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.