Insufficient Funds hole in the wall strikes back

It is with some degree of acceptance, I expect the magic hole-in-the-wall machine to throw out cash when needed. However, somewhere between the hole-in-the-wall and my bank balance the lolly, spandulars, readies, bread, notes, dosh, green stuff had lost it's way, vamoos, gone, like the legendary Bermuda Triangle where planes disappear. In short the money has vacated the premises. I am a pauper. Thrown onto the slag heap of life. Children with pocket money have more liquidity than me. I am in a Northern Rock situation. And what a feeling of loss it is as well. I reach into my trouser pockets and search for change. A few pound coins. Where is the magic money growing tree which should be at the bottom of my garden? Some one has gone and half-inched it (pinched it). Just my luck.

I can't recal a time in my life where the machine has not be obedient. Except when it has it's little quirks, or mood swings and decides not to work. The kind of petulance a child occaisionally shows. Then I'd just go to another more ameniable hole-in-the-wall, which so politely open it's mouth to regurgitate the paper goods I need. But this time it's different. The screen flashed up with those hated words "Insufficient funds" words I have not encountered. Words I thought would not happen to me. But I have been treating the giver-of-happiness perhaps a little to opulently, a little beyond my means. Taking advantage of it. Assuming it would always be there for me. Unfortunately, I made a mistake. In what I thought was an error, I tried another machine and it to pounded down the words like a mallet over my head, "insufficient funds."

Unless the alternative is true. Which I do not want to think about. If it is, then, I am going to be busy tomorrow. Because my account has been hacked. It's happened once before. But this time it is an enigma. Nope, I don't think this is the case. I'm sure I've spent more than I have in the machine.

Or I could get a new job, earn more money, sell my body to science but only as long as I can loan it while a breath still passes my lips. I think I will just run away from the human race, find a desert island. Live of coconuts. Eat fish. Lay in the sun. Grow a beard and go ever so slowly mad. Mad I say, mad.

England lose 2 - 1, but for a pint of guinness

I've just seen England play Russia, England lost 2-1. So much for the fighting bull dog spirit. I'm sure it will be happy news to any Scots person. No doubt Sparkling was supporting Russia. But such is the rivalry of Scotland and England. Who both love to hate each other when it comes to sport. As for England as a footy team. They encroach the term ineptitude. We score a goal and then like scared whippets stay back in our own half just hoping the rest of the game will go by without having to do to much. Though this would be an unfair comment because once Russia scored their second goal England did try to put a bit more welly into it. Me, I just drank my second pint of Guinness and tried to chill. It's surprising how even losing a game of footy can be relaxing if you have a pint in your hand. Like I had.

Concert at Barrowlands Glasgow, Twang

For an exceedingly long time in my life I had been to few concerts. This is my own fault. From the previous experience of buzzing ears and auditory damage. However, last night I changed this, as Sparkling Eyes invited me with her to a place in Glasgow. Called the Barrowlands, where a number of groups were playing. Rock Chick had decided to treat Sparkling and got the tickets. Top of the billing was the Twang and supporting bands were Look See Proof and Little Man Tate. IT WAS LOUD. Very LOUD. And to add just a bit more on the volume dial it was LOUDER still. Only now some 24 hours later has my hearing returned to normal and the buzzing ceased.

Sparkling Eyes had most of a bottle of wine before we got there, my duties were clear. Keep her glass full. And enjoy. Especially the phenomenon known as the Mosh Pit. An area just in front of the stage, where the fans go crazy. Beer, lager, wine is thrown in the air and drops on anyone unlucky enough to be in the way. I think it was my glasses. Or the fat-man-look. Or the uncool-older-guy look, which in my mind probably made me a target. Though I can not understand how anyone can throw away perfectly good alcohol away. It must be the loud music which obviously did something to their brains. It made them act irrationally. They jumped, waved their hands, shouted, ranted, sang, pushed and barged their way around and even in the odd case attempted to dance. The audience was hyped. Personally, this was a difficult time for me. I got pushed around so many times and irritated by so many of the fans, had I been an Alpha Male, I would of had at least half a dozen fist fights. Somehow though I got through this chaos. Sparkling, in the meantime got very much into the throws of the Mosh Pit.

I had went off to get a refill glass returned and she was hugging a girl I'd never seen before. I wondered whether she had just pulled a lesbian. Probably. Then at some point when the Twang did come on stage, Sparkling moved forward and found the hand of a large bloke. He was about a foot taller than me and a foot wider. They held hands, jumped up and down and she then had her arm round his waist. Well, I'm glad I got into the swing of it while she was getting both inebriated, and jiggy with it. The man disappeared at some point and I got Sparkling back. Fortunately I'd stuck to her other (free) side. But am sure he lowered his head at some point and spoke to Sparkling, whether she heard anything is another question. The concert or gig or whatever it is called came to an end. We walked back to central Glasgow and every 5 paces Sparkling told me she had been Moshed. There was a tone of surprise in her voice. Her once large hair style was dampened down by larger and clinging to her head. She repeated this phrase several times with a comic look on her face.

So I am now a hip with it 40 something. I'll spread the word next week while in the pub drinking Guinness. Going off on a tangent I did manage to try the new Red Guinness. Though I really do think the original is the best. It was nice for a change. Then it is always good to have a change. Am glad the tall big fat man didn't fancy me, a story I wouldn't want to tell.

Life with Sparkling Eyes

It's the second day of a week in the company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I can't count the number of times Sparkling Eyes has thrown verbal abuse at me, in her loving way. Of the likes "ya big fat bast***" but even tho these are just words I know the way she says them they are words of affection. I hope. Of course so I should, otherwise I'd be in trouble. As I sit here writing Sparkling Eyes takes the Pi** out of me or anything I might write. It's OK I had to sit through a documentary of Donny Osmond whom Sparkling wanted to marry and have a 100 children by, because I'm just Crazyman, trying to make sense of the world. Because Sparkling used to love Donny, and probably does. And even if she speaks his name in her sleep, I have to ignore it. So I will.

The worse thing about Sparkling Eyes is whenever I tell her about my fears of this world, she then capitalises on them. She throws them at me, ties me up, spins a circle of magic, harangues, ca joules, and lightly laughs. She changes the world for me. Even the most worrying of issues becomes no more than something to throw custard pies at. As she talks while I write, I have now resorted to packing ear plugs in. One in each ear. But still her comments filter through. I am drunk. Inebriated, am happy. No matter what Sparkling Eyes says or does. I must be mad. In love. Or beyond redemption. Save me. Someone.

I can't even focus properly, it's the wine, not my eyes. The wine has an effect. But so does the chatter which comes forth from Sparkling. Not to mention she has now changed the channel on the TV so I don't get to see the re-run of aliens for the 41st time. Yep, for the next few days my life will be up turned. Changed. Beyond redemption. I am captured. But I enjoy it, each and every moment. Upside down and turned around. My eyes and head spin.

OK I may have to fill the dishwasher, put up with temper tantrums from Rock Chick. But I also get to play Devils Advocate. With my own Sparkling Eye I'll throw in a mischievous comment, chuckle quietly and wait for the repercussions to come bouncing back at me. Or the wrath of Rock Chick. But it's great to see Rock Chick laugh and be happy. It is a happy time for me. I float. Carried on the vapour of intoxication. Oh well, hope my head don't hurt in the morning.

Lone man walking

Being unhappy with queuing can have it's side effects. I prefer to avoid them whenever I can. At lunch time a hankering for a piece of chocolate, a pack of crisps and some more chocolate overcame me. So, I picked them up with tenderness and took them to the till. Unfortunately there was only one cashier on duty. This is a large shop for one person, a very large shop. I dumped my afternoon snacks in an empty basket and walked out disappointed. My time is more valuable than the effort of queuing. It's a crime. Something the manager should pay for. So on returning to work I contemplated yet again for the hundredth time whether I should write to the Chief Executive of the company and advise them on how the store is being run at one of the busiest times of day. However, this impatience to que was nothing like this morning's fiasco.

This morning, making my way to the Train Station there were also two sets of ques. One stretched to the ticket office window. The other had about 4 morons waiting in line at the automatic self service ticket machine. Two sets of frustrations. Weighing morons against the ticket que was a no brainer. So rather than take one or the other I decided to walk to the bus stop. Maybe have a little more exercise than normal. Yet at the bus stop no one stood waiting. This is a bad sign I thought. Even one or two people is a good sign. It means then the bus has not passed. But with nobody at the stop, it inevitably means I've missed a ride. Like a red Indian tracking his lunch for the day. I had to follow the tracks to the next bus stop or two. If I walked an additional ten minutes then I could get an alternative bus. So I did. To cut a long story short. I carried on walking just over 2 miles, passed an estimated 5-600 cars and ten big double decker red buses. Nothing was moving. The roads were choc-ablock. Nose to tail. I had a little bit of snobbery in my walk. I enjoyed it. Walking passed all those people in their lovely cars. I was getting somewhere faster than them. While they dumped carbon in the atmosphere, I was swinging my arms marching off to work. I wanted them to see me. To see their cars being overtaken by a walking man. Yes. Lone man walking.

In my empathy I found happiness. Oh how they would all be stewing, embroiled in their moving box. The price of petrol on their minds. And how come so many people are walking past. Especially the bloke with an odd smile on his face checking out all the cars. My empathy of their frustration I turned to my amusement. How good it is to see a white van accelerate over 50 yards because a sudden gap has occurred, and then for me to patiently, diligently catch up with it and walk past. The two men sat in the front seats leaning forward as if they were willing the van to move faster, to get there quicker. I hope they had a good look at my diminishing butt as I walked off into the distance.

Odd where little pleasures can come from, I savoured mine for a couple of miles, legs are sore but it was worth it.

Voices on the phone

I'm still waiting for my call to be answered. Phone resting against my shoulder, ear piece held in place. I hear three sets of sounds and am becoming acclimatised to them, a short extract of Mozart’s music, Horn Concerto I believe. Then a female voice recording cuts in and advises me of their advance purchase tickets. Information I don’t want to know about. More Mozart which drives me crazy. Then another voice recording, this time it’s a male voice, apologising for the delay because the lines are busy. These are the three sets of sounds I hear in rotation. Yet my mind silently wonders if they truly mean what they say. The music is meant to irritate, and it does so successfully. The woman’s voice about types of tickets I’ve never heard of is redundant information just to keep me glued to the phone, in case it was a real person. Then the man’s voice, although warm and pleasant is not apologising. He’s saying something quite different in between the script and some may not be able to interpret those words. I have though.

It’s along the lines of “We’re glad to keep you waiting, while your life passes away. As if you have nothing better to do. But we really don’t care, because at this moment 254 other people are wasting their lives as well. We’re happy to keep you stuck there with your full and undivided attention and we’ll endeavour to keep you on the phone as long as we can before answering. This way we can get additional revenues from your phone call to our service. Something we never write about in the small print. We have an arrangement with the Telecom’s operator. It’s very convenient. Though not for you. So just sit there and be as bored as you possibly can. We’ll keep you waiting and hopefully extract any notion of life beyond this phone call from your memory. You can therefore remain our servant until you fail to pay your phone call or collapse from dehydration or starvation or sleep deprivation. Yes we’re happy to be of service to you.”

So I learn my lesson again, never ring up during peak times and how I hate those recorded voices. Not the ones in my head, no, their my friends. Just the recorded ones.

The Ice Stealer

It was lunch, I sat at my usual cafe, ordered a sparkling mineral water and food. The bottled water came with a glass and ample ice. I pored and watched bubbles excitedly defy gravity through the clear glacier as they frantically searched for the surface. Opening my book I began to read and enjoyed the time before my meal arrived chilling in the make believe land of a psychotic homicidal maniac, but actually quite readable. Flicking a page over once in a while, then I automatically reached with a hand towards the glass. Cool condensed water droplets had formed on the outside, I drank and the refreshing liquid went down easily. I drank some more. Looked into the glass and then realised the ice had gone.

It didn't makes sense. It could barely of been a few minutes and yet there was no ice in the glass. OK the glass was cold but not enough for all the chunks it originally held. So I considered was this an act of natural physics. Something to be dealt with in the explanations a scientist could give or was it something else. Something people just really haven't thought about. For what if in reality ice doesn't melt? What if, it is stolen?


Maybe there is some alien being, or maybe it is not alien but quite natural to mother earth. A being not yet noticed by the ordinary human inhabitants. One which can't be see, but only if a thought passes over the meanderings of a distracted mind, then and only then it is perceived. I breath air in, I know it's air, I know because it keeps me alive, my lungs expand, then after a suitable time I exhale. Even though I can't see this substance it's there. So to it is with the Ice Stealer.

Something Inside

I been reading a book titled Darkley Dreaming Dexter, it's from the TV series called Dexter. In this the reader is treated to a first person perspective of the dark devil who lies within Dexter and how this Devil's thirst is satisfied. In quite a moralistic way, he is an unlikely 21st century hero. Like the TV series the book reads as a continuing narrative and is quite entertaining. I'm enjoying it.

What it makes me think of is the elusive trait of motivation. How this thing is difficult to find. But how on other occasions it is a complete mind set, a devil lying within with a purpose, and in the right circumstances pretty useful. I think of the time I had spent going to evening classes and the years past in gaining additional education. How it was my persevering devil who strode against the odds. As time passes attendees to classes would drop. Near the end of an academic year the class of 30 plus is down to 10 or less.

I consider Long Haired boy, and wonder what could motivate him. If there is anything other than Art. Art is OK, don't get me wrong, but the reality of this world is, Art is an easy opt out for anyone who can't do anything else. Because at heart we each and everyone of us are artists. To me Art is a common thing and only extra ordinary people actually get anywhere in life making it a living. Art in the pure sense of the word, not may I add as an interior designer for example. So it can be useful, but only if it leads on to something else.

So although I like Art my thoughts of it as providing a career or bread and butter are somewhat circumspect. Tracey Emin and her alleged pieces of work turn the world upside down, because she actually gets money for them. I know I can do just as well as her, I could ring up a gallery and ask them if they want my unmade bed. Even say I puked in it and had the flu pretty bad, which I'm sure would add to the value. Unfortunately my name's not Tracey. Yes, she's an artist, a con artist at that. The rest of us who see her stuff as art well, you have to ask of the children's story. The one where a king is in his-altogether. Was he in his-altogether? Now have a look at her unmade bed and seriously convince the world it is art.

The thing which lives inside comes out when there is an insatiable desire needing met. Dexter's is the homicide of homicidal maniacs, mine was for a while improving my own education. If only I could light a match an begin an incandescent flame for Long Haired boy. Incite his desire, his motivation, see a different side to him, one where he shines and his very presence inspires the rest of us. Perhaps I ask too much. Perhaps I ask to see the passion. For the dweller who lives inside is the epitome of passion, they sit side by side, eat similar foods and if true persevere till their thirst is satisfied.

Catch up Homer

Got to speak to Sparkling Eyes and feel a lot better for it. She'd been dangling me on a chain, swinging it about and then putting me through a mangle. No doubt i deserved it. She's probably nodding her head right now. She told me how she'd got a bargain on 600 doughnuts for 15 pence, but they had to be eaten today. My eyes widened so I asked if she could put a few in the freezer for me. Then I got told off for thinking of my belly. Seems to me I'm going to start looking like Homer Simpson. Well, if you gotta have a hero why not Homer I ask.

The pigeons are still there, though I have fantasized about dressing up in a Ninja outfit climbing up the wall and knocking them off their perch. But real life don't happen this way. It rained pretty hard this morning so I expect my feathered nemesis's decided to stay in for an extra long snooze. A small part of me is wondering if i'll get pigeon-fancier-lungs, I hope not.

Got a ticket to see Sparkling Eyes, can't wait. We're going to see a rock concert of some kind as well. The Twang. As long as they sing quitely and I can hear myself think i'll be ok. Hmm wonder if they like doughnuts?

No ringing

I sit and wait. Sparkling Eyes should be ringing me but the phone don't make a sound. It's there on the desk. Silent. Am not going to will it. It's not up to me.

Saw Long haired boy and Dancing girl this evening, they asked for some help with their homework, so a sprinkled some fairy dust on it. Which washed away unneeded words. I left their work all in the words they used, just fewer of them. Yet reading much clearer. Little Monster Boy had no homework to show me. Considering last time I went round he got upset with me putting him on the naughty step. I became the big bad uncle. It took longer getting Monster Boy to do his homework by his avoiding it, than the time to complete his homework. So much energy gone to waste. I wish I'd had an Uncle like me who made me get on with my work and gave me help when I needed it.

Went to bed early last night after all. Must of slept for 11 hours. When I hit the hay my head felt like a steal band had tightened around it and was crushing my brain. I'm taking ecineacia pills as well. Hopefully they will help.

OK looks like I'll give up on the phone. So I can't be important enough. Oh well what can I say, not much apparently.

I'm not well Achoooooo

I really shouldn't be at the Fish Factory. I don't feel well, my head is splitting, I sneeze every 10 minutes, cough and am sure I'm running a temperature. But I sit there at the Fish Counter passing on my germs to my colleagues. I've noted a couple of the very big fish are sneezing as well. The lurgies is going around, by the middle of next week they will all have it and I'll be feeling better. I hope so. There's nothing like spreading your own germs around. As long as they don't mutate into some other worse germ and come back to bite your ass all should be fine.

At the Fish Factory they have a sickness procedure, it's a bone of contention with the Ritz people. The thing is, if you're ill, it's not your own fault. You should not be made to feel you have to come into gut the fishes. So when you do come into work, you hardly work at all, take a short day if possible, and make everyone else ill. Tell me there isn't something wrong with it? Because there is something very wrong with it.

I left the Fishes early and went to the pub. I don't know what it is but after a couple of pints of Guinness I felt a lot better. Though I'm sure it's not a recommendation the Quack would give. For a couple of hours I was almost normal. Well, as normal as I can be.

Sparkling Eyes is on my mind each day. But I'm waiting for her to contact me, if she don't then I'm obviously not important enough. I'm ill I need comforting, but Sparkling Eyes would go on about how women are a lot stronger than men and have to keep going through hurricanes just to make sure the chocolate biscuit tin is full. She made the choice not to let me talk to her, it's her decision now. I'm too ill, and am almost contemplating an early night. We'll see. Someone hand me over the tissues.

Northern Rock gets government garantee - Achoo

The big thing lately has been the effect of America's Sub-prime mortgages on the rest of the world's banking systems. I don't know why it is, but it would have to come from the U.S., I'd of thought having an embarrassment like Bush was bad enough. Nope, they throw another spanner in the works. So now Alister Darling has given Northern Rock a guarantee to fund all savings held in accounts. It is without president a judgement made by Darling 2 days late. Shares in N.R. have dropped ridiculously. Here is an instance of Darling's incompetency as a new minister. If he had any real brains the decision would of been made on day one. Looks like Gordon should go back to the drawing board and choose his cabinet with a little more savvy.


Savers in N.R. have acted like a frightened hysterical bunch. They actually put their savings in more jeopardy by panicking and taking out all of their life savings in a oner. They have followed the crowd, been sheep, been afraid, look out there's a wolf. RUN. RUN like your life depended on it. So they all did. I heard of one instance where a 94 year old man had cued up for several hours outside one branch. Here's someone close to pushing up Daisy's and he spends very valuable time queuing. Has he not got friends, family, or anyone in his life he could tell how much he loves, or just sit and drink tea. Quite frankly were I 94 years old, I really wouldn't give a damn.

On a moralistic note I heard on the radio how N.R. had been so philantropic. How it had given away millions of pounds to good causes in the North. It's sad such a noble company is having to run the gauntlet of panicked investors.

I'm not feeling so bright eyed and bushy tailed at the moment, having come down with a case of diphtheria. I'm sure it will pass in a day or two. As my smallest nephew once said "my nose is leaking" achoooo. I sure hope it isn't bird flu. Fortunately there hasn't been a case of it in this part of the world. But it always starts with one, achoooooo.

Pigeons, Zimbarbwe, being missunderstood

I've now rang up a pest control company and tried to explain to the the position of my pigeon problem. I told the man on the phone, the pigeons are under they tiles. He didn't seem to understand. It was like I was talking to someone who would of been a post-operative candidate for a lobotomy. He asked if there was access to the loft, I said yes, I explained Mr Travolta Pigeon's harem was under the roof tiles, and he asked if the whole roof was being replaced. I could of put my hands around his neck strangled and carried on strangling him, though I'm sure he would of still not understood. Force would not of enlightened his I.Q. even if it would of made me feel better.

I'm getting a little attached to my pigeons now. The last time I threw an old plastic plant pot up in the air at about 6:45 a.m. it scared them. Then I saw with new eyes how a flock flew around the houses in a big circle. They were beautiful. I don't want them to be harmed. I just want them out of the roof. A little like when Sparkling Eyes went on about her giant garden slugs which she'd called Bert and Ethel. She'd got attached to them. But there's a difference. Slugs aren't quite as big as pigeons and are easier to deter. Coffee works wonders.

I caught the news when in from the Fish Factory. Zimbabwe was a main item. Once called the 'bread basket of Africa' it is now a poverty stricken country where a loaf of bread costs a week's wages. Mugabe is a dictator of the worst kind, because his dictatorship is under the guise of democracy. Where in fact there is no democracy. People are tortured if they don't vote for him. He even has his own elite younger members called the 'Green Shirts.' They remind me of the Hitler youth. Anyone who does not vote Mugabe in the next elections will be killed, if not by his army then by the Green Shirts. He is without doubt a homicidal, megalomaniac, starving his own kind. If we consider there to be no God in this world, such a crime becomes worse still. Because the poor, the suffering of this world find solace in their belief. If there is no God, then they would have their fears and the choice of doing something and dying because they acted, or dying as a victim. But this is easy for me to say, I don't live there, I don't have their suffering.

In 10, 20 or 30 years from now, I wonder if my nephews and nieces will remember me? Of any influence I may of had in their growing up. Whether I was a stable individual in their life, someone who was around while they were young, when they needed it. Someone who helped when he could. And I hope made them laugh. I can't help it if my words are misinterpreted, but it's the view of the reader and this is what I meant in my last blog. Unfortunatelyl reading a passage can be interpretted in different ways. Wherever I am, in 10, 20 or 30 years time, I hope they smile and remember moments with me in affection.

I think I'll check up on studies by Thorndike, he trained pigeons to do some pretty complex tasks. Like getting out of cages by a series of levers, or receiving pigeon food. Psychologists in those days were called behaviourists. I could train my elite squadron of pigeons (Mr Travolta Pigeon permitting) to visit Zimbabwe and crap endless tons of pigeon excrement on Mugabe. Or better give them bandannas and they could become suicide pigeons, for the good of Africa, the one mission, take out Mugabe.

Unfortunately my humour button doesn't seem to work at the moment. If I were a pigeon, now that would be a different story.

Reflections on the week

The roofer has given me a quote, it's got to be done, I realised this morning it took about one hour for the pigeons to wake up from under the tiles and make their way to the local breakfast bar. I can take a conservative guess there's probably 20 of them up there. Mr Travolta Pigeon must have some pretty pungent pheromones at work. My only worry is if the roof repair is done a couple get trapped under the tiles and then become mummified. I'll have to check out the British Museum, I wonder if they have any mummified pigeons?

It seems the list of expenses goes on. One thing after the other. Roof, porch roof, guttering, central heating, porch wall pointing. Double Glazing. I had a short MSN with Sparkling Eyes she's worried about her mortgage with Northern Rock. The brief conversation descended into a swopping of worries.

When I think about may family's effort put into wishing me a happy birthday I'm a little dissappointed. Little Monster Boy didn't even draw me a card, Long haired boy just sent me a text and he couldn't turn up at the tea Big Mama had made. And Dancing girl didn't actually give me a card or do anything either. My other sister Mrs Talkative and children sent a card. Again no personalised little drawing from Angel girl, and besides the Not So Talkatives boys signing their cards no effort from them. Big Mama slipped 20 squids in her card and gave me a box of chocolates which were too sweet for my liking. So I'm now thinking about how much I give to my own family and whether they are worth it? I could try and put them on eBay, the problem would be I'd have to pay someone to take them off my hands.

Silly Sophia has started going to the pub again and she takes little monster boy with her. He stays up till late at night and is always complaining about not getting sleep. At 6 years the poor little might is not getting the caring he should have. Sometimes I can't think it's unfortunate some people are allowed or given the chance to have children, especially when they are not emotionally mature enough to handle them. To be responsible for their own life let alone a child. I can see myself stepping into the world of Eugenics. A place where Hitler once went, except it's not an supreme race of nazis I'd like, just a race of parents who cared for their children and understood those needs. Perhaps the problem with a free world, is it is a free world. Free to make our own mistakes, and continue to make them if we want. We all do the best we can,, of course given the chances of our own up bringing and nurturing environment. Given also the chances of a silver spoon.

The answer I expect is to say "none of it is to do with me." It's not my responsibility to bring up support or help my sisters children. Further "never have any expectations" for expectations of reciprocal support or caring don't happen. I suppose if i really did have my own family, my own children, then I could indoctrinate them into my world and my wife's world. Make them as degenerate or respectful as I felt the need. Children are such vulnerable creatures unlike the pigeons in my roof. Children need some kind of stability. I hope, I provide a small bit of stability. Being around, being here, but I don't know. I have no idea if anything I do has any effect. Only in 10, 20 or 30 years time will it show.

On my wall I have an old picture Sparkling Eyes sent me. It's of a bright yellow sun smiling out. Although it probably took only ten minutes to do and cost absolutely nothing, it is one of my most precious possessions. It's personal, it shows an effort. It's like receiving and writing a letter on paper. It takes time, effort and love to do. One thing I do know, if one of those 6 little sprites I call my nephews or nieces had done such a thing I'd be in tears. Money really don't mean a thing against love, effort enthusiasm and a glowing bright sun of happiness.

Birthday morning

Well it's my birthday. The pigeons being so kind must of decided to give me the day off from listening to their dancing practice. Or perhaps Mr Travolta Pigeon is to knackered after getting his leg over so many other lady pigeons. So it seems even pigeons have to have a day of rest.

Life is so short, so precious and it's journey is a learning expericence, just as I get to understand more about it, another year comes round. Wont be too long before I'm pushing up daisys.

Went to the pub last night and had my limit of 3 Guinness's, they tasted great. Even tried to ring Sparkling Eyes twice, she said she knew I'd been drinking because I always try and ring her. Further, I was so predictable. Not sure if I like being called predictable. Reliable, punctual even a rock not predictable.

I sit in waiting for the roofing man and wonder about opening the incredibly large pile of birthday cards. All 3 will probably take a good hour or two. But the day is nice. Sun out. Yep it's got potential.

Bits and pieces

It's been a bits and pieces day. Where nothing large enough has taken up my waking thoughts to dominate my BLOG, except of course for a very recent discussion with Sparkling Eyes. Who said I'd been unfair in my birthday blog. Because she had put up with me for 10 years. Were I to have written a full blog I'd mentioned it would of taken up 100 pages she said more like 100,00 pages. And called me boring. Yes boring.

Great.

I rang a roofing contractor up, they are going to come round and have a look on Wednesday. I wonder if he's got his own Tommy gun. It's the quick old way of getting rid of pigeons. Watch this space. Had a comment on a blog which suggested the story was clever. I hope it is not thought as fictional because it's real. The hob nailed booted pigeons are still there. I checked them again this morning, after again waking up to the clatter of roof tiles.

The Team Leader Fish to our fish pool is leaving. Shame coz he is actually a nice bloke, someone who you can talk to and respect, although he talks to quite a lot of people and hardly ever sits in his fish chair doing his fishy business. He's still a nice bloke.

Birthday soon looms, such is life. Someone shoot me. No, someone shoot the pigeons then I'll sleep thru the morning, thanks.

Travolta Pigeon has a hareem

It's Sunday morning, I expect to lay in, take it easy, snooze and get up late. It's one of those relaxed days. Or rather the expectation of having a nothing-day, just to enjoy. So the picture is painted. But was this going to happen? Not on your Nelly. For Mr Travolta hot foot dancing pigeon has other ideas. Ideas which he shares with his pals.

So at 6:00 a.m this beautiful lazy Sunday, the tiles began to move. Like a cow walking down the slates in successive footstep each tile banged and made a progressively low to higher pitched bang. A percussive symphony to which I am sure many a rock drummer would have appreciation for. Except I'm not a drummer. As for rock, on a Sunday morning I have no place for it. But the dancing Cow, no I mean pigeon, no I mean pigeons plural had woken up. In their turn they woke me. I thought the slates were going to be falling off the roof. I envisaged having to call in a roofer and it costing thousands of pounds because if one is dislodged at the top it will then dislodge all the others in the sloping column.

Mr John Travolta Pigeon must of been really successful in his dancing lessons, because by 6:20 a.m. I then went out in the garden, wearing my PJs to have a look. I glanced up at the side of the house and there looking down from the edge of the roof could have been no fewer than 50 or so pigeons. This is worse than I thought. It wasn't just the banging roof tiles which were the clue as I woke. It was the flapping of wings, from my bleary eyed sonambulance I heard a flock. When I looked up from the garden I saw a flock. Picking them off with an air rifle would of left a pile of pigeon carcasses 4 foot high. Besides I don't have a air gun. No wonder the cat just lazes about doing nothing, because if he catches one there's always another 49 sitting in the wings, looking down at him, taunting poor Tigger and most likely having a shite from the roof. Any cat would have a nervous break down at the prospect, too much prey and not enough lives.

Feck what am I going to do? Mr Travolta Pigeon has a harem, he's happy, life is wonderful when your looking down from a great hight waking up unsuspecting humans. Especially when each night you can have another different Ms Pigeon to tuck up in bed. Feck I'm now desperate for ideas. Anyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Roof Pidgeon Carpenters

This morning I woke up early, for two reasons. Firstly because I'm in a waking up early frame of mind, and have been in it for the last week, and secondly I had no choice. Pigeons in the roof and possibly an assortment of other birds were having their usual morning Disco. I'm sure the pigeon dance king aka John (Red Beak, head hopping) Travolta Pidgeon was putting on yet another display of his foot work. No doubt trying to pull in the birds so he could get a leg over. But I'd wish he'd go and do his goose stepping in someone elses roof.

The roof and the birds has been a problem vexing me for a number of years. My first method of solution is just to ignore it. Like I suppose all men. We're of the breed, if something needs to be done ignore it first because it might go away. Particularly because sorting out the roof means buying a new ladder, at some expense and then even worse having to go up the thing. Alternatively I could get a man in go up there and sort them out, but you just never know if the person you get in will actually do the job. If I do it myself I then got a set of ladders and it probably hasn't cost me a great deal more than it would do to hire the man.

I've spoken to the cat. Who nowadays resembles more of a teddy bear than a cat and he's got cataracts. I said to him to try a bit of pigeon, and it's about time he earned his weight. I'm sure Tigger didn't take in a word, probably through indifference, ignorance of the human language and his greater interest in cat biscuits. Which may be just a small bit more than my sudden binge last night of chocolate digestives. I think I downed 8 or 9 of them with a cuppa tea. But still the question of the birds remains.

So if there happens to be one person with an idea which might help and is reading this probably ignored BLOG, drop a comment and I'll read it later.

Another Year

Another year looms close to me. Another year when a day comes and I get a little older. Unfortunately, I and Sparkling Eyes wont be able to see each other. Not of my doing. This of course made me pretty sad, mad and obdurate. Sparkling Eyes retorted equally mad, possibly sad, and just as obdurate. So I'll celebrate without the one person I love more than any other in my life.

OK what will I do? Take in a movie alone, watch a play alone, eat a Chinese meal alone, feck look at the bottom of a pint glass think where I'd rather be and then order another.

Cat sitting comes to an end

Yesterday the Talkatives returned and I finished cat sitting. They looked tired and refreshed. I asked Little Angel if she could speak any Spanish and she said "adios" quite appropriate in the circumstances. I was happy when I saw them. For some reason I felt emotional. It has been some years since they had a holiday and it was just wonderful to see them all. They needed it and enjoyed it thoroughly.

As I had spent quite a lot of time doing the garden, it was also good to see dog, cats and Talkatives outside enjoying their own garden. Little Angel shot her dog with a water pistol and found it highly amusing.

I took Long Haired boy back with me, and it was obvious his demeanour had become less happy. It was with my own sadness I saw Silly Sophia's front room and wept inside for the lives of her children. For the poverty she allowed herself to dwell in, and for the poverty of her children's lives. Being poor doesn't mean you have to be without self dignity and composure, without happiness or self value. I really do cry inside.

On a much lighter front I was told of Rock Chick getting herself drunk, spending most of a day with a hangover and head in a bucket. Sparkling Eyes telling me she'd taken photo's and how Rock Chick just wasn't cut out for being one of the boozing types. I asked for a picture, but of course was not going to get one and was subsequently threatened with ex communication if I'd asked again.

This morning I go back to the Fish Factory with indifference I wonder whether that's good bad or just of no consequence. Thank heavens for Sparkling Eyes, i thought of her as I hugged myself to sleep.

Big Brother, it's a popularity contest

Last night I saw the final instalment of Big Brother 8, I think. The winner was the one who got the most votes, Brian. He was Black, exceedingly camp to the point I thought he was gay-but he wasn't and possessed an I.Q. similar to a close friend of Forrest Gump or indeed Forrest Gump. When he was asked what he'd do with the prize money Brian said he'd give it to his mum because he just didn't have an idea. She'd look after it. At times Brian was at times paranoid. But he is a nice bloke. I'm sure he got the gay vote, and because he possessed quite a large willy he probably got the vote from a lot of girls. Or other people who like men with big willies. Oddly in the compiled clips of Brian's best bits there were a number of scenes where he was running about naked. As a contest goes this is a popularity contest. I'd never want someone like Brian to do anything other than being a nice guy, but if he flew a jet and I was a passenger, I'd take up religion pretty quickly.

It is sad British society votes it's most favourite personality as someone who has no inclination of who Shakespeare was, what he did or what he means. In reality the voters are teenyboppers. Their role models are from a TV show with people who have no talent in the world, but can sit, eat, talk a lot of dribble and show the complete depth, breadth and odour of ignorance. They are immature and the contestants show varying degrees of similar immaturity. The stench of this ignorance is rife it seeps through the pores of anyone who has the unfortunate misshappence of catching an episode.

From first hand knowledge, it can be addictive. I have sat and been enthralled by it. Watched episode after episode, and then been disappointed at myself having participated. That I'd allowed myself to be drawn into the world of vacuous personalities with barely double digit I.Q.s. People who had one purpose in this stage of their life. To be rich, to be famous and to have done nothing for it. Not worked, not shown genius and barely showing enough talent to wash a dish. It's sad. Very sad. But we all grow up, eventually.

"...to thine own self be true..." It's from Hamlet, I like the Mel Gibson version.

I'm off to get an audition to BB9, I wonder if this banana costume will do the trick, I'll just sing 10 green bottles and juggle 2 lemons as well. I'm sure it will work. Damnn am I talented.

Only a few more days

Today is Thursday, great, that's Thursday night, Friday, Saturday and it is over. I can return home on Sunday morning.

Really do miss chatting to Sparkling Eyes even if she's not talking to me.

Such is the power of woman.

Get me out of here.

I am going mad.

The walls are full of my bare fingered scratches.

Help. Save me. Someone.

Clown Shoes

Sparkling Eyes said she's not talking to me. This is because I cut short a conversation on msn as i had to go somewhere quick. I rang her and her voice was defiant. "I'm not talking to you" it was emphatic. She would not be drawn into a conversation. The phone call lasted 2 minutes and was over with. Then for some reason I felt guilty. The blame had been shifted defiantly onto my shoulders. Such is the will of a woman.

When the conversation began we had both acknowledged being tired. Then by default it would be short. However, Sparkling Eyes had things to say. I wanted to sit and listen but I had to disappear. So I did listen and type for a little while, but because I was the one who closed the conversation even though it was acknowledged we were both knackered, I am the one who is in trouble. I sneeze I am in trouble. I blow my nose I'm in trouble. I look at the wall and guess what I'm yes, in trouble. I can't help it I feel guilty now. Someone shoot me. Put me out of my misery. Such is the power of a woman. Even when hundreds of miles away.

The 3 cats don't like me. Angel has now showed a liking towards Long Haired Boy. He said last night she was all over him wanting to be stroked, and dribbling. She dribbles because she has no teeth. Long Haired Boy has pulled a cat. I drink a glass of wine left over from last night and am asked if I have been drinking all afternoon. I feed Angel coz she is meowing outside the window but she don't want me to stroke her. Maybe it's the female sex. Maybe, I have some kind of disease which makes them dislike me. Maybe, I tread on toes too easily.

OK finished me delicious glass or rose wine, now have to decide if I am going down the street for another bottle. Which is a good 40 minute return walk. Oh yes, better take these clown shoes off, don't know who elses toes I'm going to tread on.

Gardening done me in

The Talkatives haven't done their garden in the last century, so I dicided to tackle it and spent maybe 3 hours, cutting grass, pulling up pieces of concrete imbedded in the turf and digging about. My back is killing me. Long haired boy didn't help out but I didn't ask him. He'd put the pizza's in the oven which is probably enough for someone who has nil cooking expeience. They tasted good, but still the garden beat me. Am whacked.

The cats are still playing their ellusive game. Angel walked up to the back door for something to eat, she seemed to be walking slowly. I think she's probably letting her fear of me take over her need to eat. So she slowly starves herself. When all I want to do is pet her and tell her the Talkatives will be home by the end of the week. She'd understand and perhaps realise I'm not an ogre. Well not yet.

I rang up Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick picked up the phone. She was distressed and crying her words were "it's a long story." Sparkling Eyes filled me in on the details and I later offered to beat someone up if Rock Chick wanted. But I'm sure she thought i'd be more funny to watch than actually cause any physical harm. My physical prowess is deamed impotent by a teenager.
Sparkling Eyes told me the good news about her hospital tests. They will keep a check on her but no need to worry. What a relief.

The boy from next door called me Mr Bean again in conversation. He also insited his side kick call me Mr Bean. He asked if I had a girlfriend. Then later asked if I had sex. Hmmmm I think he was really trying to stereotype me into the Mr Bean personality. I acted half insulted to his question and told him "you shouldn't ask me a question like that, you don't even know me," I said it in a nice way. However he disappeared behind the fence again and I no longer saw him or his side kick Cool Hand any more.

Am whacked. Beaten by the garden? Thank heaven's for the cold taste of a well chilled beer. The top of which, I managed to take off with out any problem.

Audacious, proud, loud Terrifying Tigger

He turned up this morning. The cat I thought was scared. The scaredy cat. In the back of my mind. But he was now on a mission. He'd had enough of avoiding. He'd got his courage together, or some other cat sense and decided to sort me out. Don't make assumptions about the one who runs away. Coz you never know if he's going to turn up again. Tigger did.

For some reason I awoke early. Went downstairs had brekky and listened to the Today program. Angel was doing her, I'm-not-sure-I-like-him routine. Being obstinate, not coming in unless she could do it by a window where I couldn't see her. Buffy doesn't have this problem, she just comes in eats and enjoys a stroke. However, as if from nowhere Tigger turns up. He's at the back door. Tail standing erect, proud, tall and he's meowing to come in. My, this is a surprise. Maybe he'd had enough of the rain. Maybe now he wanted some food. He walked past me with disdain like a member of the royal family coming to tea and hating every second. He walked into the kitchen and meowed. He walked into the front room and meowed. He walked round and round meowing and ignoring the food. His fur was partly up. He looked bigger. Tigger was telling me something and it was along the lines of "how-dare-you-be-here-ass-wipe, where's my owners?"

I'd locked the door after he came in. My assumption was he would be harmless and now needed sustenance. I assumed wrong. He was as much as a cat can be, actually a little scary. I'd put the keys to the door down. Tigger went to the back door after his disappointed nose around. He meowed "let-me-out-idiot" in so many meows. Sodding ell. Where did i put the key down. I hastily looked around. Tigger made his way to the window sill and meowed "so-you-going-to-let-me-out-or-do-I-get-rough?" I wanted to reach to the window's handle but he was in the way. And looking mean. In a moment I spied the key. Opened the back door and Tigger walked proudly scarily out the back door. Shite. And I thought he was just shy.

There really is no reason for a human being to be scared of a cat. After all they are quite a bit smaller. But for a few short moments I actually wondered if he was going to attack me. And had he hissed I'm sure I might of been a little more panicked. But I held it together. Not only that his meow was a little pathetic in decibel level. Although he had the John Wayne walk he just didn't have the voice to go with it. It was a little like the early interviews with David Beckham, where you think what a squeaky poofed voice he has and how the hell can a thicko like him be so famous? But like Beckeham who's intelligence was in his feet, Tigger's was in his attitude.

Maybe I should of gone for a pint today.

Day 4, a small adventure forget the cats

Last night I locked 2 of the cats in the house. A black and white moggy called "Angel" who is very timid, needed the usual persuading. I saw her dart for an open window got there first and closed it. She lets me stroke her and tickle her chin, but she is not going to purrrrr for me. And she walks round me like she's on rice paper, scared I might get my skinning knifes out and make a lovely winter coat. The second cat who has a wonderful smokey grey coat and a white necklace don't care if I stroke her, she's Buffy. She stays out comes in when she wants and then just does her own thing. Lastly Tigger has a very inherent fear of me. She/he, will run and run and run on seeing me. Shit, I really didn't realise I was so ugly (or Fugly, for those in the know). Having enough of the cats and the prospect of yet another day of solitary confinement I decided to see Momma, which was a small adventure in itself. I tried to feed the cats then left.

Mrs Talkative has put me on her car insurance so for 2 weeks I can drive. Except it has been at least 20 years since i drove a car alone. A couple of years ago I re-took driving lessons just to get my confidence back. Although I had a driving license I was then incompetent at driving, taking the lessons over again was like starting from scratch. But I must admit I enjoyed them, the conversation I had with the instructor and getting the hang of a manual gear shift again.

I left mid morning, planing to miss the rush hour traffic, I had a pretty good idea of how to get to the train station. Then overshot a turning and nearly ended up in another town. But being quick of mind or perhaps it was the coffee, I turned the car round and backtracked. At the train station my dilemma was parking the car in the car park. Oh normally an easy task for most people. Except it seemed mostly full up, I found a space. Parked it once. Got out. Bought a ticket. Came back. Re parked the car cos it wasn't straight. Got out. Walked away, looked back to check the car and spied yellow writing on the ground. "Permit holders only" Bollocks. Went back to the car. Found another space even further away. Passed a red car which had a man sitting in it. Perhaps he was spying on me. FBI for neglect to cats no doubt. Except I saw the word "Parking" on the side. Yes, the official was spying on me. He wanted to "book him Dano" a nice fine ticket under the wiper no doubt. Nope, didn't work coz the grey cells were firing on all cylinders. Ok it took 3 attempts but I got there. Afterwards I had a sense of achievement. I was nervous to begin with, and had played with the idea of getting cabs. But I'm not made of money. Funny it was a red car. Perhaps he considered himself a sexy parking-ticket-fine-man.

I saw Momma, and chatted briefly to Sparkling Eyes online. Had a kip and then began my journey back. Being over cautious and running on all cylinders. Yes, I do on occasion. I had earlier printed off 4 pages of maps, and a set of instructions from an Internet site on how to get back from the station to my temporary house. I went over them several times trying to visual the reverse of the roads I had been along and a previous journey along the route back. Except this time I was driving. And although the lighting was dimming, I did it. Another achievement. Amazing, silly little things. My driving alone for the first time in 20 plus years. But I enjoyed it. Even the weird idiosyncrasies of an automatic car, which actually begins to move as soon as it is put in Drive, without having any pressure on the accelerator. And driving with one foot. Which must mean automatics are pretty useful for people with one leg. But I'm not going to get one leg chopped off just to drive about.

All I need to do now is make friends with Tigger. Perhaps lock she/he in the car and take it for a little drive. hmmmm no perhaps not, a fur coat sounds much better. Damn must remember to take my Wanted Reward poster down I'm sure Tigger's seen it.

Day 2, Where'd the Cats Go?

Well it seems like I must smell real bad. To cats anyway. There's only one who ventures close enough for me to stroke her. And it has taken some gentle persuasion. The other 2 have probably packed their bags and decided they can't live in a house which isn't as loud and noisy as a zoo. The Talkatives would of had their first full day away. I hope they can cope. It's raining cats and dogs here, while in Spain somewhere the sun is frying eggs in their own shells. I suppose ready made fried eggs could be quite popular. Except for the cats. The other alternative is they have found another home, taken a hike, or stowed away on some other flight hoping to catch up with the rest of the family.

If anyone reading this has an idea of how I can make myself more approachable to these fury beasts. Comments are welcome. But note I am not going to put on a Cat outfit, grow whiskers or meow late at night.

Unsociable Cats

My self imposed seclusion is much to the amusement of Sparkling Eyes. Whilst Rock Chick has tried to spook me by saying the house I'm sitting is haunted. Quite clearly it is not, and trying to send me scarey pictures to put the wind up my sails isn't going to work. As an aside, I'm wondering if I should stock the fridge up with Stella, for some reason I got a thirst for one.

The cats are warey of me. It's not because I prounce about in a large Chicken costume trying to instill a phobia of birds in them. It's for some unknown cat reason. The weather is on the turn and pissing down. So if the cat's don't like me and don't come in when it rains they are going to get wet. Though one of the cats a black and white one is quite a scaredy cat. Very nervous. I play peek the cat round the door. Trying to spy on her to see if she will come in for her food. But when she gets wind of me, not that I have much wind at the moment, she gently and tactily reverse steps away. They are going to starve and it will be on my head. Probably. I'll see how things develop over the next few days. After all it could hail stone then we'll see how many lives they have remaining.

I need to get out and buy a large sunday paper. Keep myself occupied. Infact maybe I'll do it at lunch time I can then eat in the pub, have a pint and read the paper. Hopefully i'll not be kicked out because I'm the little insane man sitting in the corner talking to himself about abandoning 3 cats.

The Talkatives take a holiday

Being related to the talkatives means every once and a while having to go beyond the call of duty. The next two weeks is my beyond-the-call-of-duty turn. One man in his 40s sits 3 cats and a house. I'd alluded to this in an email to a colleague at work, saying I was cat sitting, stating I wasn't sure whether it meant on or with the cats, in either case it was the cats problem not mine. It would be especially if I sat on any of them and it was snuffed. Then I'd have to find a Taxidermist and explain in some fashion while their furry love-able member of the family seemed so inert. Probably i'd have to make a quick getaway, just as they returned from sunny land and plonked their cases in the hallway. I'll get a taxi number and write it down. Just in case.

I been doing a lot of tidying up. The smaller Talkatives Little Angel Talkative certainly doesn't know where the bin is, Middle boy talkative I can't really comment on except each time he passes by me I have this irresistible desire to ruffle his hair. At the age of 10 I suppose I can get away with it. Unfortunately I was witness to a Terrible Tantrum from Angel Talkative who at 6 years old showed her colours, and they are very bright varied and not as fluffy and nice as the Angel I genuinely thought she was. Big Boy Talkative is not at all talkative, it must be the teenage boy hormone thing. For when he does speak the odd word his sentences can be broken up by 2 extremes of cantor, either a man who has something quite gruff going on or as a boy making a squeak. I wonder if I spoke this way when a teeny?

Though of all things I do realise about myself as a teeny I was pretty moronic. So now I see the light. Age bestows intelligence, but not always, some people just refuse downright to be intelligent at all. Even with age. So there is not always hope, especially for the stupid ones. Let there be light. Nope. Unfortunately this magic phrase doesn't work, the last bulb used years ago or just not replaced, ever.

What am I going to do with myself over the next two weeks? I'll find something. At least I worked out where the closest pub is. Unfortunately I don't have any friends in this part of the Cat-House sitting world. Fingers crossed I can get on with my own company.

Discarded Flowers

I finished at the Fish Factory and walked through Town on the way to the pub, where a pint of Guinness sat with my name on it. A beautiful thought in it's own right. A colleage briefly walked with me then had to run off to a Quack appointment. On my short walk I passed a bunch of flowers, they looked like lillies. In a discarded plastic carrier bag. The cream and shocking cerise reds were like spilt blood on a newly laid table cloth, except these were worse the wear. And had probably been dropped, left in the Sun and in the process of wilting. Curled at the edges of the petals their youth hand uselessly passed away. On the pavement for all passers to glance cursorily in their direction.

The memory lingers on.

We are here but for a short while. So what I say is, love those you love with all your heart, piss off those you don't love with every wit in your repertoire and hold judgement on the one's your not sure about. Till further proof decides which side of the fence to lean. But above all never let your Guinness go to long without some attention.

Oops. Always give all and every bit of attention to the very special ones especially when their hugs are the warmest of all.

Smoking Grass

I've recently come back from a wonderful few days in the company of Sparkling Eyes. Rock Chick wasn't around as much as usual because she's earning a wage as a professional waitress and for her a taster of the working world and the reality of money is being had. She's having fun, but especially on pay day. Now don't that sound like a familiar story for most of us.

I went to B & Q with Sparkling Eyes and bought a box of lawn fertilizer and moss killer. It seemed quite a large box but the instructions said it was enough for a quarter of a tennis court. Sparkling Eye's lawn is about this size I thought. So with vigor I took hand fulls of this substance and cast it over the lawn like a farmer throwing out seed on a freshly ploughed field. With pride in my step I looked for each patch of grass where the weeds were particularly thick and scattered a little extra. Sounds like a Bank advertising commercial that bit. I'll admit at this point not knowing what to expect. My reading of the instructions was cursory. Because if I had read them closer and understood what the effects were going to be I'd of done just a small patch of grass rather than the whole lot.

Half a day later after a good soaking with the hose the lawn was not the same. It looked like it had been burnt in patches. Sparkling Eyes threw daggers at me. Not to mention a tongue lashing. Rock Chick piled on the guilt. Telling me it was Sparkling Eyes pride and joy going out into the garden. The little brat said what i had done was like killing Sparkling Eyes second child, the lawn. Yep. A little on the dramatic side i thought. But I had it. I was hung out, draw out and quartered in the smallest littlest chunks you could imagine. The Crows pecked out my eyes, but I clung onto life. And re-read the fertilizer box half a dozen times afterwards. No matter how many protestations I made, "in two to three weeks it will be fine" it was not good enough. Another poke to the eye. Rock chick giggled in delight at my castigation and nearly castration if I hadn't of been quick witted, off the mark and a fast fat-boy runner and hidden the knifes.

The days passed and I fetched my train home. Next time I hope to do things differently. Next time I'll get someone else to scatter the grass. And I'll be away, with an alibi. Some place where I can't be found and can't be blamed.

I'm sure the grass will look good shortly, but between now and the place it does look good I'd just better be afraid. Aware. And look over my shoulder.

Two right Flip-Flops

Got up this morning, and packed my kit for the gym. Went to work, earn a living and then swetted out a bucket or two on a cycling machine, because my knees are playing up and I've pulled a muscle running. Cycling is the easier option. Hit the changing room. Pulled out my towel, shower gel and shampoo and then dropped the flip-flops on the floor. Two right feet, one with England written on the other with palm trees. There was no choice. So i but them on and walked around in circles for 20 minutes eventually finding the showers.

Memo to self, always make sure i have one right foot and one left foot flippy-floppy.

Haven't had a chat with Sparkling Eyes for a few days, or so it seems. Some one pass it on the grape-vine I miss her and hope all is well.

Now to put my slippers on, one right foot, one left foot. How fortunate genetics gave us 2 different feet otherwise we'd always be chasing our tails.

Stuck in Utopia

I been playing an online game which has taken up the time i'd usually spend writing BLOGS. Silly of me really, coz in reality I get a lot more out of this online diary. But incase anyone is interested the link is above. It's a game about kingdoms and provinces in the 19th century. I have my own little province which is populated. Then i have to build things like Farms, Banks and Thieves Dens. I'm not alone. There's about 20 people in our kingdom, we then go to war or get into w war with other kingdoms. Boring and perhaps nerdy. Sparkling Eyes would see it as Nerdy, and i expect she's got a few other choices for it as well. Then again Sparkling Eyes watches Big Brother a reality TV program I'm sure everyone has heard about. But watching someone sleep or pluck their eye brows seems just as nerdy to me. Yet it can be addictive as well and I must admit to watching the odd episode myself.

I been wondering about running next year's London Marathon. It seems to be a thought playing on my mind. Although my belly would probably deny me the opportunity at the moment. My belly and my mouth, which enjoy food too much. So saying next year gives me a goal to aim for. To see if I can. I used to run some years ago and did half marathons. Then I was quite fit. I was asked many times if i'd ever run a full marathon and I said "no" because i thought those people were mad. Now though for some reason it doesn't seem so mad. What proportion of people in the world have ever run a marathon I wonder. If the numbers are small which i suspect they are then there must be some esteem in running the full distance. The only problem would be my IBS. But what an achievement. For the moment it appears as a light at the end of a tunnel. I can see it in the long distance and am in the process of making my mind up. It will get me fit, slimmer and it would raise money for charity. Something I always tried to do when I ran. Get sponsorship and donate it to a good cause. It's an additional factor which pushed me along.

London is hot. Scotland is wet and cooler. I'm a little blue coz Sparkling Eyes has not contacted me today, even though i sent a sorry text. Yep, as well as having a fat belly I got a big head. The two go together, big head, big belly. Now a marathon in London, yes that would be something. With 30,000 people I'd have to reduce my belly otherwise there'd be a few knocked over. I only hope Sparkling Eyes don't see me at the finishing line and whip the medal off from around my neck. I doubt if I'd be able to catch her after 26 miles, that is so unfair.

P.S. this is my 100th BLOG on "Making Sense"

I saw the Tour De France

About 40 minutes ago I saw the Tour De France. It is the first time since 1994 it has been in this country (UK). And I only just about got there in time to see them. Just up the road from where I live. It wasn't quite as close as I originally thought so it meant a quick march until I was on the route. With a little bit of a jog. During my short legwork towards the cycling route, there was something which struck me. It was silence. Few people few cars. It was like a scene out of one of those disaster movies. Erie. Scarce traffic, and of the cars on the road they were being diverted around the Tour De France route. Within 2 minutes of arriving at the road side it all started. Something I have never seen before. Something I was excited about seeing and although exceedingly brief it was an amazing sight. Amazing.

Though not quite what I expected. The first wave was motorcycles, closely behind were cars. It seemed there were hundreds. As the motorcade passed lights were flashing and horns blowing. People lining the road leaned and stepping into the road to try and get a better view. Straining their necks, squinting their eyes, desperately trying to make out the first cyclists which had to behind this frenzied stampede. Leaning in was dangerous because of the speed of the traffic. Which was fast. Maybe about 45 mph or more where normally the speed limit is 30 mph. In an instance it was almost quite again, but there they were. A massive grouping of cyclists. What struck me was their speed as well. I was on an incline and the cyclists must of been doing 35 mph or more going up it. I had my camera ready and snapped away as many pictures as I could get but, they were so fast I was lucky if I got 3 or 4 photos of them. The speed.

It was remarkable to see the size of the bicycles and their riders. The wheels and the way they athletically pumped their peddling legs. Heads down. Always taking the shortest route as the road bent round suddenly the cyclists bunched into the bend. Pounding away up the hill. And then it was over. A few breaths and they were gone. They will be cycling for another 4 hours and it will finish in Canterbury.

OK memo to self, hit gym next week, and cycle my little leggies off like a lunatic. I'm now inspired. I wonder if I should get a bike and cycle to work. Then I'd have to get the yellow jersey, well maybe not yellow, perhaps a shade of dark blue, am not quite up to the yellow jersey standard. Hey Sparkling Eyes do you think I'll look good in yellow?

Birthday Party

Being invited to an 18th birthday party on a Friday night is an unusual thing for me. It was full of various events, which would not happen in normal circumstances. Like Sparkling Eyes getting into a conversation with a pair of teenage Soprano's, they just had some kind of bent on killing, and suggested an underworld connection with a nefarious group. Well one of them did. Personally I think it was because they wanted to impress Sparkling Eyes. Seeing Rock Chick get so tipsy and even say things which could be held against her when she's sobre. Love is so free when it's been enticed from a bottle of alcopop. Screaming neighbours telling, not asking, there be no more fireworks, although they had all been let off. Asbo officials who wanted to issue a fine and an ASBO (Anti-social-behaviour-order), and of course police. One police woman with an attitude who wanted to arrest the hostess because the hostess dared to speak back and give an opinion. Problem is when the hostess was a little tipsy herself. Otherwise there would of been no excuse to lock her up and suit her in striped pajamas.


In my various stages of inebriation perceptions of events change. Knocking back each bottle of beer a different narrative occurs. The little voice in the back of my head gives a running commentary of what's going on. Sometimes it's so interesting I just sit and listen to it wishing I was writing everything down or even had a voice recorder. Problem is, the ramblings of a half drunk may very well be just ramblings of a half drunk to someone who is sobre. Unfortunately I never carry a pen and note pad either. Don't matter. But the routine is usually the same, beginning with 1. what do i say? 2. lets eat something. 3. I think I'll just sit here and 4. I am so pissed I love everyone. Such are the stages of inebriation. And of course a continuing annoyance at whoever is controlling the CD player because for some reason they keep skipping the tracks I like. BASTARDS!!!!

At just after 3 a.m. I escorted Sparkling Eyes back home. Rock Chick had walked ahead with her pal the hyper and probably drunk Effervescent Eva. We all slept in, Rock Chick had a hang over which lasted 2 days. Mine lasted a morning, Sparkling Eyes of course never gets one. Which must be something do with her constitution. As for Rock Chick even saying she loved me as a step-father, she later recanted this saying it was a comment she made so I'd get her lots of presents. Damn, an I believed it. Thing is when I'm drunk I can't help but speak garbage, truthful garbage. And then pass out my love to every Tom Dick and Henry about. Next time I'll take a tape recorder, not just for my benefit, I could blackmail other's later. Who knows what may come out. Personally, I hope they keep it tucked away and don't let it out unless it's on film, camera, or voicemail.

Making Gravy

Last weekend I did it, this week end i repeated it, Yes, I believe I am now a champion gravy maker. It was a matter of powdered Bisto not the granule kind which has hydrogenated fats in it but the flour kind. The real stuff. The technique is so simple, but so tasty.

So I wont tell and will keep it to myself. It's taken years. Years. Well no actually just a matter of reading the instructions and following them. Now this is unusual because sometimes reading instructions doesn't help, especially when they have been written in Japanese. Especially in furniture flat-pack construction. Nope. just read the instruction on a pack of Bisto and your gravy will (fingers-crossed) be perfect.

The day has been quite, not much done except for the gravy and now all of a sudden I'm thinking of all the things I could of done. It's like my brain's in second gear and going backwards. I suppose were I a woman I would of done a 100 different things. Lucky I'm not then.

From a 6 year old's perspective

Little Monster boy is growing taller, today he really does look like his full 6 years of age. I tried to tell him about my exercising and putting on weight. He was not bothered. He said he was not bothered. While he drew pictures of Cybermen.

If only I were 6 again. I am often accused of being imature, even child like. In all the reality of this world being child like is a welcome distraction. Now being fat might make it easier for Cybermen to catch me. So now I know where to get my inspiration. Treadmill tomorrow here I come.

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.