Happy 2007

Today has started with sunlight. It's amazing the effect of prolonged overcast weather and how it's so depressive. But with some sun, all looks different. I think 2007 will be a good year, although I personally saw it in by going to bed. I'll have a glass of Ginger Wine in a minute and celebrate some more.

For some unknown reason I feel happy. Lets try and work it out. Getting enough vitamins - yep. Sunlight - Yep, in love with a wonderful woman - yep, found a friend who had an emergency operation after Christmas was on the mend, sitting up in his hospital bed and even radiating a warmth and happiness himself - yep (made me very happy), long lazy lie in bed - yep, but still some other unexplained factor making me feel happy. Only had one biscuit so far today - yep. Good going.

Perhaps being happy is just difficult to analyse? It can happen for no reason at all, and maybe it's best not to question it but to go with it. Of course there are things I'll need to do or hope to get round to doing for the new year. Tidy up computer room, get fitter, lose weight, tell someone i love them more than I have before. Acquire a new friend. Yes, I'd like to do work on this last point. Learn a song, write a poem, laugh with every muscle in my body, take a long walk, cook a new exciting dish or a simple dish well, have a conversation with a child and marvel at their unknown wisdom. Learn and recite in full the poem Desiderata because it's about time, suck a sweet, clap my hands, dance because I like to, and be there for those who need me. Write more and become as fully as I can the person I am. Stand back when I need to, and not be over stretched.

I found something new today is called the Gestalt Prayer, by some psychologist, it basically says you become acceptant of who you are and be acceptant of people around you. While at the same time learn not to expect anything of them, it's a pretty nice little prayer. I checked it out from Google after a serendipitous find on a BLOG. It's nice to read other peoples writings as well. For just writing because I like it would be unfair if I didn't read what others wrote as well. I mean they have put their writings there for a reason, and as long as they are in English fine. At this time of life I can't see myself learning Chinese, I have problem enough with English people who can't speak English, let alone write it. So where was I? Oh yes, 2007 is going to be a happy year, and I know it because I can feel it right now. So happy new year to all who have cast an eye over my words. And I don't mean have plucked out an eye and thrown it at them, or have just cursory checked it out, I mean have actually bothered, lol oops seems I am bothered. Happy 2007!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Christmas

I had a wonderful Christmas with Sparkling Beautiful Eyes and Rock Chick. And for some reason I have been reminded on how my hormones effect me lately. Any silly soppy thing results in my eyes welling up, I choke and even tears come. It has to be hormonal, starting maybe a year ago or more, when a repeat of E.T. was on the box. What the hell is happening to me? I have difficulty in keeping these emotions in check, it’s like old father Crimbo came down and bestowed upon the freedom to cry at anything. At which I’ve become a whimpering wreck. Even worse than an old woman – not to be sexist in anyway. So, it can be said “men have tears to” except I probably have enough for an entire rugby team. Not to mention the subs, and perhaps even the national footy team. Maybe not, because they really are a load of Jessies.

Rock Chick had a drum set for her Crimbo and about a thousand smaller presents. Although the idea of any teenager having a drum set is distressing, she does have a sparkle of talent. Unless it becomes another little fad thing picked up and put back down as a minor interest, she could be a very budding drummer. I mean it. I can see bands in Dundee seeking her out. I’ll post up a couple of extra packets of paracetemal to Sparkling Eyes. With my love, sealed in a tear of relief. Rock Chick was good though, not one morning was I woken up by a burst on the drums. Very considerate. Must be something coinciding with her 2 a.m. bedtime routine.

There’s something wonderful in going to bed with Sparkling Eyes and just having a good long cuddle. Being able to reach over and just rest a hand on her and feel comfortable, warm and loved. It’s relaxing. Also to be on demand for feet rubs, back tickles and being prodded and made fun off like a voodoo doll. Bliss. It’s chilling. Having long conversations sometimes about nothing, sometimes about the most important things in the world – other people. When I need some comfort, I’ll just think back to this Crimbo with Sparkling Eyes and small moments will return to me like morsels of food to a very hungry man. What the hell do I do about the tears? Maybe get a drum kit. Some paracetmal, and a picture of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. What more could make me happier? Hankerchief.

Booking a Ticket

An act of desperation is booking a train ticket on the internet. Although easy enough, completing the screens and following instructions at the last moment I found something amiss.

Usually I prefer speaking to a human being. For some reason it’s nice, real people are different as opposed to automatic booking lines which work through speech recognition. Computers dehumanise the customer. They can’t answer questions either. Particularly simple questions, like “what are my earlier or later trains? What’s the cheapest ticket? And “tell me the way to San Jose?” You can’t joke with a computer. They are insensitive, autistic things. Cold, and likely to make humans hot, raging hot. How much joy it would give me to see a computer bungee jump without the rope. Microsoft have a lot to answer for.

I booked the ticket but only checked it the day before travel. Just to make sure I knew the coach and seat I would have to find. Alarm bells rang. I had “NO SEAT” reserved. It actually stated on the ticket “NO SEAT.” This could mean enduring a 6 hour plus journey standing up. Because London airports were fogged in over the last few days no internal flights were being allowed to run. This meant 100,000s of people were unable to board the plane so were taking the alternative rail and road. My liking for computers the internet

In addition the Home Secretary made an announcement the UK was now more likely to have a terrorist attack during this time than during the second World War. My comfort zone of security evaporated, a booked seat was banished. Paranoia had become a bed fellow. Unfortunately she has the habit of giving a pretty close hug as well. Sparkling Eyes was going to be more than unhappy if I was not there. I would be dead and the thing is I like my life. Especially with sparkling eyes. Alive or dead, terrorists, reserved seat and computer booking line, something had my cards marked.

Ringing up the help line I spoke to an Indian lady, whose name escaped me, not only did it escape me it flew away like an albatross on an ocean journey. Neither was it going to come back, the pronunciation was foreign to my own tongue. This could only be someone in a call centre half way around the world. A short and frustrated discussion took place, this person did not understand, I wanted a reserved seat, nor could she understand I needed to know what carriage to get on, her reply several times was “there are unreserved seats on all trains.” When I asked her about Heathrow and whether there would be more trains running, the sense I was speaking Swahili to her passed my mind. No this was the UK and I was born in a London Hospital.

The morning came and the train tested how fast I could run, it tested 200 people, we ran like crazed rabbits on LSD, seeing multiple greyhounds chase after our fluffy white tails. I got a seat. Learnt to dance, starved myself of lunch except for a packet of cashew nuts. Had a conversation with an elderly lady, learnt to speak Japanese and then woke up. The hours passed, I then got on a pc and wrote this BLOG. As for fantasies of bungee jumping pc’s now that would be a good way to put Microsoft out of action. But not just yet I’d settle for bungee-jumping-factory-hen-call-centre-not-good-english-speaker to go for a little long-high-drop no garantees of the bungee rope, of course also made in the same continent.

Westminster Abbey and Cathedral

Today I went with some friends to see Westminster Abbey and Westminster Cathedral. One was built for protestants the other for Catholics. As a protestant Church of England not much of a goer, my view is obviously biased to Westminster Abbey. However, the Abbey is more expensive to get into, I was shafted for £10 quid before I'd even had a whiff of some incense. And to tell the truth there wasn't any incense burning either. However, I consoled myself the money I paid was going on the heating, it was blooming cold outside. The ceiling were incredibly high about 4 or 5 double decker buses high or maybe even higher. But it sure is a beautiful church. Except for all the kings and queens. Too many of them and they weren't burried in the floor so you didn't get the satisfaction of walking over them.

I found the story of poor old Oliver Cromwell interesting, and couldn't help wondering if he was one of the first real communists of this world. It saddened me to find he had been buried in the church for only 3 years and then they dug up his rotted carcass and hung it. It was a belated revenge for what he did. Personally, I'd just like the idea of getting rid of the monarchy so much, it's one of those things I will hold with me all my life, and I'm not a commy. If I could go back in time, I'd be fighting for Cromwell and I'd probably give him some advised to kill off all the remaining Kings and Queens and royal lineage. Make the country a republic. It's just obscene how royalty should own so much of the country, take so much of our taxes and not have the hard graft of life like the average Joe in the street. I'd see the queen go and collect her pension from the post office, then for her to pick up the crap from one of her own corgis and later balance her own bank account to see if she's got enough money to pay her winter gas bill. It's a chip on my shoulder, a big one. One so big sometimes I fall over, can't get through doorways or have to spew forth a torrent of abuse at any royal figure of speach. You'll never see a royal cued on an NHS waiting list that's for sure.

As for Catholics, I must admit I do have some catholic friends, but I've never liked the way the Catholic religion sees itself above other religions. To an extent the same thing is happening now in Iraq with the Muslim Sunni and Shia branches, each killing the other. If Jesus Christ ever conceived religion would be one of the causes of the worlds deaths, he'd of probably gone back to his old man and said, "dad I've had enough of that, give us a bit of wood, I think I'll stick to making cupboards." We all need a good carpenter, very useful, much more useful than a sitting on thrown useless piece of flesh called a monarch. The other side to it is monarchs can not be Catholics even today because of some Act in 1701. Now here's an idea lets abolish both at the same time. Ship them all over to America. It's about time we shipped some of our crap over there, because after all lets face it Blair does an overwhelmingly good Bitch to Bush Act. Whatever Bush says Blair does. He's jumped through so many hoops for Bush he's become pretty good at it. We all see it now. Anyone in the UK I mean. Blair will go out with nearly as much distaste as Evil Maggie Thatcher did. Except Blair's downfall was the big Con of the UK, suckeringg us into Bush's War. Bloody soap box, I'll fall through it if I keep going on.

So if you fancy somewhere warm in London during the cold weather, check out Westminster Abbey except for the cost. Now what I wonder is, if there's no God can I go back and get a refund?

Irish Coffee

It's said patience is a virtue, something quite necessary when trying to understand a teenager, understanding any minute facet of the universe and lastly in making an Irish Coffee.

I had this hankering like an itch on my back I haven't been able to scratch. I been reaching round, contorting my arm and hand in all sorts of positions but just have not been able to scratch it. This notion is making my own Irish Coffee. The weather is cold, Christmas is round the corner like a lynx cat about to pounce on it's prey and here I am standing in the snow, wind chill factor of minus 30 with a grocery bag full of ingredients to the perfect winter warmer. Besides of course a hot woman, for now it's an Irish Coffee. Except I hadn't bought real Irish Whiskey, but I thought well it's not really going to matter if it's really Irish or not. Oh and the cream was single, not the thicker double.

The attempt failed, but it didn't stop me from trying. I just could not get the cream to float on top. It was worse than the titanic. Immediately it touched the top it sank down like it had it's very own escalator to the bottom of the glass. But it tasted nice. Well nice ish. To the extent I don't have the real satisfaction of saying I have succeeded in making a true Irish Coffee. Just the second class version. So now I've done a little research and have a few tips to apply next time. Use whipped cream, or cream with a lot of fluffy texture to it, make sure the spoon is hot and of course there must be sugar in the coffee. Like Thomas Edision who believed every mistake he made brought him one step closer to success. So it will be with my Irish Coffee.

Even now I can see the coffee in my mind and what it should look like. Hot, sweet floading on top with cream, and a very nice taste. I wonder if it was the reason for the titanic sinking, the engineers just didn't factor in the Irish Coffee effect. Because all these attempts are going to have one guaranteed effect on me, an expansion of my girth. Memo to self, if this becomes an obsession I had better do some more clothes shopping.

Noise

One thing frustrates me when I am at work or trying to concentrate on something at all, is noise. People chattering inanely about subjects, as close as you can get to watching paint dry. In the meantime having no consideration to those around them who may not want to listen and get on with work. Namely me. Perhaps I have a sensitivity to it, just something I've been unfortunately cursed with, how can I lift the curse I ask myself.

I try everything possible to make it obvious, stick my fingers in ears while sitting at desk trying to read the monitor. But the talkers don't seem to notice this, it's like they not only don't give a damn about their verbal diarrhea but also they've gone blind, as well as autistic. I go to the shops and get a frequent supply of ear plugs. Bright orange foam things they are, and in the worse moments I get my ear plugs in, roll them up squeeze them and stuff them in my ears. As the foam expands they filter out some of the din. But it's like the human voice is processed too well by the brain, because I still hear them. I can't get the voices out of my head. They're not in my head, they're in the mouths and the heads of those around me who can't shut up. How they could all do with a Willy Wonker everlasting Gobbstopper methinks.

So people sitting around me dictate how much work I do. My in tray gets bigger. I get more stressed, and they carry on chatting. I could go absolutely crazy.

More and more I notice how noise impinges on my senses. Just getting up in the morning and going to work, the noise of cars, busses, trains, people talking loudly on their mobile phones, youths with music on the mobiles playing enough to be annoying because you just can't work out what the music is. Sometimes when they do this I may loudly hum along to their music, so they might feel uncool. And of course the banal conversation of people who have nothing better to do but moan about the price of bread. At times like this I could take out my mobile phone and talk loudly, swear, or talk as though I have something important they might be interested in, for example the price of flour makes the price of bread go up but I'm a chemical engineer and we've found substitute flour works just as well. But unfortunately let it out trials of the substitute flour tested on volunteers have made them run round naked and think they were DoDo birds. Just make up any story, as long as I'm talking loud and drown out their inane chatter. And of course I'm talking to no one, but they are not to know.

Noise pollution is something no one can get away from. It is forced upon us, there is no shutter like an eyelid to pull down and keep it out. The only time it goes away is when asleep or in a quiet place, preferably with few people.

So next week I am going to have a party for one. Sit at my desk, sing to myself, chat to myself quite loudly and openly and answer myself. Shout, cry, ball, laugh uncontrollably act in a strange and unormal fashion. And with a little luck, I just might make those people around think I am mad or possibly dangerous to the extent they shut up. Thing is, the men in white coats will come along and drag me off, not because I'm disturbing the peace because there never is any peace but most likely because whatever one sided conversation I'm having is more interesting than those 2 or more people have. Or just maybe they'll find a nice quite room for me.

Catcher in the Rye

For some reason classic literary style books catch my attention. Because if the world says they are a classic then there must be some reason. Something about the author's style, the vocabulary, the story, or even possibly the construction of the English language in words. Although it would seem English is not the world's most spoken language, it just happens to have the most literary sources at this moment. A 100 billion Chinese people will shortly do something about it, mark my words. So for now my choice of classic book is Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, it's American English, not English English.

I am finding it a struggle to read. The story is based in the first person perspective of an egocentric teenage boy (Holden Caulfield). He comes from a middle to upper class american family, who finds life full of phonies. No body is real. They try to be something they are not and Holden sees this all the time. He's lazy at school and lazy at life, drinking, being a teenage kid and thinking he is talking through the eyes of an old and wizened man. Holden sees himself as a non conformist, he doesn't apply himself because then he would be part of the very rat race he despises. He'll go to a phoney club and drink and watch the phoney entertainment or listen to dumb girls. They don't get him and he don't get them, he's a virgin. Saying he's a virgin probably sums it up. Background to Holden's life has him fighting against the expectations from others, because he doesn't apply himself. It's only in the first chapter's the reader gets to see an interaction with a old teacher.

The story seems to be based over a short period between Holden being kicked out of his school and wasting time before he goes back home. Then to face the music. Important figures in Holden's existence are his kid sister Phoebe and his dead younger brother Allie. There are issues of grief Holden hasn't yet come to terms with, and this could be the reason for his self depreciating behaviour. The book skips along from one character to another, like character's once used are shallow items which can be disregarded given Holden has chewed them up and spat them out. In of course, a very cynical manner. The book is indeed about the world of Holden Caulfield, what thoughts go round in his mind. To the point Holden is the Book.

The style is so convincing at times, it is like reading a spoilt brat's diary on life, to the point of nearly putting it down and never reading another page. This is why it's taken months for me to read and I still haven't finished. The plus is each chapter is relatively short, so it allows a lagger to put it down and pick it up quite easily. And then once read I can add this to collection of classics I can say I have read. Unfortunately with any book, I believe you have to read them more than once to understand and fully get what the words say.

The notoriety of this book comes from several sources. When first published it was banned in America. It's difficult to see the reasons why at this time. The decision must of been linked to politics at that time (serialized 1945/46, published 1951). It's author J.D. Salinger is renown for and the deranged man who killed John Lennon that is Mark Chapman. He had asked Lennon to sign his copy. Check the link above for an excellent in depth further analysis.

We are all egocentric to an extent. Except for chickens. Or is that just something someone once said.

Does anyone read this?

I got reminded by Beautiful Sparkling Eyes to write a blog. Having a short break from the keyboard could easily turned into something much longer. Also I was away for a week in the most wonderful company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. Which reminds me I must never get into any kind of argument with either, I plainly end up lost, battered like a Cod about to go in a fryer or so utterly confused any point of an argument has evaporated like a river running through the Sahara Desert.

Of course there is the other thought? Does anyone actually read this? Am I writing into the ether, a large vacuous Black Hole of blogs taking everything drawn into it. By accident viewers load a page up on their browser enough for the little counter to click over and then scooter off faster than a rabied dog from water, a flea on the carcass of Tukenharmen or an elevator being evacuated after one of the occupants has done a "silent-but-violent" airing? Sparkling Eyes checks them out, the blogs that is not the elevators, thank you darling, my audience of one a kiss for you.

So tomorrow I'll take a mental picture of any small incident happening, to will write something. And tomorrow is the first day of December 2006. Another memo to myself, even atheistic teenage girls believe in Christmas, I really can be stupid (shakes head) and this memo is important because if I don't take heed to it, I been told I'll get battered. Great, again. Wonder if Father Christmas can send me a suit of bubble wrap it should make it pass a little gentler.

Big Fish at the factory

I have found in chatting to the big fish they are no different from other fish who have their sardines below them. One higher level of big fish can be quite similar to one middle level. With their limited vision and opinions. This could mean I'm actually a little Sprat. LOL funny. Truth is in a little pond with big fish the personalities of the big fish are in fact no different from the personalities of other fish before them.

Because big fish are so big they don't know what life is like for the little fishes of the world. This happens even if at one time the Big fish used to be a little one themselves. Then they have nostalgia of how life used to be for them as a little fish. But of course relating this nostalgia to events today, becomes spurious, hey BIG FISH, THE WORLD CHANGES!!! Big fishes are prone not to see what is under their noses. Which could mean they have pretty big noses, to go with their pretty big egos, pretty big salaries and pretty little real work they do. Now I can hear a big fish somewhere swinging his tail out of the water in protestation of saying something like "pretty little real work they do," being steamed up and taking umbridge to it. However, put it like this, when a little fish leaves the pond, the immediate effects are more profound than any sudden disappearance of a Biggy. It's like removing one sardine from a tin. Because they are so tightly packed suddenly the tin becomes roomy. The tin gets moved about from shelf to shelf then all the other sardines inside start to disintegrate. The very presence of a tin of sardines which has one sardine missing is anathema. Although I speak litureatively this is all very true of a pond.

Big fish because of their size, go about slowly but sometimes they can get heated up over things, especially if the sardines don't do something in the way they expected it to be done, or if the sardines have quite valid contrary points to make. Big fish don't like being wrong. They have a problem admitting it, it's an affront to their ego, being quite egocentric, and they may end up taking incredibly large gulps of the pond so as to eat up the little fishes and shit them out. The poor little fishes can go manic at this point, swimming about like headless chickens, if they knew what a chicken is, and try jumping into other ponds. Some successfully do, others just get sick and of course a number remain.

So it is with good reason in any pond like place, democracy does not hold water. When the little fishes either die off or can get to jump to other ponds, the big fish would be left on their own. They wouldn't have any little fishes to boss about, and because all the fish were big their own petty squabbles would spill over, but of course this would never happened because there are always many millions more little fishes than big fishes of this world. But note this, take the big fish out of their pond and drop them in another, miraculously they shrink down to nothing. An ego with no place to go, sardines can swim around them and see the big fish is nothing but air, they may chose not to give them the time, look at the previously big fish with disdain and see them for what they are. It's unfortunate some big fish will never hold respect by other fishes when out of their own pond, but then maybe they get what they reap. Now where did I put the olive oil?

P.S. some little fish don't like being eaten up, they're called Piranahs.

Autumn Sun

Today I met up with Green Car man and went to Greenwich. It was beautiful, the sun had decided to come out in one of those few days which autumn allows. It was as though to say a final goodbye for winter is imminent. Sunlight is a source of vitamin E, I think? So it's important to get it while it's here. Before the depression of long nights descend. The day was so clear looking down from Greenwich over the City of London. Even St Pauls Cathedral could be discerned. The City had spouted forth the first tall building developed by Olympia and Yorke who had gone bust, because of finance, it reaches 44 floors. Nothing in comparison to the sky scrapers of New York, but for London it is a travesty. The sky line is now changing dramatically. The beauty of old London becomes gradually dominated by what Prince Charles would call Carbuncles. However, looking down on the Maritine Museum and the old Naval college is wonderful.

We chilled out walking around Greenwich Market, and I bought some baklava, hmmmm delicious. Coffee and a small red change wallet, which I am sure will later be appropriated next time I see Sparkling Eyes. But I really wont mind. There was too many people about, but they all had the same idea of getting out to enjoy the day. I wanted to check out for some more American car number plates but couldn't find any on the stalls. Regardless, I'd rather be out on the last blessed days of autumn then stuck indoors.

I've got a thing for the Autumn Sun and the effect it has on trees, or rather I mean the light. It's the way it backlights the greens, browns and yellows. Not forgetting leisurely walking through fallen leaves. Crumpling below foot, and being tossed up and to the side with each step, they make a fluttering light sound. If only I had a camera in my head and could take these photographs and download them. Then maybe they could clutter out all the things I don't need. I could sit at a desk and work while simultaneously having my very own slide show. Autumn, I thank you.

Pumpkin Jack

In the run up towards Halloween children become excited. Further adults become excited to, they prepare the ground work for children. Making Witches hats, scary costumes and often carving pumpkins. Personally I like a little pumpkin pie once in a while and for me this is probably the best time to eat it. Or is it the idea of telling ghost stories, with a lamp light, a torch, a candle, a puppy dog's tail and a cat nearby. Because of course cats are said to have magical powers, others may think it's not true. But it is. And they do. Not magic as in the spooky uncanny kind. Perhaps in long inherent blood line, or their patience. Just as it is known to those in the know, pumpkins are not of this natural world.

Rubbish. If so, how come there is no other squash like a pumpkin? None as large or as orange in colour, non which grows in quite the same way. Fact pumpkins grow in 6 out of 7 continents, and one other continent kept out of the fact books. In the last 3000 years pumpkins were eaten to celebrate the ending of the summer, and the beginning of the winter. Or rather season of the night of the dead. It seems odd a pumpkin should be the victim of human hunger. When previously it was humans who were the victims of pumpkin hunger.

For it is said pumpkins were never orange in colour to start with, they were albino, but through thousands of years of growing in the fields of the dead their roots sapped the rotting seeped soil from bodies on top. In the time when sacrifice was common to appease the Nights of the dead. Ironic, such tribes of people would chose an innocent from amongst them and give this person up to the dead. Families did it willingly, because they didn't want to anger the Night. In choosing it would be a member who had caused them the most trouble, a sarcastic child, one who was stubborn or talked back. This in turn would keep all the other children of the tribe quite for the winter months. Before Father Christmas was invented, and the notion of blackmailing kids to be good had caught on. They used the reality of the Night of the Dead. So to return Pumpkins are orange because of the stained bloodied soil from which they came and had drunk. So it's a shame in some sense many people don't eat them as a kind of divine retribution.

I heard of 2 young girls once in a house not so far from a major river up North who considered a pumpkin as a light things to joke about. It had a candle in it and was christened Jack. Unfortunately, a combination of events can do something quite bizarre to pumpkins even in the 20th century where beliefs are few between. One even recently was the movement of the earth through the residual tail of Hailey's comet. This happened only 2 days ago. Shooting stars appear in the atmosphere, these are very tiny minuscule particles, when they burn up they look bright and awesome. However, being of extra terrestrial origin they have content which can awaken the most dormant of genes. One speckle has only to touch the skin of a man and he will never be the same again. More than one and he may never be seen again, being transformed, and pulled through interdimensional time to when the night of the dead was very real. Because these speckles of space dust, are thousands of years old. Their qualities excite and change ordinary everyday objects into what they really were like, those thousands of years ago.

The pumpkin played with and toyed with, giggle at and the but of many childish jokes, called Jack had been touched. Unbeknown by these unlucky and very unfortunate teenage girls. To them the world of soft cuddly toys, mums who made pasta and chocolate on tap would change over night. Pumpkin Jack was now in a state of change born again to his old self.

As the night wore on, Pumpkin Jack metamorphosed. It was not the little changes which matter, in his case it was the big changes. Ones which couldn't be missed no matter who you were. Long slender tentacles developed long enough to be legs. Slightly shorter ones as arms. With this came mobility. His arms and legs moved around as though they were quite natural. Because they were, 3000 years ago! When fresh red dark blood was drunk from the ground he grew in. He knew this, and as his genes had now awakened Pumpkin Jack, felt the hunger. Except no tribe was there to supply him with an obnoxious teenage child. This time he'd have to look for himself. And not so far away upstairs slept 2 such girls. He could tell, they had a kind of sweet smell to them. Nice and juicy, his roots would suck away their blood while they slept. He would become stronger and go on to find the rest of this night's menu.

Asleep in a dream world was Teenage Rock Chick and her friend Emily oblivious to their visitor. With ease Pumpkin Jack stealthily climbed the stairs. He pushed open the door and his head turned the corner. He still had his candle burning inside his head, and upon the walls caste a shadow of pointed teeth. He ran his tendril over the quilts as the girls slept. He reached up towards the face of one. And he could feel her breath over his slim rooted fingers. Slowly his string like hand reached down under and around her neck, it began to close. He knew if he constricted to slowly she would feel him. So quickly he tightened his grip. Rock Chick awoke and stared up. Fear in her eyes, trying to gasp and to shout but she could not. A whimper barely let lose. She fort with her hands pulling hard at his vines, struggling to tear him away. Emily began to stir, Jack was not quick enough and she let out a small scream before he had his second vined hand around her throat as well. His grip tightend, though weak because of his recent birth, he held on. The two girls struggled for their life as breath weeped away from their lungs. Their faces turning red, they struggled hard but it was not enough.

In the next room on a bed slept a black and white cat. His ears had popped up, alert. He let out a meow loud enough to wake the neighbours, but it wasn't for the sake of the neighbours for inbred within the make up of cats is a virus which kills rampant pumpkin carnivores. This lion with curiosity pounced into Rock Chick's room, behind him Beautiful Sparkling Eyes had awoken, she was alert and for some reason sensed all was not well. The small scream had penetrated her sleep, she began to hear the sound of thrashing arms as the girls fought. Sparkling eyes would take on anything in her way. The noise of two teenage girls fighting for their lives was clear, not shouting but clawing, punching and pounding at Pumpkin Jack. They hit with all their strength, but being weakened with breath they were become less and less effective.

The door sprang open. Fearlessly the cat clawed at a tendroned limb of Pumpkin Jack, cats enjoy such games. His claws stuck deep. Sparkling eyes jumped on the orange headed monster. It collapsed on the bed and as it did so his head turned around. Like a horror movie it turned to where it's back would be. The candle flickered at Sparkling Eyes. She took a breath and blew hard. The light went out. This cat like all cats, harboured in his make up a virus. Only known to exist 3000 years ago. Now it became active. The a cat's scratch infected green blooded Pumpkin Jack. He became weaker, as he had not had his chance to feed from the girls blood. Sparkling eyes threw a fist at the pumpkin head of Jack. It took flight and hit the wall rolling on the floor. It was heavy, but so is the might of a woman protecting her child. Jack’s body soon withered, becoming no more than a dusty green layer. In turn this layer disappeared and no evidence was left.

Just the hollowed out head of Jack. So next time girls you decide to make fun of a pumpkin think twice. You'll not be warned again.


Happy Halloweeennnnnnnnn

Pick the best bits and harvest them inside

Beautiful Sparkling Eyes sent me a text message, I've been reprimanded for not communicating so am in trouble. Sorry, been extraordinarily busy today.

After have a conversation with the chair of a the butchers he told me how, the boss had been pocketting monies which should of gone on the shop. Monies which meant the shop was a bit dilapidated. The butchers had also been losing customers as well. Because the boss had been spending his time in the papershop. Although he was paid by the butchers for his own reason the boss preferred the papershop.

However, a man from the independent butchers association is looking into things and the boss is probably committing something close to fraud, except there were no formal rules on what the boss should be doing with the monies. Except some kind of unspoken agreement half he could pocket and the rest were meant for the shop. This boss however was greedy, it all went in his pocket. To top it off, he'd decided to go off on long term butcher's leave. Perhaps not to come back again. Unfortunately the gravy boat is still running and he's probably financially a very happy man.

A day in the factory was like a day climbing a sand dune, each step I moved upwards my foot, ankle and leg sank in, I then found myself slipping backwards and down. Very literally nothing got done.

Lunch turned out a fiasco, I walked into 3 seperate cafes and walked out again. The first was a Chinese, I sat down began to look through the menu then a lady came up to me and said she had been sitting there. She'd given her order and had popped back from the loo. In the second cafe, I sat down and looked through the menu, no waitress about. Five minutes later she turns up, walks past me and goes and serves someone else when I'd sat right at the front as well. Lastly in the third shop, I entered, no body was behind the counter. A TV was on with Bargain Hunt. I waited no one turned up, I walked out. Unfortunately lunch was pie and chips, though I expect the pie and chips didn't mind as much as me.

It's been a busy day, but I did see something wonderful. As I began the morning, I could see autumn descend. Tree leaves were falling and those on the trees were multiple shades between green and yellow, a beautiful cascade of colours to the eye. In a short while the trees will be bare. But for this one captured image throughout the whole day, it may have been uneventful and busy. But then it couldn't really be so uneventful if I'd been chastised by beautiful Sparkling Eyes, I smile inside. Indeed another wonder to my day.

Finding Time

Odd how time goes by, or rather how it's used and then passes. For instance staying indoors on a Sunday, watching the box for hours on end, playing internet games and all the while saying to myself I will fit gym in later. Later comes, but gym or that little walk, or cutting the overgrown prickly bush at the front of the house do not happen. The day passes with a wisp of sadness as procrastination and the can't-be-bothered effect kick in.

The alternative is having lots of things arranged at a time and something very important comes along, but because it's short notice it can't be fitted in. Things like this can tear me up. Especially when it's one of the highest things on my list of important things. Very high. If I'd of had enough notice I might of been able to shuffle about, make arrangements, fit the most important in, but I can't. No time to put plan B into action, plan A has too many people relying on me and saying "hey Buddy you're already committed to slicing the bread!" The breads waiting and the knife is ready, I got to turn up, like it or not.

So I get torn up inside, hurt even, on the verge of tears because I can't see Beautiful Sparkling Eyes and I need to. It's a bit like worrying over something you can't stop yourself worrying about even though you know it's no good. I know Sparkling eyes will be disappointed, and knowing this hurts me again. So now I have 2 lots of hurting. I want to shrug it off like it's a layer of rain clinging to my coat, but it don't roll of so easily. The beautiful smile on her face, and the look of those so wonderful eyes, I'm not going to see just yet. Not in person. But if I think really hard enough I can see it now. First contact after a long time opening the car door, and looking over to the smiling, warm, happy and mischievous Sparkling Eyes. I just want to tell her how beautiful she looks. Kiss her on the cheek and tell her I love her. I calm while Teenage Rock Chick throws a verbal joust my direction. Keeping as best I can my tongue still, bite it hard though I do like the odd joust but in a car with Sparkling Eyes at the wheel I get told off. It's all playful fun a missing each other hello. Light, cheery and significant because right now my tears tell me so.

The thing with time is making sure it doesn't pass without memories. And what better than memories of important people. Saying hello, being happy in their company even if I happen at time to be the butt their jokes, it's all in fun. I care with fondness, as I step back and recall; for instance being made to laugh so hard in the kitchen while swallowing a drink it shot out of my nose; being duped into eating half a dozen anchovies when I thought it was just one and even told once I'd got man boobs. Though I really am trying to get rid of them, hopefully I'll lose the training bra next week.

Rushing about

Had to hit the factory this morning, a Saturday of all days, but if they want to pay extra for putting sardines in tins, who am I to argue, though some of those little nippers can get a bit slippery.

So rushed to the train station, thinking of Sparkling Eyes and hoping she was feeling better. But found my self short of time because the train was due in. Went to the ticket machine and some woman had just walked in front of me to get there first. Went to the counter service and some silly arse was taking their time with the teller. At this moment I hear the train come rumbling in. Now what do I do? If I don't get on it, the next will be 30 minutes and I'll be late. A guard at the barrier lets me through without a ticket, good. On the train now, no ticket thinking I could get caught fare dodging, fined and held up. An idea comes to me. Get off the next station and walk. I know the next station is hardly ever manned, should be no problem because my stop is after and it's a shortish walk. The train rumbles through the station. Great! Now am thinking how can I dodge this fare or get past without getting nicked? It shouldn't be a problem I tell myself, because there's been building work at the station and the side gate has been open for builders. Well, get off the train, the side gate is closed. Oh dear, not looking good. Last possibility I consider. The barriers might be open after all it's early Saturday morning and a number of mornings I've had a ticket and they have been open and wasted paying for a ticket in my mind. Climb up the stairs to the barrier and it's closed. Bollocks!! The quick thought of jumping over the barrier occurred to me, but I need to be a bit fitter and could of been caught on CCTV. I go to the gate and call over to the inspector. Tell him my plight and with a relief he just told me to buy a ticket from the teller there, which I did and handed directly back to him.

This probably means I am not cut out for a criminal background, with a guilty conscience and perhaps plans doomed to failure. Alternatively, being of nefarious mind I might consider this an opportunity rather than a problem and think of a better way to get past when I don't get the chance to pay for a ticket.

Yes got it. Simple put on a Burkha wear all black jump over the barrier and mingle with the nearest group of Burkha wearers. Pretend I'm nuts, ask the inspector the way to San Jose, and tell him about the thoughts in my head to kill every free running chicken I happen to see. No maybe not. Got it. If it's a bloke tell him there's a woman on the platform acting funny, maybe this will distract him. Nope. Get the next train back down the line and walk. Wait to see if the builders will open the gate. Tell the inspector I have a genetic disposition which makes me look like I am 40 years old but I'm really only 4 years old so don't have to pay the fare. Oh yes the solution. Buy a ticket, I'm sure it will work every time.

Que for a Sub

I decided on a sub for lunch. This is a kind of long roll 6 or 12 inches, which is then filled with lovely fresh salad and/or meats etc. While in the que a girl in front began to sing along to a song being played over the speakers. I didn't know the song, and part of me was thinking how dare she do that. Because why on earth should the world be inflicted with the talentless vocal chords of people who thought they were pop stars.

It always occurs to me, where can you run or hide if someone is singing? Simply you can't. There is no strategy of avoiding a fake pop star, or should I say pop start. Eventually the song stopped and this person could no longer sing along to a song she obviously liked, and didn't know or perhaps like the next one.

However, (big smile) the following song was one by Lilly Allen, who at this time I'm fond of, so I begin to sing in my own way, humming, mumbling along, as I do. Oh yes, I was noticed, the girl turned to see who brought forth such beautiful eloquent NOISE, because I don't know the words and can only just about chip in with some of the chorus, but it was retribution. If you out there fancy-yourself-talentless-pop-stars and think you can sing, I'm going to think I can sing to, and I tell you what, my vocal chords are even worse!

So it's about time every Tom, Dick and Harry who walks down the street and has to put up with the noise from teenage wanabees, or religeous freeks who believe Jesus walks with them while they hold the bible, step forward. Yes, throw your head up high, breath deep, and belt it out, loud, proud and for fuck sake make them wish they had ear plugs.

An Exciting adventure for Sparkling Eyes

I have been told by Sparkling Eyes not to refer to her as Cake. Also I have been told my life is boring and hers is not. To demonstrate I was sent a text along the lines of Tony Blair going to St Andrews tomorrow, the Anti war movement has got a demonstration up and I'm going. Further Sparkling Eyes, told me she might get arrested. And again her life was more interesting than mine and she should do her own BLOG. Of course the first words of greeting I had were not "hello, how are you?" but "hello you dirty bastard," of course she had reason which I will not go into. I asked if Sparkling Eyes would be taking Rock Chick Teenage Girl, no she wouldn't.

I could give the story of the time Sparkling Eyes hosed down the remains from an overflowing broken sewage pipe, with a high pressure hose. Or How Sparkling Eyes went to the Glen Eagles conference and saw first hand the clashes of protesters against police and how she is helping the community with the building of a community centre in the neighborhood. But perhaps one of the stories I heard and liked was when she walked into a pub with her friend and a band was on stage, one of the members made a derogagory remark over the mike as they walked in. It may have taken a couple of hours but Sparkling Eyes manourvered herself to a close enough point she could kick the man in the ankle and not be noticed. Though I am sure he would of felt it, and if Sparkling Eyes was feeling unkind he'd of probably been unable to walk for a week or two.

Perhaps in comparison my BLOGS are a little bland. But sometimes a little calm is a good thing, like the old saying goes "still waters run deep" which is more aliking to my own disposition. So the moto is, be passionate about life but be very careful with high pressure hoses.

Little Monster Tears

This evening I left Little Monster Boy in tears, I am ashamed of myself. It was all a matter of going to bed. Silly Sophia was trying to get him into a routine, but try was the word. 'He was persistent in finding his way back downstairs from his bedroom' she'd say, or he'd stay up all night and end up falling to sleep in school. This was not a good situation to be in for a growing monster. Though with family life unsettled this behaviour may even be considered normal in the circumstances. So tonight I had a go at putting Little Monster Boy to bed and learnt the meaning of bedtime battles.

I asked him at least a thousand times to put his PJs on, I rationalized the importance of getting a good nights sleep, it was necessary to grow I stated. I even argued when Little Monster Boy goes to school he needs to be fresh and bright to learn things. At which point his reply was "I know one add one is two," it wasn't quite what I had in mind. He deviated the conversation, told me he wasn't listening, avoided eye contact whenever I spoke of bed or PJs, continued playing with his toys, spoke out loud about nonsense things, and re wrote the entire book for nearly 6 years olds on how to procrastinate going to bed.

This led to action. I took him upstairs on 4 occasions, carrying him on two and gently dropped Little Monster on bed. Unfortunately it was also time for me to go, but I'd already given him a kiss and said "Good night." Just as I was leaving Silly Sophia told me the Monster would be up in 5 minutes after I left. I thought ok, I'll go out side and then count to ten and knock on the door again. At which point she would say to Monster Boy, Crazyfridayman was here. The door closed. I stood there counting, and heard speaking behind the door. It opened. Little Monster Boy had opened it and he had tears in his eyes and on his cheeks rolling down. He was so very sad about having to go to bed. But he also wanted to say goodnight and hug me. I held him, told him I loved him and it was very important to get sleep. With one finger I touched a tear on his cheek then smeared it away. He played with the arm of my glasses. Then I left.

The emotion of children is there for all to see, they are in this sense an open book and have difficulty in hiding both happiness and sadness, but that's one of the most wonderful things to love them for. Now if only we were all open books perhaps the world would be better. However, mostly speaking Little Monsters are open books, but were all Big Monsters there wouldn't be much space in the world to house us, being that there is so little land and so much sea. It was then it occurred to me. The seas were so big, because many people had shed tears throughout their life.

Hey I got a life vest with my name on it, and have the name of a man who can get them whole sale, ring me on ............

Smarties

Sometimes nothing happens, other days lots of things happen, so many it could be called a smarty day. Each different colour an item, each little chocolate something to dwell on. Other days the smarty box is empty and the day seems a complete and utter bore, it somehow passes by, bed followed by sleep and a new day.

In democratic society we have the freedom to chose whatever smarty we want, we can talk about them, eat them and even think about them. We may share those thoughts with others or keep them to ourselves. But of all things, the thoughts which go through your mind are your own. Further which can be an ass is they may even be difficult to control. For example someone says "don't think of the colour red" and you think of it. But it doesn't mean you want to be red, live life in red, taste red, throw a party in red or swim in the red sea with your mouth open. Thinking about something is not the same as doing it. Nor is writing about it. But it is your freedom to do this. When someone says "I didn't like it because you thought of red" what can you say? There is no answer because how can you stop your thoughts? They are not censored, held at ransom or stood up before a wall to be shot at dawn. Democratic society allows freedom to think as well. To the extent it even allows extremists or moderates or indifference to think of any colour they like. To tell someone they should stop is not going to happen. Because thoughts are free things. Like the random fluttering of a butterfly on a hot day, being tumbled around by gentle breezes. The thoughts don't matter it's the realities which do. So perhaps it's sad some people chastise us for our thoughts, yet if we were to say what are your inner thoughts, tell me. They may not say a thing, it's their privilege.

Oh I dropped my smarties on the table there for all to see, they are multicoloured and I'm sure some people don't like the red ones. If they tell me fine, but if get upset about it then consider this, "let your own thoughts be critiqued and how would you feel?"

Maybe I should take my smarties, eat them in a quite cupboard where no one can see me, hear me or have any notion of what my favourite colours are, of course I'm only going to know when I turn the light on, and then it's not a matter of thinking about them but rather eating them. Coz thinking about a smarty is definitely not the same as eating a smarty.

Battle for Cable Street

Had the day off. No factory, just me and an appointment with the hair dresser a little walk away, which I needed because of my lack of exercise. A youngish Turkish bloke, who even put a hot towel round my face. Perhaps he thought it would change my appearance, but when he removed it, I was the same. Seems like plastic surgery is still going to be on the wish list. However, to make up for it he gelled my hair. I was then a handsome hunk but looking decidedly thin on top. But with hair. Not bald, but maybe a little thinner, yet still nearly handsome. I enjoyed the experience to say the least for the end result. I'll just have to wear my hat the next week or so, even indoors.

I met a friend on my way to the hair dressers and found myself passing time chatting. It must of been all of an hour later I pealed myself off and managed a walk to the hair dressers. His mother had cancer. She was in hospital and now it was only a matter of time. She had seen specialists in Harley Street and done everything to no avail. It seemed genetic because her two sisters had died of it as well and they were younger. I felt sorry for my friend, especially his daughter who I know was practically bought up by his mum. He also complained about his knee and getting old. Fortunately at this moment my hair wasn't shorter so I looked ok otherwise I'd of made my hair complaint. At least we both had our life.

The news today had an item about Cable Street, it had been 70 years since Mosley and his fascist black shirts had been prevented from having demonstrating down this road. It's an area in the East End of London at the time had a significant Jewish population. Mosley wanted to walk with his followers down this street and through the Jewish areas after his crowd had heard support from Hitler. The authorities proved to be an ass. They allowed the demonstration to go ahead, even though a 100,000 petition had been presented to the Secretary of State. The people of the East End, Jews and Communists decided it was not going to happen. I saw an interview on TV take place and an old man who was there. He said they had a young medical student passing messages to the Communists from the authorities, telling them what the police intended to do. This insider knowledge was pretty valuable I suspect. So Mosley had 5,000 blackshirts begin to walk, they were minded by 10,000 police officers. But Cable Street residents and anti fascist supporters numbered 350,000 needless to say the event did not take place. The man interviewed said police offices just gave up trying to get through the baraccaded road. Residents were throwing the effects of their chamber pots out of windows down on them. It must of been awful. Not something to go home to the Mrs to and ask for a good snog and a hug because work had been stressful. Poor police officers. A bloody nose was given to the fascists in central London from which they would not recover. I can't understand why the Secretary of State would allow the march to take place, this was 1936, when fascism and Nazism was a real threat to Europe (Spanish civil war). Politicians can be such asses.



I realised one thing fascists no doubt dislike nearly as much as minority groups, had got to be ice cream. Because there is no such thing as a black ice cream and white ice cream on a black shirt just wouldn't have the same image as all in black does. Oh yes, not forgetting dandruft, snow, confetti and the contents of chamber pots. I'm glad I'll never be a fascist, I like ice cream too much amongst other things.

When deciding to have a long hot bath, don't forget to take a towel. Because otherwise this could lead to an embarassing moment, where I do the impression of a cat on a hot tin roof, dripping and bouncing from ball of foot to ball of foot trying not to get the carpet soaked and finding a towel. Although not one of those esential items which should be packed at birth, a towel has a useful place in society. So memo to self, don't under estimate the usefulness of a towel.