Air conditioning in the house of pain

It is a gruelling confession to make when I say Sparkling Eyes gave me the additional elbow to get healthy again and go to the gym. She was concerned i might collapse doing the garden some time. So now I'm in my 4th week of accepting pain. It's hard going. The 21st century has refined the art of torture and legalised it. Instead of whips, chains, water, racks and burning hot irons I pay for it each month. Go on a voluntary basis and then kid myself it was fun. Nope, not for me. Not now when I'm now an old git who loves to sofa sit. Which is all the more reason to run my socks off when given the chance. The worse thing is over the last 2 weeks the air conditioning has been out. The swet box really is a swet box.

Things could be worse, I could be dead. Sparkling Eyes told me about a neighbour of her's who has recently passed away. I was sorry to hear the news (God rest the neighbour's soul). Then Sparkling went on to remind me how more stressful a life she has than I. I agree. Sparkling Eyes is a wonderful woman, not because she would tell me to say it but because she is and she hasn't told me to say it. She then advises I could kick the bucket because of any number things and because of the way I've led my life. Like eating food cooked with Lard when I was a kid. I suppose I should lay off the chips nowadays then. Hope is all I have, hope those earlier years of growing up on fried bacon sandwiches and other fatty stuffs doesn't get me before the tread mill, multi gym, Swiss ball, rowing machine or fixed cycle. For now I'll just do my best to stop the paranoia kicking in things could be worse.

When concerns are cowering overhead think of happy things. Ice cream, chocolate a good hot madras with poppadoms, nan and dips hmmm. A cold glass of Rose wine and a good movie. Such delightful thoughts are the side effect of exercise and belly-neglect. If only exercise brought as much happiness as a cold pint in the pub or my rubbing Sparkling Eyes feet. Well better add another 5 minutes next session and owe a foot rub or two for someone who deserves them more then I the madras.

Won Ton Noodle and the British Museum

Friday night Green Car man texted me and asked if I'd like to go out and do something, so on Saturday the musketeers went into London. The Agenda was to visit the British Museum and peruse the Egyptian collection. Check out some mummies, coz all the daddies had absconded. Look at old written text on bits of wall and view loads of statues. Except from the start of this exhibition I had a hankering for one thing, it was Won Ton noodle. I could see the steam coming up from the bowl. The noodles nice and fresh seated there and around the edges of the noodles sank in the soup those wonderful dumplings. The image appeared to be haunting me, Green Car man mentioned I has referred to this dish a few times during the day. Yes, my stomach was thinking for me. So what. Yep another inch on my belly.
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The museum was wonderful. They have put an massive atrium to cover an area which used to be in the open. It's called the Great Court Yard. The floor is marble-like and the room is vast. It is wonderful piece of architecture. This is the first time I have seen this piece of modernisation. And the word which came out of my mouth when I walked in there was WOW. I was amazed by it. The natural lighting was superb. I bought my friends a book mark each. It was odd because I went in the museum shop and thought that looks nice, it was cheap and represented Egypt. Then the musketeers each picked one up. So at the counter I found myself purchasing 3 book marks where I had intended only to get the one. When we finished our tiring amble of the museum we went outside for a rest lay down and it wasn't long before I heard the snores of my compatriots. We are getting old I thought

In the museum I was struck by two groups going round on tour. One was of Muslim boys the other of Muslim girls. It was obvious because they each had traditional Muslim clothing on. The girls I felt so sorry for. Nearly every single one was covered from head to toe in black apparel. They must of been so uncomfortable on such a hot day. And again my personal view of women becoming second class citizens because of man's interpretation of religious text and writing of religious text came to mind. But more than this, part of me sees this as a disrespect to my own British culture. An unwillingness to be accepted as British. And I know for some this can be offensive. But it's religion. Sad as it is, in the name of religion the worse acts of humanity are found. Some one's religion has certainly got to be up the creek. Or rather someone's interpretation of it is.

The day finished with, you can guess, hmmmmm Won Ton noodle, which was as equally superb as sight seeing the British Museum. It's not served up by mummys fortunately but then if it was it could be just a little dusty. I'd hate to have an embalmed Won Ton I like mine in soup thank-you-very-much.

Back to the Slammer Paris

Sparkling Eyes sent me a text message about how annoyed she was when Paris Hilton girl-born-with-a-platinum-spoon-in-her-mouth, had been allowed out of Jail. The Sheriff had put her under house arrest after only serving 3 days of her sentence. Paris was distraught, she just doesn't have the mental savvy when it comes to wearing stripes. Perhaps they don't match her blond hair. Or maybe it's the having to mix with common people. Alternatively there may of been some big butch lesbian who has made a claim on Paris and is going to make Paris her very own bitch. I certainly could see Paris getting edgy over it. Then to the world's surprise to be let out. Sparkling Eyes was quaking in anger. Talk of back-handers was dropped between lines. Personally I think the Sheriff had a soft spot for Paris, her being one of the beautiful people and he decided to oil the jail door just so she could leave.

However, lets not forget why Paris was incarcerated. She had been caught a number of times intoxicated while driving. The judge had passed what is a very apt sentence. After all isn't it through drunk drivers other innocent people die? Isn't it usually unthinking incompetent stupid actions of drunk drivers which result in the life time of family misery. Where beloved relatives are never given the chance to be seen again, suddenly snatched from existence. No goodbyes, gone. If the judge decided Paris should go to jail then surely her sentence and the lesson she gains from it could save the life of someone. For what would happen if on the 4th occasion drunk while under the influence someone is slaughtered?

So it is with a hop in my step and an inner happiness I heard in the news Paris has been ordered back to jail to finish her sentence. What wonderful news. I do realise there is a little bit of malevolence in this, because although Paris is pretty distressed over being deprived of her liberty, I don't care. Even better still she just happens to be one of the rich elite and of course beautiful people. The type who don't know how tough the real world is. Such other's coming under this grouping would be Royalty and Old Money.

Yes, I'd say stick them all in jail for a short refresher of the hard stuff. Lets just hope there are enough butch lesbians and hairy Lifers to go round.

PJs at lunch time

The day is beautiful, the is sun out and it's nice and hot. I whereas find there are no muskateers to do a thing and sit in my PJs. I'd of normally rang up Sparkling Eyes but for now I am not inclined to do so. So instead, I drink a cold, cold alcoholic beverage and the gentle swathes of happy mild intoxication decend. Lovely.

Such a light weight, but I don't care. It's my day to chill, sit back speak to not a soul and recharge. So yes, lunch time and still in PJs need a shave and missed the post man and a delivery from Amazon. Oh well have to wait to next week now.

IBS in Cambridge

Green car man rang me up. As the bank holiday was approaching the three musketeers decided to do something. A brief morning of negotiations and we were to hit Cambridge. I'd never been to Cambridge and was looking forward to it, however my belly had other ideas. The morning was filled with belly belly illness. Irritable Bowel Syndrome(undiagnosed as Sparkling Eyes would remind me) I'd been to the loo 5 times before 11 a.m. and eventually went to the chemist for some pills. Perhaps this was an omen of the day. Cloud has been gathering over London and the Weather reports were equally ominous. Yep, another bank holiday and we were likely to have rain. Just maybe my belly belly was tied into it.

We got to Cambridge after an hour and half of driving, and following the directions on Tom Tom (GPS/Road navigation system)speaking out when it felt the need. Cambridge is a small city, mostly populated with incredibly grand old buildings, but it's got some very nice modern shops as well. I think because it is a pretty much established Towny kind of place it was never meant for cars, or certainly any overly heavy traffic. We got a Park and Ride bus into Cambridge which only took ten minutes. There are 31 different colleges in Cambridge all with their own Coat of Arms and some with Latin type of name (e.g. Corpus Christi, Darwin College, Magdalene College, Trinity Hall ect). The population appeared to be majorly white and young. I must admit a slight dizzy feeling seeing this population make up. My own area is very, very multicultural. I could go into long ramblings about the educated white society and the poor working class background of most people, but I'll not. Cambridge has a smallish river on it's outskirts, this is called the Carn. It's a pleasant Towny place, one which has a calmness about it and you'd like to live in. One away from the Urban problems places like London, Birmingham, Liverpool might have. Should I say this was my impression for I know little about Cambridge other than this afternoon visit.

One of the must do things when in Cambridge is to go on a boat and be punted around along the river. Then back again. But we didn't get to do this. I was to blame. For at this point my 7 month pregnancy which had been staring me in the gym mirror 3 times this week became a 9 month rock hard soccer ball. If I weren't a man (which Sparkling Eyes would say I was more of a woose) I would of been in contractions and screaming. The belly belly was kicking in. What discomfort it was as well. I disappeared off to try and find a toilet. While my 2 musketeer companions stood around the Punt station and were accosted several times by men who wanted their custom (for a ride on a Punt that is, nothing else). The cost of a ride reduced as each man gave them a slip of paper with a quote for 3 persons. It began at £10 each then eventually dropped to £6 each. They must of looked like bait by the Carn, each fishy wanting a bite. Business was slow for the old chaps today. I'm sorry we didn't get to do the punt. I hate my belly, but I got to live with it.


Later that evening I got drunk on wine and the IBS had subsided. If it were a little homunculus I'd of killed him several times over. Throttled the life out of the little bugger. And he's gotta be resident in my belly the little shit. Whatever you do, whoever you are don't ever get IBS. Mind the getting drunk bit was good. I'll now debate the rest of the morning whether to hit the gym again. Or just go an have my baby.

This last picture is what a homonculus looks like, except in my case I got my hands round his neck.

The Unusual Mannequin

On passing a clothes shop I had to look twice. It’s not something I’d usually do, but it was one of those I-can’t-believe-it moments. A male dummy stood in the window, wearing a hat, T-shirt and jeans and it looked really quite fashionable, at first glance. Except on second glance there was an appreciable difference to other male dummys. In particular because of two things pointing out. This male mannequin had tits.

It reminded me of a couple of events. How as a slowly increasing pot bellied man I’ve began to acquire my own mammaries much to my own embarrassment. It’s a weight thing, and of the time when I went in the men’s changing room to change for gym, I was slimmer then. I saw a body builder put on his T-shirt, replete with his very own size A’s. It was like seeing something you didn’t want to see but at the same time couldn’t help watching. Kind of macabre. The worse thing was they were actually saggy. It’s also at times like this you can’t but question your own sexuality. I wondered, did I stare because it was weird or was it because of some underlying sexual fantasy of wanting my own boobs to play with? I hope it was the first.

If anyone was into steroids this was the kind of incident would likely send a chilling message. But still with weight gain I’ve noticed men gain a little extra where they’d rather shouldn’t, not if they’re a man.

I passed the shop and couldn’t help laugh. Fortunately I’ve been to the gym twice this week. That’s twice in 5 months. Maybe next time I’ll do an extra 5 minutes on the tread mill. And not too energetically, I don’t want my little boobs bobbing about and people getting to ogle at them.

The bells, the cat, the pidgeons

This morning I woke up at 2 a.m. it was the phone. I could hear it and it must of rang through my subconscious state. But as I stirred and I'm not talking about stirring the milk in my tea. Stirring and flickered into consciousness it struck me I had pulled the phone socket out. But being not quite sure, and thinking maybe I hadn't I trampsed downstairs. Checked the phone and it was dead. Checked the socket and I had indeed pulled it out. I endeavoured to get back to sleep and did so without to many problems, except at first my heart was pumping faster.

I woke up again. This time I wasn't sure what the time was because I couldn't be bothered to rouse enough out of my half sleeping state. I could hear the cat meowing so purposefully chose to ignore the racket and drifted off again. Heart not going so erratically.

Again I woke and now the early morning light was beginning to come through. But I considered it to still be too early to be worth getting up. With no idea of what the time was I closed my eyes. A little while later, I heard wood pigeons and managed to push them out of my mind drifting back into slumber.

I got up and it was just after 6 a.m. an early start but I'd of rather it had been 7 a.m or even 7:30 a.m ish. The radio on I heard the news, the main part being about the Cutty Sark catching on fire. I wondered why I had heard the phone ring when I knew I had pulled it out. When I thought I had heard the cat, but it was way too early for the cat to stir, he's lazy and doesn't get up till he hears your up. I wondered about the pigeons something I could not predict had really made any noise. If the other two events weren't real did the pigeons exist either?

And the day went on.

Snow storm

I was listening to the radio this morning and a phrase struck me. The words were "a snow storm of speculation" it just kind of brought an image to mind describing a political event. Playing with words and using them in such an inventive and unusual way is something which can only enrich the language we use each day. Though at the moment there's actually more rain here than snow.

There was also some words in Latin. Just casually dropped in the conversation. It seems at times English is inadequate to describe a theme. I'm going to make a list of a number of Latin phrases I've come across and their meaning. Useful ones, or just one's which can be dropped in any conversation. So although Latin is described as a dead language, it's not entirely true. Further it seems an injustice such words are only spoken by persons considered more knowledgeable than others. If Latin were a subject at school we'd all know what it was and not let this cloud of pomposity effect vision. No it might be a dead language but the thing is you don't have to be idiot by not using it. In fact I am sure we all do to some extent but in ignorance.

Watch this space for some Latin words.

Return to Fish

I returned back to the Fish Factory today, and had to do my bit at a small convention of Ritz Keepers. A short interval in the morning and I'd got the gist of what was going on. The fishes could all get gutted without proper representation in one big swoop of fish factory changes. Well life goes on.

Sparkling Eyes is off seeing Travis tonight in tow with Rock Chick and her energetic pal Hyper girl. I'm not. I'll stick a CD on and remind myself what they sound like. I know they will have fun. Back to the grind stone after a week in the company of Sparkling Eyes. Things wont quite be the same. But if I'm really luck it wont rain on me every day. So I will not be either blue and particularly yellow, I'll just Sing, everything will be alright.

Night all.

Not a woose

Some one I know has a little problem, or maybe not. He'll watch a movie or listen to music he likes and for some reason just cries. This leaves the poor old sod open to jibes of "woosey" and "you got more hormones than a woman" but he can't help it, he's just sensitive to things. And a nice bloke as well. Or maybe it's just better to let it out than keep it in. Crying I hear is actually good for you, the tears we release also take away chemicals or so 'they' say, which are built up through the stress of everyday living. Although I'm not entirely sure of who "they" happen to be, I'm sure it's true though.

I've spent a wonderful week away in the company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I got told off for being untidy. For being lazy, for being a woose for enticing Rock Chick into arguments. But regardless there were a few laughs along the way. I found as I was leaving Rock Chick actually smiled rather than bite my head off. She has a very nice smile although this seems to be matched by a liking for the macabre, such as TV shows about killers or even books about them. That's not to mention horror movies. Sparkling Eyes as usual is an unusual and beautiful woman challenging me whenever she so felt the need. I expect I deserved every bit of it, but regardless I come back for more, it must be something to do with loving her. Funny thing love. It sure makes into a different person, unless you happen to be a woose already.

I tried the advice of Bonner man, a gentle giant who looks more like a don't-mess-with-me-giant cos he'll eat you alive. I tried to develop the stare. It's the special stare you give when a man has to give it. One which warns others, you mean business. I spent all of 3 seconds looking in the mirror to perfect it. And am afraid it didn't work. Rock Chick saw through me. In a turn of events she then gave me her version of the stare. It worked. Bloody woose. That will be the last time I take Bonner man's advice.

Tony its about time

Wonderful news hit the headlines yesterday. Tony Blair will resign his post on the 27th June 2007, and the nation is sighing in relief. He nearly but not quite apologised for being a poodle to Bush. Unfortunately there is only one contender for the next Presidency of the UK. Gordon holds-the-purse-strings Brown. And today it was Gordon who made it known he was the major contender. Except, he's going to be shadow boxing for the benefit of a farcical contest of one. No one will dare to stand in the ring against him. No character Gordon is holding all the cards, but not only this he has bunged the referee a few quid, stuck a horse shoe in his glove, and taken a concoction of amphetamines. He's now buzzing.

I'm not a Tory supporter and maybe this is why I have come to get a cold shiver with old Tony. Because Tony has been more Tory than many Tories have been. Yet at the same time Gordon doesn't actually instill confidence. I get the feeling he is a control freak. It is with this feeling I'd go so far as to make a prediction. within the next 2 to 3 years, Labour will be plagued with in-fighting. At this stage parliament will take on a different appearance.

In contrast Scotland have elected a new party to run the business, it's the Scottish Nationalist Party SNP. I feel happiness for Scotland, they are a brave proud people who deserve their own governance. Best of all they don't have a queen or royal family. Perhaps they might like to take on a little bit of England's royalty. We could ship a couple up there, just so they don't feel out of place. However, for some reason I don't think they'd get through the border. I don't blame the Scots.

Tony's out YES. Hey anyone got a job for an ex prime minster. Well trained and pretty good poodle impersonator.

Too much of a good thing

Yesterday was one of those days where I'd had too much of a good thing. Food. It seems when I was a growing up kid and teenager there never was enough of it about. Especially with siblings being just as voracious. But now I'm somewhat grown up, there's shed loads of it. The problem is I'm eating shed loads of it as well. So slowly each year my girth expands. Now I feel bloated. I can just about see my toes over my belly and am possibly on the cusp of turning. Turning into something quite large. Of all the things to lose, weight has got to be the hardest. I don't exercise like I did some years ago, and in reality to maintain myself all I probably need to do is eat like a sparrow. Which might be OK for sparrows but human beings it's harder to do. Humans need substance to eat, the more the merrier, well to a point.

Anyway, this morning I'm on a train to see Sparkling Eyes. I doubt whether I'll get much exercise stuck in a seat for over 8 hours. Now if exercising my brain burnt of the calories it would be a little easier. I could sit and deliberate. But no. I have to be made out of a skeleton, and muscles and everything else. I am organic. An animal. I need my exercise. It's just a shame thinking about it don't count. Oh well better get off. Am sure Sparkling Eyes can find some jobs for me to do. OK it might be mowing the lawn or painting or some other house related odd job thing, but at least I'll be doing something. In the meantime Rock Chick will likely poke me with something sharp. Lucky they don't have cattle prods where I'm off to, I'd hate to be welcomed by "moooooooooo" and "here's something I prepared earlier." I've never thought electric shock therapy worked, thank heavens it's a vacation.

I'm quite happy really. It's just these bloody jeans, I do so wish they weren't so tight.

De-stressing

In 18 more posts I'd of reached that 100 mark, bloody amazing. Even though it's not quite a year, with a little luck I'll reach it just as the year of BLOG writing is marked.

The Fish Factory has been exceptionally busy. So much my in bucket has about 200 assorted fishes thrashing about needing processing. Some of them make a bigger splash than others. And the odd one is having little fishes to exacerbate the problem. In addition there's another 100 plus hidden items in a backlog bucket which has been kicked under the counter so far I can't see it. It wasn't me who kicked it there. Fortunately. It was my immediate big fish, his idea was if we can't see it then we'll be able to do more work. Or something along those lines. So all in all mid week I'd reached pretty high levels of stress. Fantasies of murder were on my mind. The kind you have to help relief the situation.

Then it hit me. I think it was the Thursday it hit me. It hit me with the revelation I would soon be seeing Sparkling Eyes. Oh boy do I need some company with her. She'll put everything right, or she'll cause me to think so much about her I don't have time to think about anything else. Which is probably more of the case. Not to mention Rock Chick shooting arrows at me, sticking me with a cow prod and seeing what the highest voltage is I can take. OK, it may sound sadistic but it's all in the best possible repartee, with a lot of fun. Which reminds me, Rock Chick said something about getting her a present. And it's not even her birthday, it was just because she things I should. It's Sunday. The next 2 days are holidays. I suppose I could hatch one out of an egg, I'll just sit here concentrate hard and see if anything happens.

Morning creativity

It's odd what thoughts go through my head in the morning while on my way to work. There's this soliloquy commenting on various subjects which I think to myself are very interesting. It don't stop, it just carries on during the walk up the road. I like listening to it and wonder such thoughts should be written down. Trying to make a mental note to actually write them later. However, they inevitably fade away and I forget what was so interesting in the morning. It's at this point the notion of getting some kind of recording device comes to mind. Whether it just be a pen and paper or perhaps a digital recorder. Then later on they can be written up. The other notion also comes, because they are interesting to me at the time it doesn't mean they would be interesting to other people.

A similar creativity comes immediately when I sit down in the pub and I'm near the end of my first pint. The voice begins up again and the conversation and characters develop their depth. For instance balding man who has natural acerbic wit bordering on sarcasm, but very much a part of his personality. He's a softy at heart but a lot of people could easily dislike him. Think him a smarty pants and punch his lights out. I find balding man very funny, though I also believe he's probably an alcoholic. In fact the 3 or 4 regulars I sit with are probably all in varying degrees of alcoholism. From the completely pickled man who always sits in the same seat to the man who works at home and drinks to he pukes. He has these little gauges under his eye lids, they flip up and say FULL when he's had enough pints, then just walks out the pub without saying anything to anyone. As for fat man, I can't say i really see eye to eye with him but rather accept his company or have to accept his company. He has an arrogance about him in his own self important opinions so I've now developed an ability to just let it run off like water off a ducks back. And then state my own point because sometimes you just have no choice.

Then time passes and it's BLOG time, at which point I'm usually knackered and forgotten the day's events. Just when I should be putting them down in words for anyone to read. I wonder if people who read BLOGS are getting a free reading rather than buy a book. But then, BLOG authors are just opening up their lives for scrutiny at their own behest. Where did I put my microscope and how can I get royalties on what I put on a blog? No my name isn't Prince William.

Sewage in the Forth

Just outside of Edinburgh is the Firth of Forth, spanned by an incredible coppery orange painted bridge. Built in 1890 it was the major piece of civil engineering in Scotland at it's time. Going over this bridge on an East Coast train is wonderful. The Forth is an incredible tributary to the sea. Below the bridge spans are some small islands which at one time were inhabited. I don't know whether it was by people who worked there or they had little communities. But all the buildings are shells. One of which has a concrete cross on top of it. Large ships easily go underneath the bridge. People sail their dingys in the Forth or yachts if they are well to do. Off the shore there usually stand a number of tugs, showing this is a working River where people graft for a living. Each and every time I go over this bridge the view is different. Sometimes it can be breath taking as the train will take a couple of minutes to complete this stretch. It has to slow, because the bridge is old now and as always is being repaired or painted.

Thames water run a sewage treatment works on the Forth. On Friday it broke. They run the sewage works on behalf of Scottish water. Thames Water is now owned by a German company and have since the sell out been pretty prudent in it's spending. Making of course what all companies want, lots of money. An Archimedes pump broke at this sewage works. The radio reported approximately 6,000 litres of sewage per second was now spilling into the Forth. It's said by officials, though I don't know the providence of these officials, the sewage will likely dissipate with the tides and cause little in the way of environmental damage. Though the notion of a skinny dip on the edge of the Forth is probably something none of those same officials will sign themselves up for.

It is sad with such a casual demeanour an event like this can happen and be accepted all is well. All is not well. It shouldn't of been allowed to happen. Personally I'd like to see each and every high ranking owner, executive and self important suit at Thames Water personally be made responsible. Lets drop them in for a little swim just so they can test the water and tell us after they've been checked out for diseases, that all is well. No doubt the Firth of Forth will recover and I expect I'm being a little over dramatic. I just hope I don't have to put a peg on my nose the next time I go over the bridge.

The Grand National

I sat and watched the Grand National this afternoon, in the same pub I watched it last year. However, amongst the viewers was a particularly anoying young man, he just couldn't keep his trap shut. It was as though he needed to be the centre of attention. The worse part was he had walked in just two mintues before the race had began and merged with his mates. I think maybe he had some mental condition, or he wanted to get a mental condition. Because if he carries on the way he was during the National someone will give him a bruising, which I'm very much sure may silence him for a moment or two.

Besides the anus with a mouth the event was good to watch. I'd put a bet on 4 different horses each way. And with my bloody luck, not one of them came in. Although a couple seemed to stay quite a long distance, by the two thirds mark they somehow had dropped back into obscurity. So after chilling with my pint and the end of the race I left with my pocket lighter. But had to stop off at a betting shop because my friend Green Car man had actual won two places.

The moral of the story is, if you want to see an important event get a seat close to the box and hire a couple of bouncers to kick the living crap out of anyone who believes they are the side attraction.

Walked my legs off

Tonight I am tired. I feel tired because I've made sure during the whole day I did a bit of walking. A mile and half in the morning a good mile and a half in the evening and some little bits in the day. If I carry on like this, I'll end up 2 inches shorter by the end of the week. People wont recognise me. And worse still I might get more comments about the balding patch at the back of my head.

Memo for self. Get platform shoes, wig and superglue. The glue will keep it all in place on a windy day

Movie Saturation

There has been a point over the Easter holiday where I had reached complete movie saturation overdose. I just didn't want to view another film. No matter how good, who the actors were or who directed. Enough was enough. So to say. It's at this time I wondered what else I could do, besides leading a meaningless and non evocative existence. Passing hours in the monotony of a little square box was like having a leach suck out my brain. At saturation point I begin to take stock and ask what I have achieved. What meaningful thing I have done today which has made it worth waking up, having breakfast, and being a contribution to the world. I'd got my hair cut, well better than nothing.

I considered chatting to Sparkling Eyes. However, Sparkling Eyes wasn't having any of it either. She'd probably reached saturation point with me. Try as I might I was shunted off to the sidings like a defunct dejected railway carriage. Although I must admit in one communication Sparkling Eyes had a wonderful turn of phrase when she wrote "walking the boards of indecision" or something of a similar vein. Very eloquent I thought. Still I was punted nice turn of phrase or not. She had given me the big E for the time being. My anodyne to the human race had walked off.

I suppose when it comes to it, the only person you can't run away from is yourself. OK it maybe a bit narcissistic, but it depends for some just being in your own company could be a good thing. Then you can listen to the voices. In the walls. In your own head. Perhaps even in other peoples heads if you got mind reading abilities.

So after this holiday period, I will change myself and use my time to a better end. It doesn't matter what I do as long as I am doing something. Something constructive, something which does not involve going into a passive vegetative state. Something which may even be for the better of human kind. Of course that's it, put on my blue cape, tights and brush the lint from the big letter "S" standing out on my torso. Or maybe just one step at a time. I'll try the flying bit off a kitchen chair. Sure hope the cat doesn't think I've lost it.

Trip to Hastings

I went to Hastings with Green Car man and the little oriental fella. It was sunny and windy. But nice to get out of London. To have a long weekend away from the Fish Factory for a start.

Hastings I decided was a dive. All it seems to have is chip shops, pubs and amusement arcades. There's nothing in the way of night life, well certainly not on the sea front. Besides plenty of sea air. And a shale beach. Which is quite large as far as south coast beaches go. Certainly a lot larger than Margate which is another even deeper dive sea side resort. It must be something to do with their seasonal demand. We popped into a sweet shop which I thought was well overpriced. £1.50 for a 150 grams of lime an chocolate sweets. A rip off. A Woolworths would of put them to shame. We discussed how it must be a sorrowful plight for people who lived in the area and wanted work. There are times when a metropolis has it's advantages.

We played crazy golf. And although we may have been the odd bunch because most players seemed to be families the game was fun, we all had a laugh. I managed to get 3 holes in one while green car man, the expert golfer amongst us only got a single hole in one. We had fish n chips for supper. The fish was enormous and the chips small. Then it was time to head back, with the roads getting pretty dark where they didn't have lights.

While in Hastings I thought of Beautiful Eyes and her lost family tie. I breifly considered my own cousins and an aunt who lived here somewhere. I haven't seen them in years and am sure I wouldn't even recognise them.

The sea air was good for shaking out cobwebs. It was a pensive day overall.

Losing Hair

I'd stayed up late chatting to Beautiful Eyes via MSN, which was pretty good because the actual thing worked rather than booting me off every two minutes. She was merry and happy especially with the prospect of becoming an SSP councilor. I was warned I had to vote for her. Even though I live in in a different city, it don't matter. She'd get m vote anyway.

My plan was to wake up late. However the rest of the world had other plans for me. Dustbin men were out and about before the hour hand had passed eight. I got up about half past. Had ten minutes of my favourite radio station and got ready for the day.

One of the worse things I find about using the bathroom is finding someone else's hair. Usually long ones. Always from girls with long hair. Perhaps this is because I don't have long hair myself. But they get in the way. Though I suppose now this is becoming much less of a problem. With hair getting in the way. I washed mine and was surprised to see a fair proportion go down the sink. Surprised edged onto alarm. Wondering how many hairs on a head the average person has, and how long it would take before I go bald. Then if I don't watch it this hair thing could become an obsession. Thing is it is. I want to see other blokes go bald before me. It could be something to do with the patch on my crown Beautiful Eyes usually points out. Well not just the patch she points out everything. If there's a flaw she'll tell me about it and beat me with it laughing at my paranoia. If I don't accept it, I'd be in a right state. If your loved ones take the pee then it's a matter of getting on with it. Which reminds me how Little Monster Boy called me fat on two occasions yesterday. Which is another story.

Let me get fat but whatever you do, don't take my hair away.

New Phone

Today's big event was the purchase of a new telephone. One of BT's own brand. It looks nice and fresh. Though it has a few functions on it I'll have to work out how to use. But it also has "handsfree" wonderful. I can sit and make expressions with my hands and not have to hold the thing. Or if it's going to be a long call just put in on and sit back. Or let others listen in.

It's odd though, the older I get the more I just like things designed just to do their own job and do it well and nothing else. I don't want a coffee making, picture snapping house phone. Just one which rings, doesn't crackle too much and will last. Pitty it needs batteries though. So much for the green environment.

The family of Talkatives are coming tomorrow, I figure it best to get as good a night's sleep as I can. Pull out the bullet proof vest, helmet, coffee and tazer. Just in case. I know one thing, I'll be exhausted when they have gone but happy to have seen them. Little Princess talkative could probably wind me round her little finger, it will be nice to see if I can now understand what she says. Bigger brother talkative I'm concerned about because he's not the sharpest tool in the box and likes to use his fists at school. He's only a little lad and his ignorance is such a sadness to what troubles he may get himself into as time goes on. Whereas smaller brother talkative is the brain box. Very bright, he certainly could be something quite different from his bigger brother. Then again who can tell what the future holds. Personally I still don't know what I'll be when I grow up and I'm in my ??, hey don't expect me to say how old I am.

Without knowing

This evening I found myself talking to little Tiger. He sat by the back door and let out a meow asking me if he could go out. It didn't matter about the rain or how he had been in and out more times than a ferret in a bag of nuts. No he had to go out now. I found myself doing something I don't do often. Talking to him as though he could understand. I said " no you can't go out mate, because it's raining and you'll get wet. You've already been out and come back in," he looked at me in disdain turned his head away and I saw the end of his tail flick like a serpent. He was not amused. So this time Tiger turn looked at me again and just a touch louder meowed again. My reply was "look I've already told you, it's raining, you'll only come back in. You're a cat not a duck." It didn't matter. So at this point I realised the sound of rain was no longer there and opened the door. It was without realisation/knowing I had spoken to Tiger. At this point the thought occurred this might be a sign of madness.

However, I don't think this is the case. There are things we do without realising them on an automatic level. And there are somethings which we don't do but would do if the little voice inside went away, the one which acts as a conscience. I might see someone walking down the street who I don't know and think they have a nice pair of shoes on, but I don't say it or ask them. I don't know who they are. The automatic don't go there sensor is turned on. While at other times it's not. Especially when inebriated where it emphatically gets turned off. It's not a matter then of not knowing but rather having a good excuse, it was the alcohol. Yes I did fart then but hoped the cigarette smoke would hide the odour. If I'm not drunk it will be a matter of holding a straight face and letting the thought of suspicion be caste on anyone else. A particularly good straight face when in a lift, preferably not passing wind if can helped. Unless it's empty. Which would be while knowing.

There's a guy at the fish factory who talks while he's gutting the fish, almost as if he doesn't know he's doing it. There's a woman who talks continuously say how bad some fish are, as though she's the only one in the world having to deal with a complex fish. Which is just as irritating. It's without knowing people forget those around them. I'd rather not know. If they spoke in a different language I couldn't understand then it wouldn't matter. Things done therefore without knowing are often automated. If only the conscious switch would be thrown again.

I suppose Tiger doesn't care, all he knows is I'm his automatic door opener and he'll go out when he wants to, lucky cat.

Telecoms and circuses

The last few weeks I've been having problems with broadband. Quite frankly it's been more like a slim band, thin band, intermittent band, disconnect you band and scratch head all night wondering what the band is up with the band. It happens primarily when I'm on MSN messenger. The connection just cuts off. As though some very fragile wire is hanging lose, then when the wind blows in a certain direction it cuts me off. This is not fun.

Sparkling Eyes told me to get it fixed. It's infuriating. There I'd be chatting away happily to Beautiful then my chat would be no chat. Like I'd been suddenly zapped into space. A moment later, it would reconnect. Sparkling Eyes was getting angry at me. Hey it's not my fault. Now it's my choice get it fixed or not get a chat with the one person in my life I can't stop chatting to. There was no choice. I had to make the call to my service provider.

I rang up British Telecoms on their magical number (151) for reporting faults and a machine spoke to me and tested my phone line. It told me there was a fault. Well does this mean BT prefer the word of a machine as against the word of a human being? It was nice to know I wasn't imagining getting cut off so frequently. Sparkling Eyes would be happy it would get fixed and we could chat. Happy to think I didn't have the broadband equivalent of Tourettes syndrome. The machine made an appointment and said it would be completed in 2 days.

So I waited 4 days and it still isn't fixed. I rang again. This time I got to spoke to a human being. Her accent was Indian, name Tina and she spoke very much like Margaret Thatcher had given her two dozen elocution lessons. Thatcher by the way is amongst the most hated prime minsters this country has ever had. The conversation proceeded and with each comment she made, I just couldn't help getting mad at her. At the end of the conversation I asked her where she was from. She was in India. In a call centre no doubt. I was also mad coz she said her name as Tina, yet another minor item I detest call centres for; giving obviously European names to Asian's who barely have the ability to talk the language. I opened my trap and told Tina she sounded upper class, and condescending when she spoke, I said it was obvious she wasn't from the UK. At this moment she dropped the put-on tone, and it was as though the stress had been relieved from her vocal chords she sounded natural. I know she was unhappy at what I said, which is sad because if she knew the despise working class ordinary people held for Thatcher, I'm sure she'd of understood. It's now 5 days and the line is still not fixed. I bet Tina's gone and lost the fault request slip.

Today I also went into the Fish Factory to do some overtime. Hoping it would be quite, but my big fish group leader was there and he enjoys talking. On the phone. In person. To anyone. So it ended up a circus. Ear plugs were sank deep in my ears, headphones on with music and most was drowned out. He wasn't the only one, but then I suppose most circuses have more than one attraction, but why do they have to be so loud I wonder. I am from a different world, I like to hear myself think. Peace and quite is a beautiful thing. It's lucky I have a long fuse. I wonder tho if it will stretch all the way to India, Tina could just make my intermittent broadband last a bit longer. I'll suppose then I'll be clapping like a seal and doing circus tricks next time I ring.

Fire alarm at the fish factory

Without warning the fire alarm went off. I sat in my chair in a state of disbelief. Just when I was about to increase my daily output by a 100% and do my second item of work. I wasn't entirely sure it was a test, because one of the fish who sits in a wheel chair was still there. Usually you can tell because he'd off dissappered ten minutes before. So with reluctance I put my jumper on. With slow couldn't care less motivation I tied my laces up and slipped my coat on. There was even the notion of just sitting there and getting on with my work. Except for the bell. Which was pretty loud. I had no choice. And removed myself from the building in a decidedly slow manner.

The stairwell was packed with people going down. Everyone trudging down slowly. What a joke. It must of taken 10 minutes to get out, or at least felt like it. However, I suppose it was nice to get out in the afternoon and get away from it all.

There were no firemen. No uniforms. No big red fire engines. Just a large squall of fishes congregating and keeping warm as best as possible. It took even longer to get back into the building. Next time, I'll just pop into the shops on the way to the meeting point, get a cuppa tea and a chocolate biscuit and thank the weatherman it's not raining. What's it matter, it's all water off a fishes fin?

Stressed Fish

Sometimes it don't matter what you do, you just can't help getting stressed. In the Fish Factory we're all getting stressed. It's like an infectious disease, or fire fighting in a drought. One flame bursts up and immediately another next to it. Stress dwells under the surface of the pond and all the fishes feel it, they flap around more and even the most chilled still get stressed. I think of one of Kiplin's poems which has a line about keeping your head when everyone else is going crazy. But it don't help all the time and I could be losing my head very shortly.

I rang up a help line set up for us poor fishes by the Big Fish of the pond. It was all in confidence. I was offered 4 free councelling sessions or advice on how I as a little fish could take out a grievance against the Big Fish. But being a Ritz man on the block I think I can work out how to write my own grievance. They listened. I asked if they reported anything back to the Big Fish. Their reply was they only kept statistics unless it was something to do with self harm or harming another person. I did mention I had considered getting a large fishing rod to catch the big fish and then smack them over their heads but I didn't have access to one or the skill to use it. I said I tried to use a little humour. One of the things I was advised was maybe changing myself. Great, so I'll just go out to the shops and buy a new me, make myself different. My conclusion was this help line was a load of rubbish. If they couldn't tell the Big Fish about the plight of the Little Fishes what you were they to me?

Maybe I should take up football, coz then if I lose my head I always got the ability to do something with it. Or maybe look for a good fishing rod. Hmm now wouldn't that be an idea?

News

Warning this is a heavy blog - sorry no humour here.

Watching the News can be a bad thing. Mostly because all it reports is depressive and abhorrent events. Wars, murders and the break down of society. It is not a sobering thing but rather one which draws blood from the psyche. Whatever you are doing, wherever it is, just put on the News and become despondent.

I was thinking it's because the News is shallow. News is centred on recent events for their immediate impact, it gives the raw facts, or rather the facts that can be reported in 3 minutes tops. What it also does is mislead because it leaves out a great deal of information. Sometimes just giving a single fact is like telling a lie. Because the additional information needed for an informed notion of a News event sets context. Every event of the world is set in a context.

In the last few weeks there have been several murders of teenagers in London. By gun and knife. They have been reported as demonising youth and gang culture, what they have not done is try to understand the event. What were the sequence of conditions which led up to the death of this or that person? How then can we as a society learn from them and prevent a repeat? The News therefore is shallow. It gets more viewers by sensationalising. Providing the full facts takes too long. There could be a moral question here in whether this is how News should be presented.

I normally try to add humour into my blogs, but this time I apologize. Our media coverage and our willingness as recipients of information is a contributing factor. I can accept or refuse what I read and watch, but if I accepted without my own questioning then I'd be no more than just another sheep. I cry for each young life taken in the recent violence on the streets of London, and especially in pity for those who don't understand in real terms what they have done when they've held the knife or pulled the trigger.

Well it will soon be Easter, now I wonder when today's children grow up whether they will associate Easter with chocolate eggs or perhaps consider it had another reason?

Double helping of lasagne, forget the Kate Bush

Been spending a week in the company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I've helped myself to a 2nd helping of lasagne, and 20 minutes later my belly is stretched, full, bloated. I'll have to change my eating next week. But it was delicious and the garlic bread tastie. Very, very tastie. In the background I hear yet again the repeat of a Kate Bush track driving me completely out of my mind. The screeching screaming banshie is not from this world. But Rock Chick insists Kate Bush is the best and doesn't understand why I don't like Katie. Katie was from my era, and I'd rather leave her back in a time I'd rather forget, a time when screaming banshies was thought pop. Where did I hide myself when this music cam on the scene? Where ever it was it wasn't in a deep enough dark enough hole, coz Katie is still rining in my ears.

I've pampered Sparkling Eyes all week with back rubs, tickles and feet massages. She tells me I have to do it, because she deserves it and it's my job. Nice to know I have a use. It makes me feel good. Sparkling Eyes feels chilled, and the world is a better place if only for a short time.

Whenever I am here I have a learning experience. Things are different for me in my home town. Here I'm put well and truely in my place. Often called a girlie amongst other things which can not be repeated for the sake of the innocent, i.e. me. But I'm sure I leave my mark. Especially when that mark costs me 40 squids teaching Rock Chick how to do her home work. I must be a little slow. I'd of thought it was me who should of got the renumeration.

Oh well a Guinness and a glass of wine should make the medicine go down a little better. Though I can't help wishing Kate Bush would be turned off.

Relax, Chill, Calm

I have written a post-it note, stuck it on my Fish Factory monitor and have to see it all the time. Well until it drops off. It says "Relax, Chill, Calm" because things are getting stinky at the Fish Factory. Some fish have been waiting ages to be gutted so they are now stincking a bit. I wear a peg. On my nose. But it doesn't stop me from getting stressed. I'm sleeping shorter hours, having heart palpitations and wondering if I don't chill whether I'll have a heart attack. Not to mention the occaisional spout of frustration and finding I can feel agressive when agression I know is a very bad thing. Fortunately, I got something to help chill me out. A visit soon, to see Sparkling Eyes.

I need an anodyne. Sparkling Eyes provides it. Whereas Rock Chick test's the anodyne to see if it is working, but in a nice way. I then learn with all this contradiction of fire and water collapsing and chilling is the must way. I recall reading something about attitudes. No matter what the situation put in, the attitude taken is your own choice. Worry and have a heart attack. Accept and try to be constructive is another. Inbetween I keep blowing the inflatable raft.

At the moment I'm somewhere between ringing the Fire Brigade and lighting the tinder box myself. Hey if you don't add some of your own fire then you'd just be a damp squib. Whatever a squib is. No offence to them. They just sound damp.

Big fish talking to little fish

I had to do my Ritz man act today, the matter wasn't serious but it was something which had to be tackled. A little fish needed to communicate with a big fish. But the big fishes were just writing notes of what they expected the little fish to do without talking. So I arranged the meeting with the view it was something that could be sorted out and we did sort it out. The little fish seemed a bit happier, so to a certain extent I had done my job in her representation although. There could of been more.

Communication is such an important thing. There's one bloke I speak to and it don't matter if I like the guy or not, but I do kinda like him, he still don't listen to a thing said. It's like he's on a different bus. I've seen this happen before with two people just chatting to each other, and the both of them talking about completely different things. Talking over and at but neither really showing they were listening to the other. At the end I'd wonder if anything was gained. I suppose talking to another person is better than not talking to anyone. Better than talking to a wall. But it is important to talk, it's a sign of something dwelling inside. In the book 'The Prophet' by Kahilil Gibran there's a line which comes to mind: "you talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts." This line pops into my head on occaision when someone is needlessly prevaricating and then I wonder what is behind their words, what it is they need to say which makes them talk so much.

All day long people around me natter. They natter about everything so I end up putting ear plugs in to help concentrate on my work. Which demands attention. The work not putting the ear plugs in. In a quite atmosphere I can think, concentrate and understand. I'll admit someone may think I'm going slow, but it's the process which is important. Then I end up knowing more than other people and they talk to me even more asking me what to do. It's a Catch 22 situation.

Perhaps, I should improve my prevarications interrupt everyone else and give up. Alternatively I may have to get better ear plugs. Or even a helmet to put on my head with a little window to peer out of, it would have to be sound proofed of course. And I'd have to take it off when I went to the pub afterall how could I drink my guinness?

Unconscious mind

Freudian Theory is based largely on the unconscious mind as well as sex. As though sex is the tenement of each and every person, knowingly and unknowingly in the subconscious. However another way to find out what is going on in the unconscious mind is to ask it associative questions. Like if someone said to me "pub" I'd likely reply "Guinness," the one and the other going together implicitly. So when I sat down while watching TV just pressing buttons on my mobile phone I didn't think much of it at all. A few moments passed and I picked up my phone again then saw I'd keyed in a telephone number. Except it had a number 9 on the end, but for the 9 it was a perfect match. Something was working on a subconscious level because I know I didn't do it consciously.

A message had come through. It may have been a spiritualist meeting and the table had been knocked twice. Either that or it had a wobbly leg and was about to tip over. So I followed my unconscious mind to find out where it would lead.

It was Sparkling Eyes phone number. It was about time I spoke to her because we'd had a no talking period. I picked up the phone and rang. It was on answer phone. Well it can only mean to me she still doesn't want to talk to me. I've taken the hint and so it will be.

My other concern is Ex English Teacher, he was due to have a hick line put in to begin his chemotherapy. I'd rang him up at the weekend and he seemed odd; because phone conversations with him can last a long time. This conversation lasted only 5 minutes or so. It was like he didn't want to talk to me. That's his choice. Maybe he wanted his phone line free because he was expecting someone else to ring or he had some other matter to attend. Yet it seemed impolite, if this were the case I'd of thought he'd say. It's the unspoken messages which speak the most. So I tackled it explicitly and said it seemed we both didn't have much to say, there was no reply. I am of the mind to consider let it be. There's only so many kicks I'll take. Although it does bother me to a degree, I'll not dwell on it, life is not worth getting yourself worried over things.

I do try my best not to jump to conclusions about most things. It's because I think too much and can then be prone to prevarication. It's also a facet of working at the Fish Factory. Which requires a conscientious fish sorter to know legislation and question things which don't add up. It's the information I am not being given I wonder about. What it would tell me. Like the information hidden in Freud's concept of the Unconscious mind. It will not tap me on my shoulder and then whisper into my ear what it's thinking. I have to piece it together.

Ambiguous events are a bit like trying to remember a dream. Very much grasping at clouds and watching the mist dissipate between fingers.

So when given something to read I'll read it then make sense of it, or hope I make sense of it. Then ask questions and answer questions in my meandering thoughts until I'm satisfied. Further in the quest for understanding this is best done with a clear mind. So I expect I'd better put down this Guinness, for the moment anyway.

Listening

I sit listening to Mozart's Clarinet Concerto. Listening. Haunting, lingering and arousing to the point of cheeky the clarinet plays. Then just at the cusp of cheek and the edge of spice, it slows down back into a touchy mellow and playful friend. Listen. Then you will hear.

The second movement is accompanied with the pronounced aid of strings. Like the clarinet but more rythmic and so complimentary like apple pie and custard. One fills in where the other is left and together they are a wonderful melding of tastes but still quite distinct. Cheeky. Haunting again. Slow. Then popping up yet again the Clarinet raises it's head.

Is it so? The soul moves in music, the heart in emotion and the mind lost in thought.

I think I'll just sit and enjoy somewhere restful between sleep and consciousness.

Antipidean seat

I stayed in the Fish Factory till late, this meant when I turned up at the pub there was already a large group sitting at the usual table. So I took a seat on the edge. No one acknowledged I had come in and sat down. Then I suppose I should of said hello, but one guy was talking. Taking up attention. I put my paper on the table and looked at the giant sized Soduku I been trying to do for the past 6 days. Then sipped my Guinness. It's what happens on a Friday if I get in the pub late.

The bloke who was doing the talking must of liked the sound of his own voice. He's got an opinion on everything. He just gasses and gasses. It's like as long as he is chatting away and people are listening nothing matters. He sits there pouring out his verbal diarrhea in a mildly intoxicated fashion. The drink must of been getting to him. But what a load of bollocks. Utter and complete tripe. I was quite. There are important things to say but he likes the sound of his own voice. I wouldn't mind betting he has it on tape. Gets home and when the wifey isn't listening to him he turns his tape on and discusses crap with himself. The man who talks bollocks has walked into the room, all bow, put up your glasses and listen to this complete tosser. For although the alcohol will diminish the words he says, he'll still be a tosser in the morning.

I drank my pint and left, saying little. Feeling I could be a little bitter. But Guinness isn't is for chilling. I'll wake up in the morning and with all my faculties about me will hopefully not resemble a tosser. Hopefully, well it depends how many I drink the night before.

Lighter mornings

Having gone to bed early last night it was easier to get up in the morning. Partly the reason was because of light. Just coming through the window. It's like the world is now saying "hey dude, you've had enough sleep time to get your ass up outa that bed." The world says it in such a way if you didn't take much notice you'd not hear it. But it's there "get up dude."

So my mind and body are now tricked. If I go to bed late and the world shouts at me to get up in the morning I then start to feel I have not had enough sleep, and in reality I haven't. "tough dude." There it goes again. I could even be mistaken for having some kind of mental illness "nah dude, it's just me, the world, waking you up." Who would of thought a personal communion could go on with Old Mother Nature. "Dude, not so much of the Old." As I thought a bit temperamental. Well persons of the female persuasion can be. I'm sure if she were a ship this world would sail into troubled waters just for the fun of it. To see how far I could puke over the side no doubt.

All in all, I suppose being woken up early isn't so bad. "So I been saying Dude, it's good to get up." Insistent isn't she?

Hair cut

I walked into the Barber's shop, there were already 2 customers but as there were 2 hairdressers and no Que the wait wouldn't be long. Glancing down at the table by my seat was a newspapers so I began to read the day's news. A moment passed and one of the customers started to complain. He was telling the hairdresser not to touch his neck. His hair looked odd. A bit like a Mohican's style, except it wasn't sticking up. He'd had a band of his hair each side of his head practically shaved off. The hairdresser picked up a mirror and showed the moaner what it looked like he said "it's OK boss." Another moment passed and then the customer moaned again. At this point the hairdresser had enough. He politely asked the moaner to leave there would be no charge. Though it sounded to me like the moaner was a bit of a nut case. He wasn't communicating what it was he wanted. Then I thought maybe it was the hairdressers not so brilliant English skills.

So I sat in the chair next. Asked for my usual and chilled out, closed my eyes and just relaxed. Wondering what it is about some people who are so conscientious about the latest hair style, that it is the most important thing in the world to them. I have never not paid for a hair cut. Even when I haven't liked them. In particular I used to go to one Barbers where the hairdresser a woman would always cut my ear. My head was something out of Punch and Judy as far as she was concerned. Perhaps she was a lesbian, or perhaps I reminded her of an ex and so my ear would be nicked. Then she'd carry on nicking my ear until one day I became a Van Gogh look alike. I had enough of her. And even when I tried to avoid her I'd some how end up in her chair. In the end I voted with my feet and went to a different Barber's. I'm more attached to my ears than an particular hair style so it was the wisest choice.

Silly Sophia saw my hair cut when I got home and she said it was perfect. Because she's learning about hair cutting at college. Thing is every time I get a hair cut I later start to get headaches. It's my glasses. They just pinch too much. Come to think of it if I lost an ear I might lose the headaches? Nah, think I'll just put up with them, take my glasses off and bump into lamp posts, OUCH. Somethings you just can't avoid.

What's wrong with me?

I went to the shops this morning and while there caught a group who were busking. But were actually practicing a bit of self promotion. While in a shop getting a newspaper an old man behind me said the group were good. He'd got their CD and they had been on TV. I wondered out of the shop and stood there listening to a song.

Then it hit me. In a few short moments I was getting quite emotional inside, I could feel myself wanting to cry. It wasn't as though the song was particularly soppy because it wasn't. The music was up beat. It was me. Something is happening to me and I don't know what it is. My emotions at times take control. I can't help it. I become more of a woman than a woman, and get the urge to choke up, well inside and shed a tear. But heaven's someone save me. Not in my own town while out shopping.

Maybe I'm an old woman at heart. I better keep an eye on this kind of thing, who knows where it could lead to, next week I'll be knitting, giving out recipes and reading Barbara Cartland books. Someone tell me, I need help! What's the answer?

Parcel arrives

Well Sparkling Eyes said she had sent something. All I knew was it was a parcel and should of come on Valentine's Day. I had asked her if it was something I could eat. The answer was yes. And although I had probed to see if she would say, Sparkling Eyes kept stoom. She would not let the cat out of the bag. I'd even reasoned along the lines of how she had to always open things up before the day, or make a very good guess. When on one Christmas she had guessed 8 out of 9 prezzies just by feeling the wrappers. It can be so soul destroying. This time I was the recipient. Even when there was a mix up of address she did not say what it was. Then I found out when I got home this evening.

A giant box awaited sitting on the settee, taking up space for two persons. The wrapping tape said not to use anything sharp to open it. Which was a puzzle coz how can anyone take off such tape without using a knife? So I was careful, and edging a knife under the tape managed to take it off. The box was light for it's size, which should of been a clue. For there I could see a big Valentines balloon in the shape of a heart. There was also a basket with a half bottle of white whine and a box of delicious chocolates. Wow, am I so lucky. Sparkling Eyes has hinted to me now, about sending flowers on valentines day, and said she wants to be surprised. I'm guilty the dozen red roses were not a surprise, but were nice. So next year what will it be, I'll start thinking about it now then come the next 14th February I just might come up with something a little different from flowers.

The chocolates were marvelous, the wine went down so quickly and my head is still in a dizz. Am I so lucky or what?

Warm feelings

There are somethings which always seem to tap into my emotions when I see them. Things I just can't help myself but smile and feel happy about. It's a warm feeling. And of all the things happening in the world at this precise moment the warmth hits nothing really has much relevance. It's as though in a brief second the world has revealed itself and a kind of Nirvana experience ascends. Weird, but true.

Coming home on the train I had such a moment. I sat down and then noticed in the next set of seats in front of me a young boy of perhaps 5 or 6 years. His mother was a young girl back to me. She was fussing over her son. He stood there straight and just let her do what she had to do. Straighted his hood, made sure his buttons were done up, zip in place, gloves on hands. He looked at his mum with big brown eyes and a smile, he was happy just to let her prepare him for the next stop. I smiled and the warmth hit me. It's the same emotion which comes to me when I think of time spent with Sparkling Eyes. Something warm and beautiful just swaddles me. It's comforting to feel.

I got off the train and put on my MP3 player. Choosing UB40, and thinking to myself if I were not white, I'd be black. Because I just like a lot of black music. Reggae can be great to listen to, it might be something to do with the slow rhythmic beat which is said to be close resemble the heart beat. Whereas some music can make your heart race, reggae just has a chilling effect. Though I don't listen to it all the time. Then suddenly a track came on, the warm feeling hugged me it was "I need you babe." I had hopelessly tried singing a duo with Sparkling Eyes. Unfortunately vocal talents and memory have a migrating effect on me when they are combined. It must be one of those unique conditions some people have, where they can not remember words to songs and I got it. So, I read the words off a laptop and the track replayed several times. I was drunk I expect Sparkling Eyes was as well but it didn't stop us belting it out the words. Thing is even now I can't remember the bloody words. At least the feeling was there to trespass onto my casual existence now.

Think I'll get myself one of those tea cosy hats, with bright colours unfortunately I don't have the hair for dreadlocks, never mind the hat will do nicely.

Checking out Parliament

Today I went with the retired English Teacher, Green Car man and a Tacit oriental to see Parliament. It had been organised through our Member of Parliament by the ex English Teacher. I and Tacit man had to meet ex-teacher at the train station, at the prescribed time of 9:40 a.m., Green Car man was going to make his own way into London and had admitted he found outings of his sort were at times stressful when the pressure was on to be at a certain place at a certain time. Tacit Oriental man met me outside the station, he looked like he'd just got out of bed his eyes were all puffy. I was eating a sausage roll even though I'd had breakfast. English had got off the train to greet us, he will be going up to London again tomorrow to begin his course in Chemo therapy so this was his exercise and preliminary run.

The tour took about an hour and a half, we had to wait outside the doors for 20 minutes because some idiot had set of the fire alarm earlier. There was a group of school children who could not of been older than 9 or 10 years at most, and I couldn't help wonder if Parliament was the right place to bring them at that age. All would of been in one ear and out of the other I have no doubt for such young ears. On taking the tour we walked through some large rooms which were ornately decorated with paintings and often gold leaf. The tour guide said they were priceless. Paintings of kings and queens were on walls left and right in the Royal Gallery. In one gallery the paintings looked poor, I commented to Green Car man they looked no better than pieces an A'level art student could of put together. We saw the Lords room and then the Parliamentary room. The Lords sitting area again was quite ornate an area behind the speakers chair where the monarch would sit at times, again in gold leaf. The seats were of a red leather, and tourists were not allowed to sit on them. Whereas the parliamentary area was quite plane, with very little in the way of any decoration, green leather chairs and noticeably the public gallery had a fully enclosed layer of bullet proof glass. The parliamentary building had been bombed in 1941 so what we had seen was what was built after the war. Whilst the Lords Chamber had survived the second world war it's ornate design was about 160 years old. The decoration of the royal gallery and the Lords chamber only did one thing to me, get up my nose. I felt a cloud of anger shadow my disposition.

Time and time again tax payers put money into government and then it goes to support royalty when it could be used on hospitals, public transport systems, the poor anything but glorify a trumped up family we term as royalty. A family of parasites who will forever be parasites and never know the realities of real working life.

Some misled people believe they have been abducted by aliens. I can only think they are suffering from some kind of mental illness. But just supposing it were a real event and just supposing some people were abducted and never returned. Now if I were an alien I'd mark the cards of the entire Royal Family and lineage. I'd take them out of their cushy little palaces they have built, experiment on them and remove all vestiges of the royal demeanour. I'd then return them impregnated with the thought they were all ordinary working people. Maybe slap a couple of ASBO's on the odd blue blood just to help them blend in a bit more. Then I'd magically removed royalty from every record ever kept, up to Cromwell. Who would of been re-written as the man who did us all a favour and chopped their heads off. Cromwell, Cromwell oh why didn't you go further? Maybe he had a square head and it got stuck in one of his round helmets.

Run for the hills

The Talkatives are about to arrive. Well Mrs Talkative and the gang of not so talkatives with dog in tow. I need earplugs, Valium, walking boots (to take the dog out), patience, maybe another Valium, 2 pints of Guinness, a doppelganger to fill in when necessary, a helmet, a spare chair because there will be nowhere to sit, muscular strength, to hold the dog while on a lead, more patience, a get away car with powerful engine, doggy poo bags, maybe a third Valium (how many can you max out on I ask?), something to keep the kids amused, I know dress them up in red and put them in a field with a bull, yes I do love them, a course of Prozac, a little more alcohol, oh someone kick me in the head. A strong spiritual belief the day will come to an end though it may not feel like it. Somewhere to sit down again, rest, close my eyes and enjoy peace for soon all will be hit with the bombshell of the Talkatives.

Where did I put the valium? Please anyone with an address of the closest 24 hour pharmacy, bar and hospital?

Some one likes the SSP

Spoke to Sparkling Eyes last night who was very excited about things happening in her life. Going from 24 hours to 16 hours work a week, running as a Scottish Socialist Party (SSP) Councillor in a very Tory ward, how she saved the life of a budgerigar from a deppressed existence and her dedicated support for funding and building of a local community centre. Not forgetting her requirment to do some work on an SSP stall and go to meets. She spoke with energy, enthusiasm and purpose. Then tried to get me to go to a Socialist party meeting. I grabbed my nearest crucifix and waved it about, she then said I should even try going to a Tory party meeting just to find out what they were about. At this point I then jumped into a bath of holy water and chanted verses from Revelations. My response was her enthusiasm had effected me so much I felt like now putting in my membership of the Liberal Democrat Party or perhaps the Labour party. I then mentioned in London there did not exist a SSP party and noted the Socialist were raving lunatics too hard core for my liking. I was not going to be persuaded. No way Jose.

A short discussion then ensued at how I was a lazy shite, and needed to put more effort into my Ritz man activities. I deliberated on the state of my branch union and how it could be a very powerful body if some of the key members had the ability to come together rather than the internal fighting going on. Politics and incompatible personalities seem to go hand in hand. How on earth the political system works is mind bending. Especially when we all end up with some trumped up self important idiot in power. In psychology they call this risky shift. It's where the opinions of the whole are shifted to a more extreme view because of the extreme voters and you end up with a leader/event/choice no one really wanted. Sparkling Eyes put me to task as she usually does whenever she feels like it. I sat back and took a little ass whooping. Sometimes you just have to, but it doesn't stop me from loving her, even if she's a member of the Reds, I appreciate and accept her opinion, it's valuable. Just as I'll stand by my own opinion. Now what would life be like with out such events I ask.

I may get to see little Monster Boy this morning which will be wonderful, the most difficult thing is getting him to stop talking about Doctor Who. Last time I tried bribery which worked half way. It was a nice and pleasant respite. Perhaps I'll try again when I see him. Maybe it is all a case of people will do what they feel they have to do. Sparkling Eyes will be a torch barer for socialism, Monster Boy a Doctor Who fanatic, me a lazy shite. Lets rephrase, me a concerned deliberator who ways up the pros and cons makes evaluative decisions from an informed view point, after he's watched a good DVD. Actually i've been watching fewer than I normally do and writing more blogs. Freedome of expression thank heavens we all have it.

Change

While out at lunch time, I couldn't help notice how my home town was changing. How it all looks different, how the people walking about are different than they would of been 20 years ago, how there is a feel, a different feel to the place. London is changing everyday but I had been so fortunate as to see relatively little change in quite a long time where I live. But now it had all crept up. Sneaked up like the slowly cooling water of a hot bath, and only when you start to discern the first shiver of your body you realise you're cold. In the same way, this change was now overpowering in my home town.

The worst thing about this was my perception of fear, fear I don't like it and my area is now changing beyond my control and understanding. I am unsettled. In an area hit by poverty it is now being made more poverty stricken. It's the thought of a new block of flats being built, at 27 stories high. It will bring low cost housing, rental, druggies, and even greater deprivation. How can such a project be given authorisation. Where a plaster is needed, instead a sythe comes swinging.

There are some very certain certainties in life, birth, death and change. When I get up in the morning I change from PJs to clothes, when handing over money for an item I usually get change, I often change my mind, whereas some people appear not to change. They provide stability in their character and then I wish they would change. The weather changes from day to day, and work will always be work. So for the things I can't change, then I suppose I have to put up, shut up or have a pint and look at the funny side. There's nothing like a happy refrain, God help me nurture this, but not to they point of hysteria.

Now whose this bloke if he exists then?

Crocs in the water

The freebie paper today had a picture of a swimming pool in Australia, and in it was the biggest crocodile I have seen. Though I don't know what the scale of the pool was, the crock was big, very big. And there I am with my mild dose of Arachnia phobia, except for the friendly ones and there's some poor Aussy wondering if it's safe to dip into his own pool. I suppose a quick dip before breakfast might very well of been a breakfast in itself.

It could be an example of mankind encroaching into a land where he should not be, a wild which should be left solely for the wild. It makes me wonder if crocks suffer from Arachnia phobia's, I doubt it. The elephant comes to mind as well. Or the stereotypical notion elephants are scared of mice. Could it be true or just some trollop made up by a mouse who had an inferiority complex when the elephant knicked his cheese. As for cheese I'm sure mice prefer biscuits, but the biscuits are kept in a jar, it would be easier for and elephant to empty the jar. I can see a trunk wrapped round our biscuit jar right now. We're fortunate all these animals don't speak the same language.

Next time I pass a pool, I'll wonder if there's a crock in it. As long as he's not eating my biscuits, chatting to the mouse and passing the peace pipe with an elephant I should be OK. Boy don't mankind just take so much for granted lol.

Johnny Cash

Woke up this morning and got up to pluck a hair from my ear. The rest of the morning I spent listening to Johnny Cash. Wondering if I were in a band and had the talent to write songs sing them and entertain people while they downed a pint or two, it would be story songs like Cash's. Ones to make people laugh, sing along to the words be happy, contemplative and enjoy the moment.

It's incredible to think Johnny has influenced people all over the world. When listening to Cocaine Blues I suddenly realised this was probably the first music track explicitly about drugs and murder. Of course in a tongue in cheek way so as not to encourage anyone to consider either one. Cash is very down to earth in his music and verse. He's song are for the people who have suffered set backs in their lives. Problems, issues, alcohol, drugs, fighting and having a laugh. Even with the occaisional inuendo. It's brilliant. Yep in a small part of the UK there's a 40 something tapping his toes to Johnny Cash now wishing he wore a stetson, rode a horse and strummed a guitar.

I'm not Johnny Cash because there can only ever be one, so it'll have to be a blog instead.

Awaiting

Sometimes when I do something, like question another person and they react towards me, I wonder if I have done something wrong. Whether there will be repercussions against me, and what they will be. Which I suppose is part of worrying when worrying is really no good at all. So it is like being in a waiting room for the dentist. I'm awaiting my appointment check up, it may be just a straight forward clean up or it could mean something else in a couple of weeks time. It's the waiting bit which plays on the mind. As I am now waiting whether my role as a Ritz man in a meet with a small fish against a big fish will lead to an accusation against me.

It's odd when stating the obvious how some big fish react. They may take offence, quite often this is because the poor little fish in the factory actually know some more. It goes on, on quite a big scale. For instance when the Chief Fish gives themselves a nice big £18 k payrise. Whilst ordinary cleaner fish who work part time may only be on an anual pay of £4k total. The higher up the chain a big fish is the bigger a head they get, the bigger a sense of their own financial worth. I wonder if they ever consider they actually become less liked by the little fish, looked on with distain and a nasty taste in the mouth.

So at this moment I am waiting to see the outcome of the meet. I know I did nothing wrong when I consdered the event in question. So I'll just have to see. I wonder if I should now contemplate a visit to the dentist, it's due. Thing is I have difficulty opening my mouth wide enough, unless I'm sticking my foot in it, and then it seems to go in quite easily.

Strained Day

It's been a stressful day. This evening I spent about 3 to 4 hours word processing events of the previous 2 days. I had a moment to see Little Monster Boy which is always very nice and a short discussion with Sparkling Eyes which was also nice.

The events arose from being the new Ritz man on the block. Helping the little Fishes in situations where the big fishes want to chastise or throw them out of the pond. Todays event even played to an extent on my own paranoia. As a result I may get a complaint about myself. Great, something to look forward to. It's true my own fears don't help if things get bad, well then I thought. I should let them and not add to the stress of it by worrying. Unfortunately worry and paranoia are traits which go along with my temperament. Perhaps I wondered I should not be a Ritz man. My mind was put at rest in part by the Ritz chair and beautiful Sparkling Eyes. She is such a comfort. I realised further when stressed the world is pereceived differently, you become more observant. And more appreciative of precious things and people. I realised smiling and nice people become a crutch and very valuable.

I suggested to Sparkling Eyes, she I and the DIY man get a trailer with a field. Grow our own vegtables, never go to work again and live of social security. The world would be somewhat different. But I'm sure some other object would rise it's little head and cause my stress, or paranoia to resurface. Oh well off to bed, at least there only the ghosts can get me, at the moment I'm so tired I don't really care if they do. Boooooooooooooo

Guinness

Just recently, I have taken a liking to Guinness, the black stuff with a creamy head. It's taken a while for me to really appreciate the taste. It's not one of those things which comes naturally, it is aquired. I used to think the best part of a pint was the second half, for some reason the top half just didn't taste so good. Then when I'd drunk the top half I'd get used to it and really enjoy the bottom half. Now I've got used to both the top and the bottom half of a glass is equally very nice. At first it just used to be on special occaisions like St Patricks day. Now I think I could drink it on any day.

I heard on the radio Guinness have now brewed a pint which rather than being black in colour is red. It's been brewed for the male pallet they said. Bitter at the front of the mouth and sweet at the back. If it gets a bit more popular wish some luck I'd give it a try. As a drink Guinness is said to be high in iron, but it's odd how it's not mentioned how it can help when you need to sit on the pan. I wont go into it too much. But a couple of pints in the evening will certainly make the difference in the morning.

Not to mention the unique nature of Guinness advertising, how they appear to break the mould. The racing snails, a man who dances to funny music, how man is frozen back to the neanderthal state when it's drunk and there's the advert where a town's aging swiming hero takes on all comers to still win his race. I hope I'm not getting the ads mixed up, but I think these ones are all from Guinness.

Well nearly over the effects of my pint and a half of the black stuff, which means I haven't got any excuse now to run naked, jump in the closest river and turn into a snail. Thing is snails don't swim. This could mean I should take it just a little lighter. Ok just the one pint next time, and I'll try and drink it slow.