be faking it. Yet they can't be, it's just the way the medical world sees it. I mean who would want to wake up and find they speak with a Chinese accent, or worse Hungarian.  At lease if it is oriental sounding you know you have something in common with the biggest population of the world.

From FAC, I then moved onto how to watch a video of a young European possibly English girl teaching herself to talk Hindi. Again I don't know why this was her passion but it was and she was pretty good at it, but it seemed an odd language to want to speak, then again this could be my personal bias in the matter and I should just get over it. From this video I then moved onto videos about natural teeth whitening in which strawberries and bananas were used, sometimes baking soda and peroxide as well. All of which I am a little suspect as actually working. I'd rather go and spend a few quid on a good tube of toothpaste than try and find a half ripe banana every day. This in turn reminds me of banana toothpaste, this I once got for a nephew of mine, but I'm not sure if it did any good at all. If I recall rightly he was three at the time and squirted the whole lot down the sink. Maybe he wanted a real banana, it would of been a lot cheaper as well. Lastly my YouTube haunt finished up with a session watching a old hippee man talk about learning the ukulele and was clearly an advertising video for the brand he kept referring.  Shit I'm getting old but you don't see me doing a video about learning the ukulele. Not yet anyway, maybe next week. That will give hippee man a run for his money. He might have more hair than me, but I got the right motivation and with a few bananas white teeth to match.

Must get down to the supermarket.

I love Momo

I can't help it but I have fallen in love with the Nepalise/Ghurka/Tibetian dumpling dish called "momo." My love of this beautiful dish began only in the last two to three weeks. A portable kitchen has been parked in my local market and ran by some Nepalise. I'd passed it a number of times and a lot of Nepalise people were using it. This has got to be a good sign for any restaurant, if the locals like the food it has then the food must be authentic. Funny how I've never seen Indians though eat at an Indian restaurant, only British people. I saw the menu and recognised the Chow Mein, which didn't really do anything to excite me at all. However, when I saw momo I was curious, I'd seen it before and it reminded me of Dim Sum, so it couldn't be a great deal different. For the very reasonable price of £3 I was able to purchase a take-away portion. This consist of ten momo, they will be either chicken, pork, beef or lamb depending on your choice. I've had the lamb and the chicken.  With them comes a small tub of an orange coloured chilli sauce. I noticed the cook put part lemon juice in this, perhaps thinking it is too hot a sauce for an English man to eat. When I then began to eat these delicious dumplings I was completely amazed by them. What struck me was the absolute freshness of the ingredients. I could taste onion, spring onion, ginger and some other mixed herbs in the dumpling. With the chill sauce they just go down very easily.  I love them, I absolutely love momo. Now I've got to the stage of having to eat them at least three or four times in a week. They finish of my home made sandwiches perfectly.

Now after spending about an hour watching Youtube videos I think I could make momo, they are not too difficult. Momos are indeed a version of Chinese Dim Sum and from my last holiday in Poland the same kind of recipe is probably used in making Perogi, which is cheese and potato filled dumplings. It seems a good way to finish these off is by making your own tomato chilli chutney sauce, which is also pretty easy to make going by the videos. If this works I can see this becoming a regular item in my personal cooking repertoire. Well it beats beans on toast. After some additional research on the Nepalise momo in Tibet these may be made with Yak or buffalo meat as well. Well I'm glad for the pork and beef recipe or even a shrimp one because I not seen many Yaks about here. I guess they're not too fond of momos then? Well you can't keep all the people happy all the time.

Restricting choice is a disipline

So it's Sunday morning and time to get ready for a walk. No work so it is walk time and one of the few moments of exercise I get. Must remember to put in a pace fast enough so I breath heavy, like a heavy breather would breath. Except I don't know anything about heavy breathers and more about being asthmatic and breathless. Note not all asthma sufferers are heavy breathers, theirs is more akin to collapsing on the ground and clutching their chest. A bit like a heart attack sufferer but that's another subject altogether. Back at the ranch, there I am in preparation for a Sunday walk, up a little too early and getting stuff together. Or rather wasting time because I don't want to leave the house at 7 a.m. and I realise I should change some music on my MP3 player, after the AAA battery dying on me yesterday. Which is another thing, rechargeable batteries are such a bore you just have to keep recharging them and it seems they don't last as long as a normal battery does. I change rechargeable  battery, and plug the ancient player into an ancient USB port on my ancient computer. I so need to upgrade. The player folder pops up and now I have to think because I like all the music on the player and decide which music has to go in order to listen to a different album by a different group who are also old but not yet on my musical radar. Massive Attack by the way, I'd heard a track from a TV program and thought they are worth catching up on.  Then at this point I think to myself I am so restricted in musical choice because the player has only 2 gig of capacity. It is absolutely nothing. Maybe 15 albums at most. God in the olden days you could only carry about one cassette in a cassette personal hi fi player. There I am moaning about just a mere 15 albums. Which in turn also led to wasting a few minutes looking at MP3 players and whether I should purchase a new one, but decided against it.

The reason for this was sometimes it is good to be restricted in choice. It is good to discipline yourself to only those things which are available at the time and no more. Having 15 albums of music isn't really so bad, but in order to change the music I have to make a cut throat decision, something has to go in order something else can be put in it's place. It is not the end of the world but the decision is a necessary thing to do. I have no choice in the matter. It must be made. By then manually getting the player, attaching it to my computer and starting all over again with music choice I get re-familiar with the player. I don't mean this in a sexual way, which would be sick, I mean it in a understainding-how-things-work-sort-of-way.  And also knowing what music I have already saved on my computer. It's a case of knowing the limitations and capabilities of things you already possess to the optimum and therefore getting the best out of them. To be completely familiar with something is of greater advantage than an individual who buys goods because those goods are the in thing and they can be seen walking about with them and their new features and widgets. These goods are merely status symbols of who has more money and follows the crowd more than intelligence. I still haven't got a smart phone and I'm proud I don't. It's true, it's a fact. I can get three days use out of my phone and there is no smart phone going which has such a battery life.  Restricting choice is an important thing to have, it is important because it makes you weigh up facts, and make decisions. It is a discipline and in many ways a wise discipline.

Well I got to get out and have a walk now.  Happy September the first 2013.

A happy family

It is always good to hear whatever news I can about Rock Chick's baby. How much she now weighs, whether she was a good girl, if she has learnt how to smile properly yet. And Rock Chick is the best mum you could expect to have, she is so attentive, so tired out, and so tolerant. Just as Dangerous is also maturing into a great father. He dives into nappy changing, holds Baby Fro close and so lovingly and caring he is a completely changed man. OK he still loves to do the things young men love to do, but he has responsibilities and with Rock's guidance he has walked up to the precipice and now become Dangerous Dad. He loves so utterly his daughter and Rock Chick it is a wonderful sight to see. Although I must admit to seeing Rock Chick lose it on occasion with him because he doesn't do things the right way, but this is the nature of any relationship, a man will inevitable not do things quite the right way and certainly can not be as good a mother as a mother is. Even though he tries. Whenever I see Rock she glows with happiness and then it is obvious nothing else matters, they are overwhelmingly in love and happy and content.  However, what of Baby Fro.

Sparkling tells the story of how close she was with Rock Chick growing up. How she was always there next to her, how Rock always needed attention and reassurance.  Had Sparkling  of known earlier she would of given Rock Chick more often to relatives so she formed attachments with other people and felt safe and secure in their company.  Rock Chick was difficult as a baby to raise because of this. It is always difficult for a mother who goes out to work, especially when they become a single parent and making ends meet becomes a priority. The attachment got stronger and caused Sparkling tears at times as it meant many demands taking place at the same time. Juggling one thing against another made Sparkling a better circus act than a real juggler. In the end Sparkling has done the best job she could ever do, she is a great mum and hugs Rock all the time.

Baby Fro is now three months old and Rock Chick calls her Greeting Face (crying face) for she has this worried or afraid look she puts on and she cries a lot. She is of course completely infatuated with Rock Chick, staring at her like a stalker on ecstasy. It is as though Baby Fro has has been hypnotised. She is equally infatuated with Dangerous Dad and has him under her littlest finger whenever she wants him. He dots and dots and dots over her.  However, Baby has this look on her face, it's the "Danger Stranger" look, she gives it to everyone and all the time. It could be because of tummy problems she has been constantly vexed by.  So she does cry a lot. more than Dangerous Dad can.  She sleeps and feeds to demand to the extent Rock is a food machine on call 24 hours a day. Rock's life is now owned and dictated in every way baby. Her life as a young partying woman is on the shelf to the requirements of a young permanently on call mum. In turn Rock's maturity and priorities have also changed. I will admit though Rock has always been a smart girl, she's got lots of brains.  Now she tells me me how she prefers to be in doors with her baby and her man having a cup of tea than being at a party. She has had perhaps two nights out to herself in this time, which is hardly any time out at all. When considering what a party animal Rock was, this the height of her growing up.  The toll of sleeplessness, nappies, hours of crying are tough, but Rock fares it well and Dangerous a wonderful support.

When I see them all together I feel happy because they are happy. It is such an unbelievable thing to be part of. Sparkling is on call as often as she can to help, and dots and dots as a grandmother does. I do my bit to the best of my abilities when in Scotland and have gradually overcome a fear of holding a baby, (because they are scary -irrational fear I know) especially after being told to hold her and walk around the flat to keep her quiet. (about a full twenty minutes)  I am so very happy. It is great to find I am part of this family which I instinctively know is bound by love and happiness. I am of course Pops and will play my ukulele at any chance I am given.As for Babyfro in such an atmosphere she will be smiling and laughing soon, she is going to a very happy, loved and contented little girl.

Feeling a little better, but not on top of the world

Today I can feel a difference in this flu like thing. There is a lifting of the symptoms. My head isn't as bad as it has been. But last night I was hit by insomnia, which has got to be due to laying on top of my bed and sleeping the previous 24 hours. Sleep evaded me between 12:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m. and I know this because I got up about four times to do little things, get personal radio, a drink, personally count the seconds which passed and then listened to a radio program at 3:00 a.m. about sleep. An expert was on it and answered questions as people rang in and told him about their problems. I should of given him a ring myself, at least it would of given me someone to talk to. Mind considering what time of the morning it was you got to ask yourself if this man is such an expert on this why on earth was he doing a program at this time in the morning? Surely he would know all the things he had to do to be sleeping. Unless he had a thing for being a Z list celebrity by being available at any time of the day and night. One thing I did take note of, if you have to take an afternoon cat nap don't make it more than 40 minutes as it could effect your night time sleep. So said the expert.

Although the head pain is reducing there's a kind of dizzyness. Even sitting still in this seat it's there. Like I could be spinning around in the seat. Or one of those snow scene glass balls you shake, put down on a flat surface and see all the snow wizz around as it settles. Weird. A kind of wizzy snow head feeling. It has got to be connected to balance, somehow my balance mechanism has been effected. In a drunken but not drunk manner. I could have alcoholic beverage and see if it gets any worse although it is just a little early in the day at this time to do so. Mind I never was one for those games where you spin yourself round and round and then stand still to see if you could walk. They make me feel sick. Which is appropriate with being sick anyway. Certainly in this case. I wonder if the human body gets any better or any worse as it ages at coping with sickness, especially when considering it manufactures it's own ant-sick things in the blood stream, what are they called? You know what I mean, the things which attacked the little ship as it went round the human body in inner-space (film), the miniaturised submarine film. I know one thing my memory is certainly getting worse, or it could be the illness which is making it worse. Great. Have a bad memory, well get sick and it gets even worse.

Sparkling is often telling me how she is forgetting things nowadays. In fact the basis of some of our conversations is about things we have forgotten, or her telling me I've already had certain conversations with her and she has to remind me of them. At which point a little bit of recognition flashes up. You are not just the sum of life experiences but also the sum of those memories you can still remember. Which is an odd thing. One day they will be able to create memories in a milkshake. You just drink it and think you have been on an adventure holiday but never did. I guess the milkshake will probably be a bit more expensive as well on account of putting the memories into the milk. It must be a tough thing to get milk to remember it's been on holiday and done something other than being milk. Well I must be on the mend, my mind is starting to work again it's not like normal but then every mind can't be normal. The normal ones are just plain boring.

Summer Flu, you're kidding me

I am ill at the moment. It is some kind of flu like thing. It's the end of summer, and I get the flu.I would not of thought this was actually possible. The worse thing is I don't know how I got it. Nobody I've spoken to seemed to be ill. I have been so careful about catching viruses it's ridiculous. Being stuck in bed isn't the best way to spend a day off work. Four little walls just closing in. I have to get out at some time, but feel so week as well. My head has been pounding so long I don't know if it's a migraine as well, but it's not quite as intense. Coughing and spluttering I get through the hours with nothing to say. There's very little you can comment on when the only company you got is a pillow, earplugs and a radio who's battery has just run out. As I lay there in bed I realised how fat my belly was as well. Great, so not only am I ill but indulging in self torture. At any minute I think this thing will lift. It will ascend away from me and I will be perfectly well. A minutes passes and nothing happens, an hour passes and I can not truly say there is any difference at all. It's exactly the same feeling as the one which was there 12 hours ago. Shit. No bloody movement at all.

If it were about luck, then yesterday would of been the luckiest day of my life, I'd of won the lottery. I'd be a millionaire and would have chartered a plane to go and pop in on Sparkling Eyes and tell her how life had just changed. How on earth can anyone get the flu in summer? This should not happen, it is not right. Flu is a winter thing. Not a summer thing. So it has to do with luck, it is to do with bad luck, being in the right place at the wrong time. Incredibly bad luck.And being ill isn't just a physical symptom because it pulls you down mentally as you are in a mental fight. I might have placed one foot in front of the other to get from one room to the other but those steps were bloody difficult to take, the room half spins and I am weak. The effort was all mental. The desire to sleep falls on me and I can't fight it, I have to lay down. I close my eyes and then time has passed a couple of hours. Whilst yesterday at work time passed exceptionally slowly. I knew I should not of been there, but I forced myself to stay. I should of just left I wasn't up to it. But I stayed and carried on. I'm fed up with the martyrdm when I'm not up to it. I'd rather be at work than ill. Maybe it was this thought, stay at work because while here you can not be ill, you must get on with work. It didn't last and I left early. They don't pay me enough. Even at lunchtime as I went out to enjoy the sun and some respite, the sun barely warmed me up, it made me comfortable but not hot. People were out and about in their shirts, mums were pushing babies in prams, all enjoying it. Whilst I suffered with the occasional shiver. Ironically I couldn't get hot on a hot day.

Damn it sucks to be sick. 

Some DIY electrics on a radio

Every morning I get up, the first things I do are, put my phone on charge, pick up radio and then descend to the kitchen for breakfast. The radio gets plugged in straight away. The radio is the daily wake up call. As well as the hundreds of pigeons clattering out of the roof tiles in the morning. They've been there a long time and it seems like roofers don't have a clue on how to stop them. Well one roofer to be precise. The radio takes a few moments to warm up, it's something Sparkling got me years ago and every time I put it on I think of Sparkling. The kettle is filled, toast slotted in the toaster and then I return back to the radio. The problem is over the last year the thing seems to have got a mind of it's own. It doesn't work by pressing the on/off button but by pressing any other button. Then when it is on and working for no apparent reason the thing turns itself off. Now this is very inconvenient especially when I've got a face full of shaving foam and cant touch the thing.  Some days it is particularly worse than other days and will happen every couple of minutes. In a self diagnosis pondering I thought it must be something to do with the electrics, maybe a thing called a capacitor wasn't working properly.  But as I don't know a great deal about electrical things it was likely if it carried on like this it would get binned. This morning things changed.

By chance as I pulled the wires on the radio I noticed the power wire was not connected properly so gave it a firm push back into the back of the radio. It had never occurred to me, this could actually be the thing which was wrong with it. It got plugged back into the electrical socket and immediately lit up, but it looked different. I pressed the on/off button and it burst into sound. The voice of my morning new presenter rang out. The thing was working properly. I changed pre-set channel and rather than turning itself off it actually did change to a different channel. It was fixed. All these months I had been trying to get the thing to work and what was wrong with it was easily fixable. Bloody lucky I didn't take it to a repairman to look at. I'd of been charged for no work at all.

Someone who knew a little about electrics once said to me, if you purchase an electrical device and it does not break in the first month then it is unlikely to have any problems. He didn't go on to explain the issues were usually related to the users not knowing what they were doing. Even in the matter of turning on a radio things can go wrong. Well not any more.

Cat in hell's chance of getting a job

I remember going to secondary school and at the point I was about to leave there was a chance to talk to a careers adviser. It was a completely non eventful event, to the extent the only thing I can recall was sitting in a small cramped room and not getting any advise of much use at all. Leaving secondary school was about getting a job and earning money. The word career is a flowered up word and it really didn't dupe anybody at all. I'll not talk about apprenticeships because as far as I could tell these were like mythical creatures, it was only those who had some nepotistic connection who were going to get a job through an apprenticeship. You might as well ask a dyslexic to do the Times crossword puzzle with a blunt pencil. The dyslexic would have a greater chance of getting the clues than an ordinary person looking for an apprenticeship. These memories come back to me as I trawl through the job adverts in Scotland per my partner's (Sparkling Eyes) request. The thing I always knew at the time was I had the capability and potential to do quite a lot of different jobs, but not a cat in hell's chance of being given an opportunity. With such knowledge you get to despise anyone who has a job and is an idiot. It frankly makes you feel worse than them. But nepotism is rife in the world and it is necessary, because otherwise all the idiots would be claiming welfare benefits, rather than a proportion of them. While the other proportion work away in jobs which don't change a great deal. I know what Sparkling is worth, and it is a lot, a hell of a lot. Qualifications are barriers to capable intelligent people who don't have them. I'm sure a lot of qualified people out there have posts and their colleagues wonder how the hell they got where they are. There's probably even a few directors. Nope, there is no doubt in my mind, being intelligent or not being intelligent has little consequence to being employable. Although the natural assumption is someone who is savvy would be in a better position.

I looked through the jobs available. It is a depressing thing looking through job adverts, it is like the adverts have been worded for very specific people. Employers don't want to give a non experienced person a chance. They don't even consider it would be an advantage to take someone on into a job who has enthusiasm and desire to learn and do a good job.  They just want to look for someone who ticks the boxes. All I can say is I hope they get the right person who ticks the boxes and then they find out they made the worst decision ever. Just take a look around your workplace, there's bound to be a few of these persons there. Once they are in they don't get out, they cling with both hands in vice like grips. They have no ability to think outside of the box because they only want to think in the box and conform all the time. They are the kind of people who watch soaps every night on TV and then spend the rest of the day talking about what they watched. Therefore a second item can be added to the unnecessary prerequisites of being employed. Which is having a personality. There is no barrier to having the boring, depressive and sycophants from being perpetually employed. They perpetually enjoy their rewards as much as the less than average crossword solvers.

For the job candidate there's no doubt times are tough. For the employer I'd say get some brains think about what you are doing and think about the group of people you would not normally consider. The watch words are transferable skills, enthusiasm, motivation, adaptability and there are many others to go along. I saw a great vid on TED Talks the other day. The talker said, when you employ someone, don't employ someone because they have the skills and because they have the qualifications, employ someone who has the same dream as you do. You will get a lot more out of them than the hours pay they get. They will do it because they like doing it and they are passionate about it. It's a shame employers don't have a way to measure the passion of their candidates. Especially the ones who don't fit the overly specified job adverts. They would find a few gold nougats, one of them is Sparkling. I might be a little bias in what I say, but hell I know I'm also completely right. Shame others don't give real opportunities to those who really need them.

Wanted, highly dyslexic cryptographer, related by blood, loves evening TV and bores the hind legs off a donkey.  Damn this job advert is going to be inundated.