Salsa with the Munsters

Well Sparkling Eyes is still giving me jip over taking up Salsa, telling me it will "end in tears" no matter what I say at this point she and everyone else she knows seems to think anyone who goes to Salsa is a gigolo just waiting to put it about. Truth be said this is far from it. And as always so disappointing those she knows have this view point and haven't actually tried it. I was even dismayed when I heard Rock Chick had put tuppence worth of opinion in as well. One guy on youtube dances all the time. He says it's good for your health. Though I don't think I'll be as fanatical as he is, going to the gym is tough enough. Doing the little fat man on running machine is the extent of any strenuous exercise I can maintain.

So it happens this week I hit my third Salsa lesson. I did have some doubts about going, but because of all the external pressure I purposely made sure I went. Not to mention the laughter my Fish Factory colleagues were gaining from my tails and demonstrations of nifty foot work. Yes, they laughed but were encouraging as they laughed. More than some I know. The real problem though is I am a slow learner. It's very difficult for me learning how to co-ordinate in a dance pattern. This foot work is hard work and others just don't appreciate how much effort it takes to learn.

Unfortunately this time I have to say the lesson was not up to standard. The class had increased from just me to seven people, another man and four ladies. They had all been auditioning for the Munsters earlier in the morning so having some spare time this lunch period they decided to drop in and try their footsies at a bit of Salsa. I wish they had continued down the road and taken the bus, even better the train, better still a plane, to anywhere.

There was tall Munster lady maybe a foot taller than myself who seemed to dance as though she was on a pogo stick. Just jumping up and down. I needed two dozen spare yellow pages to stand on and they still didn't help. Not to mention the toff accent she had acquired from somewhere. If there is something so grating, it's the pretentiousness of a toff accent. Then there was short wide Munster lady who had the girth of a hundred year old Oak tree. Though surprisingly nimble on her feet I had some trepidation about squashed toes and she wasn't too keen on bothering with the subtle hand movements which signal the next set of steps. Those by the way are things the male instigates such as lifting the left hand to signal time for a twirl, or moving to the left or right to signal a side step, Cha Cha Cha I think. Then there was the little 100 year old Indian Munster lady who was scared to have her hands held and it was impossible to dance with, like she was afraid I had some kind of disease. I checked and the leprosy has definitely cleared up. Lastly there was Munster Leading lady who did her own thing, I was a mere accessory. Again another woman who believes she should take and dictate the steps. In fact it didn't matter whether I was there or not. It nearly led to an all out battle. I threatened her with my crossbow and shield but she didn't take the hint, pulling the little fat man around like he was a rag doll. So all in all, I learnt little from this dance lesson. A note to all those ladies THE MAN IS SUPPOSED TO LEAD. It's not a matter of women's lib, it's a matter of how the Salsa is supposed to be done.

My dreams of dancing with Sparkling Eyes are beginning to disintegrate like the making of a rhubarb crumble, when you rub the topping through your fingers and it's particles drop into the bowl. I really, really want to dance with Sparkling. To show we can do something together in unison and have fun. But knowing my luck she will bloody WANT To LEAD as well. It is with this I realise the Salsa is about Men's lib. We males actually get to dictate the dance when it's done properly. I want to learn the dance properly, but with the Munsters there will be very little progress. Unless of course I catch leprosy, like flattened feet and being led by a WOMAN. This is a disaster. The whole thing is a disaster.

So I am now close to giving up. A stigma seems to be attached to the Salsa and because of this and other's notions I'm despondent and sad.

Next week I'll take along, a chain saw to cut the bounding Tall Munster lady down to size, a book tittled "I'm cured of leprosy" and another book on crash dieting for the wider Salsa learner. As for the the one who wants to lead I'll just attach cactus spikes to my hands. See who wants to lead then!!

A little Salsa in the morning

This morning I got up and before leaving practiced a few Salsa steps. I'd been checking them out on youtube and was amazed how rhythmic it can be, and even how one person can do it on their own. So it could be, my normal weird fat man tries to dance routine can become a not so weird and isn't he good fat man dancing routine. As Bruce Forsythe might of said. In one breath. Didn't he do well? YES he did Brucee.

I was a little perturbed by the reaction received from Sparkling Eyes. She intimated in pretty straight forward words I was going through a mid life crisis, then to get ready for the ride. Thing is I am over my mid life mark now so it can't be a mid life crisis. My response was along the lines of, great, I can't wait for next week because then it will be an open top car and a 22 year old girlfriend. Most everyone else I've spoken to have laughed at my attempt to Salsa but they have found it exciting or interesting or something along these lines. Especially the leaning over bit when I demonstrate the steps. Though I think I have managed to shake off the inadvertent lean after this morning's practice. It's nice to be encouraged.

Salsa is an up and coming dance in London, and as I talk to people around me I find a number who actually have tried it, done it, or are doing it. Amazing. All different ages, shapes, sizes. It must be in London such an activity is not associated with body snatching, vampirism and burning at the stake of heretics. Of course these other items I practice much later in the day and they are honestly nothing like Salsa at all. The steps are all different.

First Ever Salsa Lesson

For several months the ladies at the Fish Factory had been pestering me to join Salsa classes. They’re once a week during a lunch break. But I had on many occasions been able to avoid them. They said there was a lack of men, to tell the truth, me and the baldy carpenter man who sits next to me had been getting the thumb screws. But this was it. I had decided. After a conversation with Sparkling Eyes where she had suggested we could Salsa, I’d have to learn. Of course I don’t think Sparkling knows how to Salsa either, but she will learn I’m sure. And I could teach her if she don’t mind. But I have to be careful. Because if she thinks I’m getting bossy or know something she’d like to know then I’d be in trouble.

Promptly leaving the Fish factory at mid day I headed to the hall. It’s not a little hall. It’s a pretty big hall. With a tall ceiling. About thirty feet up. And the hall could probably hold a few hundred people, with room to spare I’m sure. As I entered there was a lady standing at a table arranging leaflets. All of them were about Salsa. Salsa gigs all over the country. I didn’t take much notice, but asked if she was teaching. She was. There was three of us in the hall. Me the teacher, and her mum. Both these ladies looked familiar, because they work in different parts of the Fish Factory. I introduced myself, wrote my name in a book. And waited. Texted Sparkling and waited a little more. I was the only student. Baldy Carpenter man had blown me out, he was yellow.

The next 40 or so minutes I learnt the 4 basic steps to Salsa. I danced with the teacher, and at one moment I was a bit horrified. Because, it was the moment when for some reason I make an odd face. Sticking tongue out without realising, as though about to lick ice cream from the sides of my mouth. It’s partly to do with the intense concentration. People with brains do this now and again. I caught myself, laughed and reeled it in. During the first ten minutes I nearly walked out of the hall from frustration. The steps and my brain just didn’t seem to be working together. Doing a kinda side step move, I found myself leaning over. Instead of the elegant swaying hip macho latin fellow, as required; I had become a mobile Leaning Tower of Pizza. I commanded my feet to move and at times they were glued to the floor. I was counting and losing count. Pulling when I should have been pushing, left footing when I should have been right footing and generally getting into a knot. There was one move I was a natural at, it’s a quarter turn. Otherwise the whole experience was equally annoying and enjoyable.

I can’t wait to show Sparkling my moves. Though I am sure she will be moving side ways or backwards to keep away from me, especially if the tongue thing gets lose. I’ll even show Rock Chick if she’s interested. However, I'm probably glad Baldy Carpenter man decided not to come, because he reminded me if he had come we'd of been the only students and may have found we were dancing with each other. Now blackmail matterial or what?

There's one small snag to Salsa. I don’t have dark latin skin or the features of Zorro. But I’m sure this is OK, I got the moves, better work on the rhythm though, the side step, the forward step, the back step, the hips, the leaning, couting from one to eight and missing out four, five and eight. Blimey, no wonder I got confused.

Severe Haircut

Sad it is, but I enjoy having my hair cut which I did yesterday. It is just relaxing, especially when the hairdresser isn’t from the local butcher shop. One particular girl who used to cut my hair always nicked my ear. I’d come out and for some reason one of them would be sore and bleeding. I tried desperately to avoid her. But the more I tried to avoid her cutting my hair, the more unlucky I got. So I just simply stopped going there and cast my net wider. Now about a mile down the road I’ve found another hairdresser. The barber’s in there change around and I can say it’s been years since I last had an English barber. This time I think he was from the former Yugoslavia, but was quite a nice bloke.

I tried several times telling him I wanted to keep as much hair on top as I could. Unfortunately the problem with someone who doesn’t speak English very well, is they don’t speak it very English very well or understand it. Somehow we communicated. I liked the fact he put a burning taper to my ears to singe out those recalcitrant straws. OK there was a moment when I felt the heat and nearly headed for the fire extinguisher, but overall I was happy. Sitting in the chair and seeing what he done. It looked smart and short, so I tipped him well.

A day passes. I get up early and head to the fish factory but not to work. My duty was on a picket line outside, though I don’t think we’ll be having further strikes, those who went in the factory defeat the efforts of those on strike. Then I had to hit the gym. So I did. It was here for the first time I was able to really see the effect of yesterday’s hair cut and I realised it was severe. Sparkling Eyes saw it on cam and told me I looked like a skin head. I was not amused so put my Russian hat on to hide it. She laughed and poked me several times and because she had been ill the past couple of days this all made her feel much better. In the meantime I begin to worry about the possibility I am becoming thin on top. Follicles beginning to migrate. Probably to my arse.

I went into the centre of London hoping to see the new Will Smith film, Hancock. But after seeing the price of a ticket and not having a real person to purchase a ticket from, just machines. I declined to enter the cinema. It is no wonder there are so many pirates about. The cinema’s and film makers have priced themselves out of the public's reach. For a day when I had lost money I was not going to pay an exorbitant rate for a ticket to watch a film, especially when it wasn’t even peak viewing time. Perhaps I should of collected my hair from the hair dressers and tried to do some kind of barter? For some reason I don’t think they would of accepted. Shame, they just don’t know a super hero when they see one. This disguise works wonders. The Fat balding middle aged man, who’d believe it, hairy ass and a fart to kill.

Text message to unsettle

Sometimes in a pretty ordinary day which is going along without any issues, the type I like, something happens which can be annoying for the remaining daylight hours. Today this little problem came from a third party. Sparkling Eyes had texted me because wonderful Rock Chick had said something I should know about. Sparkling had told Rock Chick I occasionally spend my lunch break in the Church Court yard enjoying the company of squirrels and pigeons. Rock Chick had taken from this an interpretation and warning. Of course rather than keep this to herself Sparkling had to share it with me. It reminded me of the time I was made to watch a horror movie which Rock Chick liked, but I found disturbing. I don't know why, but teenage girls have things about horror movies. Like they must find and watch the worst to show they are without fear. Unfortunately this fearlessness does not extend towards middle aged fat men. After watching the DVD, I spent the next 2 weeks checking behind me just in case there happened to be the floating ghost of a Chinese man. There wasn't. But the effect lasted. So going back to the message.

Rock Chick's interpretation was along the lines of sitting in Church Yards eating lunch was not a good thing. The reason being ghosts from the Church Yard attach themselves to you and follow you home. I really didn't know about this. It was something I didn't want to know about. In fact it's a load of codswallop. They don't. Because I keep looking. And have seen nothing. No ghost. No floating man, nothing. So why did it play on my senses I ask myself? Because it was completely unexpected. A bit like watching a Jaws movie, you never know when you're going to end up as fish food. My nice quite ordinary day was now troubled. And it doesn't matter what I do this bloody thing is following me about now. I mean, not thing but thought.

Who needs ghosts when a teenager will do?

Rained Today

Got up late and left for the train station. Got wet, then just as I reached the station 50 Italian pensioners beat me. They then began to que at the ticket machine. The kiosk was just as bad. I don’t know if it was the getting up late or whether it was the rain. Today things were not going so well.

Walked to the bus stop, as I approached it a bus passed without stopping. Great. It rained some more. So I began to walk to an alternate bus stop. Two minutes after reaching the alternate stop a bus came along. One woman was waiting another was standing about fifteen yards away. The woman who was fifteen yards away walked to the bus stop and pushed in front of the only person waiting. It seems now a common practice in this part of London for some persons to not bother about the etiquette of queuing. They generally fall with in a specific category of ethnic origin. But I don’t want to mention it in case I get accused of being racist. Because now days you can not call a pensioner, a pensioner or an African an African even if they are accurate descriptions. I’m a native born Englishman. I can call myself this because I’m getting rained on.

On the bus I sat upstairs. At the back there was a young lady. Of a particular economic class and education, which a friend of mine would call a Scrote or if in Scotland a Gadggy or Ned. She was talking rather loudly so the rest of the upper deck could hear her. I watched the water from my umbrella run off and pool on the floor. She had been caught for shop lifting, but not been put inside. Her boyfriend was given eight months and she couldn’t understand it. She was getting sentencing later in the month, after some community work. It troubled her how some people got imprisonment for shop lifting and others didn’t. In reality she hadn’t really thought much at all. The bus shifted and my pool of water moved, turning into it’s very own stream.

Obviously her presence on the upper deck is proof of warped justice or damp justice as the day was drizzling out to me. The thought occurred to me to tell her she was a “moron” and didn’t she know; this was her life and it’s not an achievement to be banged up. I don’t think it would of mattered because her peer group see lawlessness as an asset. Maybe she could have a word with the other woman who had pushed in the que. And got some advice how to push herself behind bars a little quicker. This way she could of avoided stealing from a shop and upping the price of goods for those who do pay and perhaps avoiding the necessity of a couple of security guards here and there. She could submit to her guilt pre-emptively, so to say.

Being an enlightened country, here if religion is mentioned in politics it is frowned upon. We’ve done it, got the badge, been there and learnt politics and religion should never be mixed together. It happened a few hundred years ago. Yet, in a great many countries it is not. In some, a thief would have their hands cut off. I dare not think what an adulterer would have cut off, except they’d probably join the high pitched end of a choir afterwards. So the rain falls down. I get wet and internally curse the shoplifters and que jumpers. When my number’s up, I just wonder if she’d like to jump in front of me, I surely wouldn’t mind it would be a watery grave I’m sure.

Getting Drunk

Getting drunk can be a happy experience. But there are some conditions, such as being around people you like or don’t know. Those unknown persons are acquainted to other group members and are an unknown factor. There’s more to chat about. Or if they are shy then less. But they add to the atmosphere. Which of course brings the next essential, a good atmosphere all round. Where no body is out to settle a personal vendetta, all are open and safe persons to be amongst. There’s one bloke who goes to the same pub as me. A regular. Who I just can’t help but dislike, I have to watch myself if ever I’m going through the stages of drunkenness because I could easily let the genie out of the bottle and become obnoxious, if not aggressive. He’s a complete arse hole, so there’s good reason.. For a conducive atmosphere some background music helps. Even better if it is a live band and you’re not sitting bang next to a speaker, because in between gulps of alcohol there is the occasional need to chat.

Stages to getting drunk, usually begin with, the comment “this drink is having no effect on me,” something I say is after half a pint. And would depend on whether I’ve eaten, because drinking on a full stomach makes slow intoxication. Whilst drinking on an empty stomach is equivalent to a very, very cheap date and a permanent gaze at the world through the bottom of beer glass spectacles, effectively some stages are jumped altogether, not to mention everyone looks sexy. Even the flea bitten dog in the corner suffering from a bout of mange.

However, if just getting normally slowly inebriated then the next stage is feeling tipsy. This inevitably brings on a happy smile. A permanent smirk behind which the mind thinks of funny things constantly. The outside world looks great because encaged in this alcoholic froth everything is funny. Without realising it I catch onto the double entendre so quickly it astounds me how comic timing become natural. It’s odd but the smallest things and comments can be changed into something obscure and hilarious. After tipsy is the pretty merry stage. It’s this point when I don’t ever want to come back to reality. If I could stay intoxicated to this level permanently, everything in the world would have little importance, except of course the funny things again. Being pretty merry is wonderful time, and I wish it were a frozen continuum. For a short period anyway.

Coming very close to this stage is the “I am drunk” stage, and admitting it to other people. Who equally if drinking will simply smile and enjoy your company because they may well be at the tipsy or the pretty merry state themselves, they naturally enjoy the company of a drunk and don’t shy away. There is a caveat at this point. Other’s who are sober will look at you with distaste on their face. As though you have suddenly caught small pox. Don’t worry, just stay away from sober people, by being sober they are out of the loop and do not have access to the inebriate’s mind. I recall chatting on the phone while on the train and being drunk or rather shit faced drunk. The stares I got. If I could of bottled them up they were the stuff a horror movie could be made from.

After being drunk, I hazard there are just two more stages left. This is because more than anything else the speed of recovery next day is down to which drunk state you’re in. If only at the drunk stage recovery isn’t so bad. However next is very drunk, followed by paralytic. Being very drunk means you will have a hang over, and may not be able to recover until mid afternoon. Being paralytic, is also a fine line from being very drunk. When you’re paralytic and wake up in the morning the room is still spinning. It is the classic symptom of one whopping hang over to come. Further there’s the pukes. Or for those unaware visits to the loo with projectile like vomiting and getting into contact with your closest post alcoholic friend. Mr Old Armitage Shanks. Sodd the skid marks. There’s something so comforting about hugging a ceramic pot. Again this is providing you haven’t been greeted by another unfortunate symptom. It’s when the thought goes through your mind “I am going to shit myself.” Yes, if you haven’t practiced getting off the blocks fast it could be a problem. And preying to the great green bottle in the sky, or brown bottle, the toilet is free. Because if someone else is in there, one of you is going to have an accident. This weekend I been through all these stages fortunately with no accidents.

Post drunk clarity. When the air has cleared and your able to think straight with the aid of a couple of headache pills your mind is vexed by the same two words “never again.” Let there not pass over these lips another drop. Let me stay sober the rest of my life and never visit the gates of hell to recover again. Oh well. Till next time.

Rock Chick's 16th

I spent a wonderful week in the company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. It took me over 12 hours to eventually arrive, too many train delays courtesy of National Express. The week has flown by so fast, so very fast but I feel chilled. A reminder of Rock Chick greeted me when I returned and checked a pile of post. Yep the NHS had caught up me and informed me all of my organs have been donated. Rock chick laughed when I told her. However, my biggest concern on the letter was the bit which says "any of my organs and tissue" I hope they don't want parts while I'm perfectly alive and kicking. On expiry, but not otherwise thank you.

Sparkling Eyes had me running about helping to prepare for Rock Chick's 16th birthday. I was told off because I just didn't run quick enough. So I did actually ran about a bit and it seemed to calm Sparkling's irritation. It didn't matter whether I was just moving one object from one end of the garden to the other, as long as I looked busy. It's nice to make people happy.

The party was great, I eventually hit the hay at 3:30 a.m. Sparkling Eyes disappeared a half hour earlier, so I'd even out endured the veteran party goer. Mind I was half slumped on a couch eyes closed and spinning comatose on a Merry-go-round. I recall having a chat to an elderly man a retired lorry driver. He was funny. He recounted how it took him 14 months to get out of the army, he might of been conscripted I can't recall whether he said. But it was the headaches and seeing 2 psychiatrists. One of which said he was a malingerer. Retired Lorry Driver was straight he just didn't like being ordered about, and if there was any more fighting he wanted to be in a tank. For personal safety reasons. I don't blame him. When asked if he had a job to go to when he left. His reply was, yes, a good one as well, stealing tiles off roofs. It was a brief moment I'd spent in his company but a moment I'll not forget. Lorry Driver was unhappy he didn't get to drive a tank much, although he'd passed his test. The sum of his tank driving experiences he said was 2 minutes. Must of been something to do with the headaches.

Shadow of a Shrimp

While at lunch in the eat-as-much-as-you-like, which is a Chinese, I contemplated as it was the second Chinese meal I'd had this week a few genes must be infiltrating my body. If anyone could be Chinese from eating Chinese food, I'm sure to be at least half way there. After scooping some mixed rice I couldn't help noticing a shrimp. For some reason this immediately linked into a memory from the film Forest Gump. Who spent a little while shrimp fishing in memory of his lost friend.

Back to the shrimp. I looked at it and thought how small it appeared and wondered about size. Whether there is a difference in shrimps, because I'm sure the one's Forest caught were some what larger. Maybe it is to do with where they come from, a particular sea, an area or just a different type of shrimp. The reality was, it didn't just look small, it looked pathetically small and I deliberated whether it was the result of a genetic experiment gone wrong. An extra small breed of shrimp specifically made for the food industry. But then when I thought about it, generally all foods with shrimps in the UK have paltry pathetic pink things. I've even seen prawns from the UK so small they looked like shrimps as well. I'm sure there is a difference between shrimps and prawns and in the giant freezer cabinets in Chinese grocery stores there are some pretty big frozen prawns. It just happens most people in the UK, me included see shrimps as little pink curly things. They were I thought, not really shrimps. More shadows of a shrimp.

I've put in a order for some books from Amazon. One related to the Fish Factory the other a wonderful book I read once. It was loaned to me by a man who has since died some years ago. It was called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The guy who lent the book worked a few desks away from mine, he was Bob Dylan's greatest fan. A really nice bloke. He'd swear like a trooper and oddly was a senior manager. I noticed if I swore while chatting to him, then he'd swear twice as much. If someone had told him twenty years before the effects of smoking I'm sure he would of given up. So in effect this man was a rebel, liking Bob Dylan was a clue. The book another. From what I recall it was about a man taking a motor cycle trip across America on a Harley. It is one of the great American novels. I probably have read more great American writers than British ones. Not to say British ones are few or not as great, but perhaps not as varied. With shame I say I've never read a Dickens. But at this time it don't matter. What matters are the rebels. The ones who stand out and do things, think things and say things which other people don't get. They may even be considered crazy. These people leave little waves even when gone. In a world full of humans they must be like a small shrimp in the sea. Their wave is a memory expanding and drifing outwards.

I'm looking forward to the books arriving. In the mean time I'll consider the shrimp now what can it tell me? I hope he speaks before he's eaten.

Phobia's for everything

It is said there is a phobia for everything. So many things to be afraid of although there's probably people walking about who have more or less phobias than others. If there were an average number of phobias I wonder how many it would be. Five, six maybe more. Of course there are all the common ones which easily can be accounted for. For instance, spiders, drowning, falling, heights, rabid dogs being beaten up by a giant marsh mellow intent on eating your liver. No, the last one there is something I made up. But then is it valid to have phobias about things which are not real? Are they then actually called a phobia? No body likes nightmares and would say if it were possible to have a phobia of nightmares we'd all have one. Yet it is something we have no choice over. Perhaps a phobia is something which can be avoided. As with Jack Nicholoson in the film As Good As it Gets. Walking on cracked pavements was something he tried to avoid. Whereas nightmares are unavoidable. Like Taxes, change, getting old, ill and dying. Yes, dying. My particular favourite.

Then I suppose everything has to be faced up to sometimes. Somethings you can only do once. Unless you happen to be Buddhist. If I stick a finger in each pie, I might scold them all, but then I can get to taste the tip of each one. Unfortunately with too many different tastes to discern things could get confusing. Taste buds mixed up, and I could end up puking. The answer. Quite simple. Stick to one pie at a time, keep it cool, and remember the cream. Food, well, I suppose there has to be a pleasure amongst all these fears.

Breakfast twice

This morning i saw my breakfast twice. Once to eat once to throw up. This has never happened to me before, without reason. People who I told seemed to think it was with going out into the sun. But this explanation doesnt add up. Because I hadn't really let myself get into the sun. The coffee was nice going down but coming back up was discerning. Maybe it was some kind of curse on me? Nope, just some kind of belly bug. Even a big belly bug.

Tomorrow morning, I'll check be weary if it happens again.

DLR to East London

I got on the DLR (Docklands Light Railway) this afternoon with the little Oriental fella. These are short, light trains which travel without any driver. Except there usually is a guard on them, who ensures the doors open and close correctly. Though I expect if they really are short staffed the DLR trains would run without any human intervention. It took a mere 30 mins to reach our destination.

East London stations all seem to be within moments of each other, to the degree it seems nonsensical to have so many stops. The other thing is the weird and wonderful names they have, Mudchute and Pudding Mill Lane are a couple of stops which stick in my mind. Even though I've never got off at either. They just seem to be odd names to give places. Then again it is the East End of London, and presently London's mini Manhattan. An Odd mix. Especially when you consider Billingsgate Market. A renown fish market, open the earliest of hours, and bang right on the edge of this mini Manhattan. Fact is Billingsgate was there long before the high rises started to sprout like chicken pox on an infected child. Everyone knows it. Odd fish and money. The two in such close proximity. Perhaps the genetic material from one of the fish will rub off on the money. Then I could go fishing for money.

Knowing my luck my fishing licence would be out of date, and the only thing I'd catch would be Moby Dick. Where's Captain Ahab when you need him?

The Pub

It's odd but going to the Pub can be an enlightening experience. Seeing especially people I'd already see during working hours, but in a different light. This does not mean they are drunk. It means relaxed, away from the stresses and strains of a Fish Factory. Then of course there is always the off chance of seeing a character absent for ages, or making new friends, hopefully not drunk, because making friends with someone who is drunk is not a practice I'd encourage. They may never remember who you are when sober. Mind it's just like being sober and having a conversation with a drunk, especially serious. Then it's just not worth it. I'm sure others think the same of me, I'd never have a conversation with myself if I were drunk. But then it's odd also how other people react towards drunks. Especially if they are not used to seeing intoxicated persons. Sober ignorant people can act like a drunk has got leprosy. Which is another experience I'll not go into.

From my local, I recall an odd Irish fella who sat at a table on his own drinking a Guinness. A Good choice of drink. I'd seen him in there a number of times and then on one occasion I started chatting to him. He seemed quite an amenable bloke. He confessed to liking the odd bet on a horse and once having been to a race course in Scotland, the Ayr track I think. Another time quite recently when the urge to have a pint overcome me I popped into my watering hole and had a chat with another regular, again I'd barely spoken to before, but who was quite OK to chat to. Perhaps the need of having a chat is another reason for entering a Pub. The conversation went on, I ordered a meal and after the conversation continued. We'd talked about Sky TV and the cost it is to Pubs to air premiership footy matches. The monthly licence is phenomenal. In my pub they chose to dump Sky. I don't blame them. The Irish fella let on he was going to use another pub because the price was going up. I didn't see him a couple of weeks later, he just stopped going there. I hope it was nothing to do with my talking to him.

The make up of employees at the fish factory is of a different ilk nowdays. These people would prefer to sing in a choir, go to church, call people not related to them brother or sister. Other's live miles away in lands where the roads wind and bend and there are no lights on the roads at night. Stick land. They have fields and as neighbours cows. I've walked through cow fields before and they stink. My belief is moderation. A little of something is good, too much is not. And as for abstention, that's something I try to abstain from.

Wot no Table

I have been informed by Sparkling Eyes the table has gone. It's outside. In the garden. With the birds the bees and the flora. There it stands alone. Unwanted. Without a friend. Except for a stray cat who occasionally comes round and crys out loud. Not to mention any insects who like to use it for breakfast. I am mortified. Life without a table, whatever next? I've been told to "get over it" and "it's not your house" but I can't help it, I am still mortified. It just will not leave my mind. OK there may have only been one good chair. But chairs can be bought to fill empty places. A doom and gloom has descended upon my mind and the image of a room without a table is like a car without wheels, coats with no coat stand, fish flapping helplessly out of water and day without sun.

Ode to the table.

Oh table I love thee. I share my cereal with thee, the quite tender moments of a morning coffee and intent listening to the radio. Oh I beseech thee fair table, come on in from the outside. Into the warm, into my heart. Let me put my elbows upon you and gaze at my re pas. And thank the heaven's for your four legged support. Without you my knees and thighs would be bruised and battered. Oh Table, dearest table you are in my thoughts. Let me run my fingers over your hard smooth surface. Let me place a cup of coffee on your top, spread out my newspaper and read from you. Oh table, oh table don't go away. Be there when I need you. Be there because I will always need you, want you, and require somewhere to place my keys, lose change, wallet, mp3 player, books, glasses, and other accoutrement's. I lean on you when you are there, without you I fall over. Oh table, table come on in from the cold. There's no spys out there, just birds all a twitter and they'll not appreciate you as I. Table you're so useful, are you not? I cry, I ask oh table, come on in from the cold, let me warm you with my dinner plate, let me desire you no more. Sob. Sob.

Yes I have a fondness for tables, their usefulness predates the invention of fire for early man. Now it is as though my legs have been cut from under me. I sure hope I can sleep tonight.

Eyebrows Sir?

I took myself out for a hair cut. It was during the week but I had a couple of days due to me and my mop was getting untidy. It gets untidy at the point when I should consider giving it a comb. Being lazy is hard work and I now got to the stage of not combing my hair if I can help it. The only way to get away with this is to make sure it's cut short.

My hair dresser spoke English OK, in fact he was probably a second generation dude. Though I must state I really could do with finding a good Turkish hairdresser which there is lacking in the area I live in at the moment. They do great things with a burning taper. Anyway, this dude was young, probably mid 20s, at the age where looking good accounts for everything in life. He invited me to take his seat for my scalping. He asked a number of questions over what I'd like and how I wanted it cut. Generally, anything as long as its a short-back-and-sides. Then two minutes into the cut, after spraying some water on my hair to stop it waving about like a Mexican wave on LSD he asked "would you like the eyebrows trimmed sir?" Of course I said yes.

The thing was I'd checked my eyebrows earlier in the morning and thought they were passable. OK they needed a little bit of shaping, but for a hairdresser to ask meant these brows were out of control. I can see myself going off to B & Q to see if they got an weed killer at this rate. While my hair got damp from the sprayed water the dude took out a miniature clipping machine and gave my brows a twice over. I could feel clumps of hair cascade down over my eyes. I really didn't know or realise they had gone wild. I suppose I am now at that stage in life where looks if not hairy eyebrows are not everything. Well at least I don't have a uni brow then I'd be really, really uncool.

London Marathon and a rasberry chocolate cake

Tomorrow will be the Marathon. The Marathon. The biggest, bestest in the world!! YES!! So I went on down to Greenwich via Blackheath with Green Car man and The Little Oriental fella. It's not been a great day weather wise. Rain on and off, even a chill. But for runners I'm sure it would not be too bad. There's hundreds of porta loo's on Blackheath. Barriers are along the main roads, and big scaffolding structures arching over the roads with Flora advertising. Flora being the sponsors of course. Lucky the Marathon wasn't on last week this same time it had snowed. I read an article in a tabloid which indicated there would be 35 thousand runners. Way too many in fact. Although it must be an achievement to run this distance, having so many runners can not be a good thing. I know it would make me feel sea sick seeing a wave of people bob up and down. Lets just hope the Chinese don't take to running marathons.

Greenwich has a great little market, which specialises in all wonderful expensive things. Odd things you can't normally get anywhere else. One of the stalls there is a cake stall. And their raspberry chocolate cake is heaven. I bought a piece as well as the praline chocolate. No wonder I am fat. I just can't help myself. Regardless of the weeks I've put in at the gym, if I can't control my eating it will take a long, long time before I ever make any real in roads to both fitness and weight loss. Sod the weight loss. Give me cake any day. Hey lets not forget the odd pint of Guinness. Chocolate Guinness cake, hmm I wonder?

I am missing Sparkling Eyes. When I talk to her it seems she is forever busy, either working or doing good work in the community. It's been far too many weeks since I saw her eyes, had a hug, and learnt all over again my place in life. With a smile I'll add. Anyway thinking of you Sparkles.

Stuck on Sponge Bob and the gym

Little Monster boy is stuck on a Sponge Bob game. Employee of the month. I've seen bit's of Sponge Bob on TV but it don't quite appeal to me as a regular viewing item. Neither does Desperate House Wives, but because Little Monster Boy likes Sponge Bob I now have to help him. So for ten minutes which was just about bearable I loaded his game and played it. Hoping to get to the point the Little Monster is stuck. Unfortunately I haven't. Of those ten minutes I spent five laughing at the characters before their droning voices detracted my concentration. A bit like being at the fish factory with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum's inane incessant jovial chit chat centre on taking the mickey. I'll not say out of who. Yet with Sponge Bob all I had to do was hit a button and close the game down. I'll gather myself together and have another go tomorrow.

Did the gym this evening and my successful impersonation of a Fat Man running on the Tread Mill. A bloke next to me sat on a cycle machine, he turned the pedals a couple of times but really didn't bother to do much else. Being skinny, maybe it would waste him away had the pedals actually been turned. Instead he was engrossed in trivial conversation with another bloke. Also skinny. I listened to Nina Simone and the long version of her song Sinnerman on my mp3 player. The song is brilliant. It helped me put on extra pace and breath heavily while doing the athletic Fat Man shuffle. Which sounds a bit like a new dance. Labouring away, breathing loudly and even half singing along to the music had no effect on the two idiots. They talked continuously through my entire term on the wobble belly machine disregarding where they were.

I couldn't help thinking of the Smart come Dumb balance in the world. Where Dumb people go to a gym to talk rather than actually break a sweat. It's a common attribute to teenies and a certain extent posers, who chit chat and check out their body in a mirror. Which makes me think there are way too many mirrors in the gym. Mind if they only had the one mirror then they'd all be getting a small piece of it. Perhaps enough for their face. At least then they would be able to check their hair. Of course amongst these participants you have to include the pretty people, of which teens believe they belong by default of being a teen. Though some people are pretty and are not teens. They might be the ones who concentrate on stretching and again never favour a real exercise machine because sweating would be so uncool. Fortunately my exercise session soon came to an end and I could drift into a world of ordinary ugly people.

Now if only like the Sponge Bob game I could press an icon, and those who prefer to play Dumb are magically Smart. No, the reality is it will never happen. If they are dumb, they are just dumb and I'll just have to get over it. I wonder if they would be any good at Sponge Bob games?

Lunch and a moment to relax

Wednesday lunch times I have found myself frequenting a nice little haunt. It's the grounds of a church sat on a hill overlooking the Thames. There is a busy artery carrying traffic towards central London only a stone's throw away, but it's lower level muffles noise from traffic. I enjoy just sitting on a bench in the company of the odd dastardly pigeon (possibly related to the ones enjoying residence under my roof tiles) and a fat squirrel or two. Fat because we're coming out of winter and I'm sure a few patrons who use the church grounds as a short cut stop off and feed them with bags of peanuts. I sit there with a very tasty container of Chinese food from an excellent take away. Chop through my lunch (without chop sticks) and have a moment of quiet. There is nothing like getting out of the fish factory for lunch, and away from the busy throws of gutting and cleaning fishes. Odd such a small sanctuary can be found even in the urban settings of a hectic city, even odder there are not more people who eat their lunch there either. Then again if there were it wouldn't be the same.

From my seat I can see a few trees, grass, ferrys and the Thames. Which is cleaner than it used to be. To the left there are two new red residential blocks. These blocks don't have a ground floor because London is a vast flood plane it was stipulated by the powers-that be, each tower block had to be built on stilts and so effectively the ground floor has no residential accommodation. Good for them, but not for me because if there were a flood which breached the walls I'd get flooded. They are but one of many blocks being built along the whole of the Thames in what is now called the Thames Gateway. They look nice, their view unique, their price exhorbitant and their inhabitants quite mixed. Along another stretch of the Thames I know of many such places which although privately owned are rented out and their tenants from all walks of life. To use a diplomatic description.

After lunch heading out of the grounds there is a large stone lion. He watches all who enter and leave. Several yards behind him there is a wall belonging to buildings adjacent the grounds. But the wall can barely be seen, for various bushes and trees in front of it. Yet there are not just bushes and trees. There are also grave stones. And just at the point of egress it is possible to see them quite clearly. The wording has long since gone on many. Just streaks of dark acid rain runs in unintelligible groves where words once told their story.

So somewhere around where I lunch there are the bones of people who once walked this earth. Their graves perhaps now areas covered in grass or even where new buildings stand. Which is quite fortunate, because it's bad enough being pestered by the pigeons for my Chinese let other people. Maybe this is why it's so peaceful. Nah can't be, some of those squirrels look pretty mean to me. Fortunately I'm pretty good with a plastic fork. Beware, man in ex grave yard come church grounds fends of fat squirrels with fork. Lucky I can run fast.

Today it snowed in London

This morning a little treat appeared, not one I could eat, which came later, it snowed. Being a Sunday morning I woke at 8 a.m. and knew I should of got up earlier to get ready for gym. Looking out of my window snow was falling. Big massive third world war radio active lumps of it. Gently falling through the air, not being tussled by wind and neither mixed with rain. It was just snow. The odd thing though was it did not feel cold enough, it was warm indoors. To confirm this it melted rapidly on contact with road and pavements. But for the mean time, grass and plants were covered. Their leaves gathering a snow humped burden. Daffodils in the garden had white hats. The rhubarb an inch topping of icing sugar. I wondered whether the rhubarb would be killed off. A happy feeling came over me because it's a long time since real snow fell on London. However, by the evening it was almost completely gone.

For the second time I went out wearing my Russian hat. The grey furry one with a Russian hammer and scythe badge on the front. I've wrote about it in an earlier BLOG. Remarkably it kept my head warm, very warm. And with self justification it didn't matter what I looked like to the rest of the world. Because spectators of a snow filled day, like all spectators lose their judgement of fashion. Anything warm is grabbed and worn, no matter how silly. I'm sure a couple of people saw my hat and were jealous. Too bad. OK I may not be Russian but my ears were warm and my head very comfortable.

Now I'm tired. The day is over, I'll hit the hay and sleep like freshly fallen snow.

Ashes to Ashes, TV series

Just seen the first episode of this series, it's a successor to the original "Life on Mars" and a wonderful thing. Life on Mars was about a police officer in the present day who then goes into a coma and wakes up some time in the 70s or 80s. The same story line is used again for Ashes to Ashes. Music, cars and especially language, racist, sexist and fashion disasters throughout. The first episode is a little unreal, a bit like an over enthusiastic director has got his hands on the script and isn't actually mindful viewers are as dumb as he imagines. I mean, how would a police woman/inspector approach an armed man today? If she did it would certainly be wearing a bullet proof tabard. And with her daughter sitting inside her car then to run out and be taken hostage by the armed man. No, sorry, some idiot who put these scenes together needs shooting. As for our main character suddenly going back into the past, oh how wonderful. Delightful. To feel, experience and taste the 80s all over again and realise you were part of it. Although maybe not as a copper running around London catching criminals in the way they should be.

Great, another reminder of getting old. Or maybe, a reminder to indicate what an era it was.

New Blog

I've started a new blog and haven't yet put a counter on the page don't matter. I did want to title it as Serious Stuff, but the address had already been taken up. As with all some blogs, the person who last used it had written a piece a couple of years ago. It annoys me because when I wanted the Making Sense address this too was already in use. Someone again who had started writing blogs did a couple and then gave up. In the mean time, those more likely or more serious bloggers who could of used the address, like me, are penalised. Maybe the people at blogger.com should automatically deleted inactive blogs. Give them a suitable time and then zap them into some lost black hole of forgotten words. So my new blog is titled "Serious Stuff that makes me crazy."

I wanted to detract from my usual find a funny side in writing. In effect be a GOM (Grumpy Old Man), which all moany men are called when we get old. It's a life thing. We done it, been there, read the book, eaten the cake, got drunk, though not at the same time as cake eating and think we know everything. Or certainly know our own opinions. So if something annoys me such as politics, plastic bags or bad manners I'll write it in my other blog. Unfortunately as I can't do two things at once it could mean this blog gets put to one side. But it's still my favourite sounding board. Hell especially when I get more comments. Makes me think someone actually reads what I write. I just hope they are not dyslexic and it's not someone I paid to comment on my blogs. No, couldn't be I don't have that kind of money.

I don't know if it is me, but I find it even gets easier to write. Boggings becomes an outlet. Maybe it's about getting into the bloggers zone. This is not to be confused with the Twilight zone, something quite different and just as enjoyable. Anyway if there are any fans out there, who am I kidding? If you find a GOM at the bottom of your garden it's probably me. No I meant Gnome. If there is anyone out there, just don't, don't send me a signal in morse code because I'll not understand it. Thank you.

Clocks go forward

Tonight the clocks head forward an hour. Morning will peap through the curtains earlier, and heading home from work it will be lighter. In my bedroom I have a digital clock unchanged from the last time alteration, so it will be correct in the morning. Laziness probably stopped me from touching it. Or it was the thought it wouldn't be so long before it would be returned back to normal. It was. Now I think of it, not long at all. However, in the last few weeks I had contemplated moving the time back because winter just seemed to be lasting an eon. Maybe it would of been worth it, but someone said to me when he described a time management course he'd been on, if you leave something long enough it doesn't have to be done. I always wondered what time management was about. A kind of cheating. The reality is, as I say, there are only so many working hours in a day. When there's a lot of fish needing attention, and there isn't enough time then a few of them will just not get seen to, or they all get seen to but in such a bad way you know they are not up to scratch. Which I expect happens in a lot of places. So tomorrow morning, if I can get up early enough an extra hour would of passed way too quickly.

Sparkling Eyes has been quite today. Maybe I'll get a chat tomorrow. Maybe it's the thought of losing an hour. She does like a sleep. Better hit the hay myself. Nite Sparkling.

Sad news and a Night out

Yesterday morning at the fish factory I heard some sad news. One of my colleagues had died. It was a result of a struggle against Cancer. The news had a numbing effect on me, he was a nice bloke, who I'd sat next to on the bus a couple of times and had the odd chat. Though not having worked with him, I knew him and couldn't help feel down. Which accounted for my morose mood when later in the pub. Conversation tended onto things like God, and belief or not belief. It's only in contact with death I thought we learn about life. They should both be inextricably entwined so we're always prepared.

This makes me think of the film Forest Gump, when a disabled ex army veteran sits on the mast of a prawn fishing boat as it goes into a raging sea, he holds his fist up and laughs, he cajoles and rants out his grievances against god or not god, as the case may be. But it was an enlightened moment for the character. So although each minute or each second of every day can not be contemplated on the notion of death (partly because it would be too exhausting and would make a normal person verge on insanity) the hand of Thanatos is always around and it's good to know. Perhaps though, acknowledging it more often, embracing it, and respecting it gives greater reason to life. To not let things become overly heavy and stressful. To love and express this love. The odd point some religions got right. Love, a very powerful thing as are each of the persons we meet in life, because they to are this journey.

I got drunk last night after leaving the pub and going onto another venue. It doesn't take much. Just a guinness followed by 4 or maybe 5 pints of shandy. All for a reason, it was the leaving do of a member of the fish factory, who is a hard working, very-knowledgeable-in-his-field nice guy. It's a little sad, but he will be earning more and acknowledged more for his abilities. I was pretty happy being drunk. I enjoy being drunk. Especially drunk and happy. I sat in my chair with a funny smile on my face. And, loved everyone. It's nice to be a happy drunk. This morning I woke up and the room seemed to be spinning but not so bad as to throw me off the edge. Like one of those playground toys. I think I was still slightly drunk, but didn't have a headache. And it's having a hang over which is the killer. Yes Thanatos I know you're there, but this must of been the effect of Lady Inebriation herself. It is wonderful not to have a hangover, I just drunk lots of liquids. Thought about how many calories I must of downed and had some toast for breakfast. Then recalled I had rang up Sparkling Eyes and left two sets of messages on her answer phone. Damn.

I know, I was talking a load of rubbish because when I rang I wanted to talk to Sparkling Eyes in person so just blabbered stuff so as not to get cut off by the answering machine. Which does seem to cut in just when I'm getting to a good part of my message. I must make a very mental note and not leave answerphone messages when I'm drunk. They are recordings when your mind is a scrambled egg. Fortunately, in an earlier incident there was no signal on a colleagues phone to ring up Tweedledum who sits next to me. Because I was going to tell him I loved him to. I couldn't help laughing to myself. I laughed waiting for the train. On the train, and then going to bed. I probably even laughed in my sleep. A happy drunk indeed.

Belly is gonna get ya

I recall seeing an advert on TV, where a large pink belly bounced along as it chased people out for a run. The slogan was along the line of "belly gonna get ya" and the running was a way to get away from it. This was probably just about the time when running trainers had suddenly moved from being a specialist footware to avant gaude fashion. Worn by every Tom, Dick and Harry because they looked good and no matter what they were really meant for. I suppose the advertising was a major success. But in my mind it belittled the importance and significance of running shoes. As they are really meant for people who try to keep fit. I hope it's not being snobbery. Needless to say I have never bought a pair of trainers from the company who did this advertising. For when these trainers became a fashion accessory their research and design as a running tool had to be dropped for their eye candy value.

It's unfortunate you have to put on a few years in age to understand how advertisers and fashion trends are just ploys to help you depart from hard earned cash. Once beyond this point, functionality become all important. Like wearing a shirt. The patterns look good, but does it cover up my belly I ask. If the answer is yes it's doing it's job. If no, then I'm a fat git who needs to diet and exercise more. But the thing is I like food, I just love it. Especially eating it, and this is the most difficult thing to overcome. As Anne Widicombe (an overweight British politician) said when she was asked to write a book on dieting but refused because she just didn't have the time. Her words were along the lines of, it would be a short book and "eat less, exercise more." She had lost quite a few pounds in weight at this time after a TV series.

My niece today passed a compliment. As I sat on the settee, she said she was going to have a jibe at my belly but looked at it and realised it wasn't as big as normal. Saying she could see the difference. I didn't tell her how I'd pulled in my belt a bit tighter, but did mention I'd given her my Easter egg instead of eating it myself. So I am a little happier than normal, and just maybe if I can carry on getting fit I can do something really good with it. Raise money for a charity by perhaps running a race of some kind. I'll not mention the M word. Not yet, not while the belly is listening anyway. Now where did I put my biscuits?

Head all over the place

I know I've been neglecting my BLOG, it could be not having many people comment, or the low count on the page counter. But sometimes it's a matter of weighing out time writing against some other outlet. Such as spent with feet up reading a book, or better listening to one. Nope I should be a bit more active. As Sparkling Eyes will all ways say, after she's given me a full and complete opinion.

Easter is over. The talkatives came over for a visit. It was cold out and had even snowed but didn't settle. Can you believe it, in March of all times? I took Little Princess, and her two brother's talkative out for a walk to the woods. Also not forgetting the mad, absolutely mad dog. Being as the first ten minutes of the walk I found I was the only one talking, I then advised the boys they had to talk to me in turn. About anything they could think of. Yes, I'd put them under pressure. But then they are my nephews and I'm not really going to know much about them unless they tell me. After all Mrs Talkative talks far too much for anyone else to get a word in. It worked half way. There was difficulty in their conversation, yet at least they made the effort and I actually learnt something about them. It is like they are unwilling passengers whenever I take them out, but I always give them the free choice to come or stay in doors. I hope they like me, and if they don't I'd love to hear them tell me and their reasons why. It would be better than non participation.

On another day I went to see sister number 2 and her gang. She cooked leftover turkey and pasta. It didn't excite my taste buds. They were craving. But it was lunch. I'd even turned down a mate of mine who had offered lunch. The thought of refusing a good curry in a restaurant played a melody of regret in my belly. Well where family is concerned, you just have to do what you have to do. It's either this, or move to a foreign country. For some people this may be a reality, but I've always thought family should be close in vicinity. Unfortunately some families doesn't get on. For good reasons, petty reasons or bad reasons. They just don't. I only once heard a woman say she had a good childhood. Personally I thought she was a bit funny in the head. Families are dysfunctional, it's the way they are. Little House on the Prairie just don't exist in real life. Must get rid of the chip on my shoulder about the Dingle family, was that their name?

I am sorely missing Sparkling Eyes. It's been far too long since I last saw her. Amazing how it is the need of a hug, and having the Micky taken out of me is so good to have. Sparkling is doing so well giving up smoking. It must be 4 or 5 weeks now. Hmmm hope no ciggies doesn't mean she'll want to kill me next time I see her. Heck, she wants to throttle me smoking or not smoking, I can't win either way. But it's fun though. Yep, must make me crazy.

Signs of aging

It seems the signs of aging are making themselves a bit more explicit. Especially over the last few days. I look in the mirror in preparation for a shave and there's no denying it. Early in the morning I'm beginning to look ugly. Especially with the lines and shopping bags under my eyes. They just appear darker than normal. Must be the natural lighting from the morning sun, because it's getting brighter as well. Give me an electric light any day.

With aging comes worries of age related illnesses. So in another instance over the last few days I hear part of a radio program about Prostate Cancer. This is now moving me towards the hypochondria stage. Not only can I not escape eye bags, I got to think about whether my bladder is any different from what it was, in a more frequent way. Hell, I've always had a frequent bladder since whenever I can remember. Thing what made me think twice though was when an expert said 40% of men in their mid 40s have prostate cancer. Great, bloody great. So there's a high chance of anyone I know my age having it. Or perhaps even me. The only part positive thing the expert said was only 3% of those cases would be ones they'd have to look into. I know I shouldn't of checked out the web site they advised me of either. More food for the worry demons. If not the passing water demons.

Finally, for some completely unrelated reason I woke up at early this morning. It wasn't the bleary eyed wakefulness you get and go back to sleep kind. It was the, OK-it's-morning-lets-get-up kind. In a matter of moments I wondered about getting up. I knew it was early because it was still dark. I wondered well, if it was 5 a.m. then there would be no problem with having an early start and a long breakfast or listen to the radio. Just before I did this though I reached over and pulled the clock to my nose pressing the light button. Wonderful, it was 2:30 a.m., fortunately I managed to get back to sleep and woke up late.

I suppose it could of been worse. At least I did wake up, and at least I can moan and groan about my hopefully non existent health problems. So a big lunch and some chocolate and all was well again.

Moody week

It's been a moody week for me. It happened after a very short conversation I had with someone not to be named. Just to say, they way I was spoken to wasn't what I expected. But hell everyone has a bad day. But mine's lasted a week so far.

In my diary I generally write down the days I go to the gym. After finding I've been paying for my membership for a good few months and not using it I decided now was time to return. Get my monies worth. Or if not the full money, a few lose coins worth. So I counted the number of times I've done gym. It comes to 14 sessions. Not so much blood, but lots of gasping for air and sweat has been involved. I'm not entirely sure but I just might be losing a little bit of weight. A clue is in the need to keep pulling up my jeans. Not to say they are falling down. Just there happens to be a little more space in the girth. Not enough to go and buy a new wardrobe though.

My speciality is running. It's a funny thing is running. Because it's something you can't really cheat at. If the fitness is not there to run, then you're not going to be much good at it. The amazing thing is a lot of the poser types, or the young looking good types like to try and jog on the tread mill. The operative word here is try. I enjoy their company when they get a machine next to me. Especially, when they try, yes try, to actually run. They don't last long. They may look good, or look meaty with all those muscles, but their cardio vascular is ridiculous. I can't take on all comers. But, to date only one middle aged woman i've seen has the ability to run. She must be a freak of nature. Mind there is another very slim girl who can run very well, but hopefully by the time she turns up again, or ever returns to the gym, I might, just might be a little bit better than I am now. Unfortunately I'd probably have to lose a stone in weight, plus some. As for all the other young beautiful people, I can say they give me a wonderful feeling, yes wonderful. The 40+ fat man out runs them. What a blow it must be. I hope I am not gaining too much satisfaction from it, hell yes, a lot. At this moment it's been the funniest part of my week. I can see it now on the local tabloids. "Fat man beats body beautifuls on tread mill."

Go on Forest, run fat boy run!

Turner at the Thames

Looking out of the Fish Factory window I can see the Thames. Facing up towards the Thames Barrier. For the last few days cold air and thick fog has hit London, and the Thames, it's buildings either side and the snuffled hues of the sun have looked like a Turner painting. One where the mixes of colours are pastel in shade. Where there are no real defining features because the fog ensures a wedding viel effect. It is in short a beautiful sight to see. I advised my fellow fish gutters about it but they really didn't understand what they were looking at. Yes, fog, yes the light looks different, but it didn't sink in. I said it may be many years again before this sight is ever seen again. It fell on deft ears.

I got thinking, how many sunsets, how many days, how many nights, how many stars are seen in a life time? No matter how big the number, they are finite. Just as the people we know, the time we spend with them and the love we feel. I think of Sparkling Eyes and miss her.

Chinese New Year 2008 and yellow hair

Not having much to do and nearly waking up at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday is a bad combination. Even contemplating the notion of Gym from which I've established an endorphin high is a sign of having to get a life. But today in London Chinese New Year celebrations were on. The year of the rat. What it means I don't know. Just as with other years it's going to be a good year. I'm sure it will be. Being born in the rabbit year myself I think I'm suppose to get on ok with rat years. It sure is lucky they don't have vegetables, because I'd hate to be a cabbage. Though some might say if the hat fits wear it, no i'm no vegetable, a rabbit will do nicely.

I set off from home with big Moma and Little Monster boy. I was hoping it would be a wonderful experience for the Little Monster, but after finding he had set the ground rules I was just basically around to ensure I had a good time and he did whatever he wanted. Which was not much as the crowds were pretty thick. Monster enjoyed his snapping noise making packets of paper. Just dropping them on the ground they would then make a little bang. He is after all 7 years old and will be 8 this year. Moma was a bit apprehensive of the crowds but even she showed a bit of spirit and managed to push herself quite close to one of the dancing lions. I snapped a way with my camera. Moma spent money on little toys while I bought 3 very nice egg custard tarts. One for each of us. I ate mine first to find it was hot, it must of just come out of the oven and was delicious. But extortionately expensive at £1.50 per tart. Way too many tourists were about and all the stalls were making a killing. If I had slanted eyes and a bent for business I'd of had a stall as well.

I got home and made roast beef. The first time we'd had it in a few years, a real beef joint. I remember growing up and nearly having it each Sunday. So I now expect to get mad cows disease. It can take 30 or 40 years to gestate. The beef was good, done well with a very small hint of red in the middle. Nothing to notice. A little mustard and I was in heaven. I reached for my phone after lunch to check for messages.

Yep, Rock Chick's hair colour had changed again. Now it is yellow rather than orange or the very much desired blond. I sure hope Sparkling Eyes is ok. I'm sure Rock Chick has been having a bad couple of days and she would of gone crazy. Never mind. Could be worse though for a teenage girl I can't think how much worse.

Hair disaster is not a thing to make fun of

I messaged Sparkling Eyes on MSN. Her reply was brief and to the point. Rock Chick had a minor hair disaster. In reality a major hair disaster. It had turned orange. I requested Sparkling take a picture because it would make great blackmail material. However, I got chastised not to make fun, the situation was serious. Personally I've never had orange hair, not ever dying it has helped. A little grey coming through here and there, but no orange. I messaged a laugh, and got chastised again. Wondering how her hair got orange and whether she had read the instructions I went on and asked had Rock Chick put it on herself? The reply was no Sparkling had done the deed. Ooops. Now I can see why it was a disaster movie in one evening, teenage girl goes mad at parent. Police called. "Yes sir, it was a mess" said a bystander "her eyebrows just didn't match." It's not the end of the world. A new hair colour is only a bottle away.

I chuckled to myself as imagination took off. Orangutan's, ginger nuts, satsuma's and Tango. Then got sworn at, I was having way too much fun. Even a few hundred miles away I can get into trouble. But I'll keep my hair on, until I got bald though not too quickly I hope.

The never ending ten minute delay

I got to the train station this evening and watching the indicator board my train would be due in twelve minutes. In exasperation I wondered whether to get a bus. It was dark. I wanted to get home quick, not have a slow trundle. Even though the snail like speed of a bus may have got me there faster, just like the fable of the hare and tortoise. Waiting on the platform I then checked out the indicator a good two or three minutes had passed. Except now my train was equally delayed by three minutes.

Before going to the station I considered the pub. In the end I wanted to get home, I'd requested overtime and have to get up early tomorrow. Yet I could of been sociable and had a pint or a soda and lime seeing as I was coming back from the gym. Yep the second time in at least four months. It'll almost make my gym membership worth it.

In pensive mind I glanced up again the board, the seconds flipped, but the minutes were killing me. Now I've been here a full ten minutes the train is still delayed by another ten minutes. It's like I am getting no where fast. In fact I can see the second train due at the same time as the first. There it goes. Even the second train is delayed. Which is good because I sure don't know how they could of squeezed two trains on the same single stretch of track. I'm still waiting. Getting nowhere thinking of home. Also of how packed this stretched limosine which is not on time will be. Or not be. As the case will be.

It arrives. Only 25 minutes waiting. Another five mintues and I'll be at my own station stop. Altogether a round lovely 30 minutes. The bus? Yep, might of got there just a few minutes earlier had it come immediately.

A little older, a little wiser, a little bit understanding. You just can't lead a Ass anywhere if he don't want to go but at least his excrement makes good manure.

Dreams of being a Chef and a train watcher

This morning I woke up to a wierd dream, but then most dreams I remember are weird. This time I was a chef, being taught by a famous celebrity. Possibly Gordon Ramsey. Except I had to keep leaving the kitchen and returning to a hotel. There at the hotel I noticed either myself or one of the other chefs had a big tray of in their bed. It was the kinda tray you put bread into, I checked the bed and the tray was full of packages which looked like loafs. They were not. They were in fact tightly rapped bundles of money. Each loaf looking bundle of money was £17 million. I had a problem counting them, being as I was alseep and estimated in my mind there to be about 24 or so loafs. And wondered why the owner of them, whether it was me or someone else was doing a course on being a chef when they had so much money. Prominent to this dream though was the tray. Because each bundle was neat and tidy and just like loafs of bread. I got no idea what it means. However, yesterdays dream was again along the same lines.

Yesterday, I dreamed I was at some really big factory place museum. And I was following a mate round. The museum was full of old trains. Work men were in the process of digging pits which cradled the trains in them. They were all pretty orderly. My friend wanted to find a particular train by a well known old train engineer. Again one of the prominent points of this dream was the orderly manner in which the trains were placed.

Well I'll wonder what tonights dream will be about?

If anyone has an interpretation your welcome to leave a comment.

Aliens clone Teenage girls

Yes it is true. I completely and utterly believe a significant proportion of teenage girls are being cloned by aliens. Abducted and the clone returned to earth. It is the only logical explanation. For teenage girls in England are all beginning to sound the same. The thing about it is they look different from each other. Just by looking you'd think each of them would be unique. I suppose they can't really return them back to earth all looking the same. I mean, parents would get somewhat suspicious. The thing is though, as soon as they open their mouths and say something, anything, it becomes true. It's the words spoken and it's how they are spoken these all add up to Alien. It's not because these words are different, it's because they are the same. The tone of voice, the expressions used, they are all the same.

This afternoon after a long walk, about 3 and a bitty miles I decided to go for a Chinese. Sat down at a table, me, Mr No Mates Crazyfirdayman ordered a delicious seafood in black bean sauce on rice and waited. Within a few minutes two teenage girls entered. They sat somewhere behind me. I had barely noticed them as they came in. But then as they began to chat to each other I thought one of the voices sounded familiar. Yes it did, no doubt about it. The voice, the words, the expressions, the tone all were the same as my teenage niece. I didn't turn round because if it was her she might feel embarrassed. I listened and thought at some point she would talk about something or say a name which I knew. Then I'd be 100% sure. I sat, ate and waited. She didn't. Simple because it was not my niece. It was an alien clone facsimile of a teenage girl. Which sounded like my niece. So closely I was fooled. Well nearly, fortunately being of sound mind and Sherlock Holmes like powers of deduction I could tell. I was not being fooled.

The alternative could be present day teenage girls do come from a certain background, a mould, a cultural homogeneity which tends to make them all drift towards an average or norm of what they should be like. How incredibly boring this alternative would be to the world. Imagine they have no separate personalities, they all talk about the same things, in the same way and wear or look as similar as far as they can. They are therefore no longer individuals or different. Hell, I like the alien theory better. Because if these teenage girls happen to be undercover lizards like in the old TV series called "V" then we can treat them to a few rats or pigeons. Now where would I get the pigeons from. I know. Better give my niece a call and ask her round for lunch some time. I'll not worry about cutlery.

Returned with a Chicken Pox Warning

I returned from Scotland to London today. As I left sheets of sleet obscured vision, chilly air spewed forth clouds of frosted breath and I got on a 4 minute delayed train. An old and slightly odd couple sat on the other side of the carriage from me. Odd, because they talked with plums in their mouth. As though brought up from some rich or middle class background. I settled into my seat facing forward and time flew by. Taking a look out of the window at York the inevitable flooded field and high stream threatened to drown the city. But some how it clings on to an imaginary boy. Maybe donut shaped. It bobs up and down and fortunately the train line remains dry as do the stones surrounding them. The train trundled on towards London and I sent a text message to Sparkling Eyes.

After a returned text asking if I'd received the other text messages she had tried to send me, the news came. Yep. Typical and something to make me sweat with dread besides the creeping onset of flu. One of our party from the log cabin had come down with Chicken Pox an adult not a child. He must of been a carrier for the days he was there amongst us. This is very bad news. I've had the pox which means I'd be in line for the Shingles and what gruesome stories I've heard about them. Great. Shingles+Flu=lurgies. My head is aching bad enough as it is. I don't want to drown myself in sorrows of hypochondria, or worse the real thing, but I can't help being a pessimist at times. It's a different thing thinking you could be having a brain hemorrhage because you smell toast in the morning and nobody is making toast. However, Shingles is not what I had in mind. I spoke to Rock Chick on the phone and let her know. She to thinks she could be having a brain embolism. Even though I said it only occurs if you smell something which is not there. In the meantime Sparkling Eyes tells me about the bump on her back, oozing out a puss from the recently applied poultice. Hey and to note if I get the Flu guess who gave it to me.

Tomorrow is a day in the fish factory. Shortly I'll have a picture or two sent to me of the wonderful surprise party we had for Sparkling Eyes. I might just stick it on here for all to see. The one I have in mind is where I'm wearing a Robin outfit, the other half to Batman. Lets not talk about how tight it was, or how fat I am.

Well something good to look forward to, the pox.

Scared by log cabin ghost story

It's about two in the morning, behind a closed door was a living room. The TV had stopped playing from a DVD left in continuous loops. Somewhere music was could be heard. Sparkling Eyes decided she had a desire for fruit juice. The log cabin we slept in was big, it had 5 bedrooms and all were occupied. Except our bedroom was alone. Upstairs. Sparkling had to walk through the open planned lounge area into the kitchen. I slept on, barely aware Sparkling had arisen to quench her first. A few moments later, she returned to bed. Elbow. Elbow. Slight pain, followed by the inevitable question "are you awake?" From a drowsy sleep I replied "yes, darling." Unfortunately for me I should of pretended to still be asleep but I didn't. For now Sparkling was to tell me what had just happened.


She'd left the room for juice and walked into the kitchen. Then Sparkling felt a tingle go down her back, it was as though could fingers had gently touched her spine. Hence a shiver. Spine tingling shiver. The Karaoke machine was playing a CD, so she turned it off. Turning around and about to head into the kitchen area Sparkling noticed a chair had been moved. It was in a different position from when she'd originally entered this area. There was a presence, Sparkling felt something, as though it was trying to get to her, it was around her. Closing in. Surrounding. Dare I say, as though it wanted to overtake her, to possess. So it was time to get out she returned back to bed. Woke me, from sleep bleary eyed I listened, becoming more alert as she described what had happened. I was being pulled in like a fish being realed after taking a peck and some very delicious looking bait. Then came the request.

"Darling, would you go and get me some juice?" My response was "I'm asleep, tired" not very good because I was still able bodied. I should of replied along the lines of "sorry darlink, I'm crippled, my legs wont work, and blind, nope just can't move a foot," this would of had more of an effect. Not good enough. I was pushed, shoved and cursed. Because I wouldn't go and get some juice. Well, what half sane man would after hearing a story of spine chilling fingers? Or being told "I think this place is haunted." All very encouraging information. It's not because I believe in these things, I don't, it's just I didn't need the extra information. If Sparkling had just asked me to get some juice without the ghost story I would of not hesitated. My legs just wouldn't move. Sparkling gave me the I-am-not-amused-look, the kind of look I try to avoid. And I must admit to almost being cajoled, bullied, pushed out of the bed. For Sparkling's convenience. But I didn't.

Morning came and so did daylight and the ghost had gone. Wonderful. Except I'd been given the look. Memo to self, put the number of a good priest into my mobile phone, one who can do ghost checks over the phone and exorcise them. Alternatively, just don't believe in those things. Blimey I don't. Well, I'll remember next time. Oh yes, where did I put the holy water?

Batman and Robin - Green Tights

It's not something a man should really do. Not if he's a man. Unless there happens to be some kind of weird tendency he keeps secret from friends, family and work colleagues. But I shall soon be wearing green tights. All for a reason of course. To be in costume. To be Robin the shorter more handsome of the crime fighting duo Batman and Robin. Holly mackerel Batman. Yes, Robin will be on the streets in Scotland.

Now this is not a natural course of events. I'm going to be dressed up for a Fancy Dress party. I don't go about looking like a crime fighter every day. Which I'm sure many people would be happy about. Many criminals dressed in black and carrying bags with the word SWAG printed on them. Though I'm not sure what SWAG actually stands for. I'm sure it's lots of illicit goodies stolen from the good people of Gotham City. Did I actually just say Gotham City? Holly mollowly Batman I feel something's happening to me. Better get to the Bat mobile. Hey don't I have a motorbike? A special Robin bike? Which could mean I'll have to start taking motor bike lessons. I wonder if I can get a helmet to match my crime fighting outfit?

I just hope I don't ladder my tights.

2008 meets the bionic woman

OK so it's a few more days into 2008, and I'm still wondering what I am going to do. It's not a matter of procrastinating, though it might be, I hope it's not. I checked out some courses and then heard the government are going to stop subsidies on part time educational bents. Bloody typical, I didn't even know there was help available and then the government withdraws it. It seems wherever there is a chance to cut funds to the people who need it then the British Government will do their best to find a way to cut. It's not very labour like. In fact they should change their political persuasion. Perhaps call themselves the middle-of-the-road party.

So in the process of considering what my next move is I've just seen the first 8 episodes of the Bionic woman. Played by an English actress called Michelle Ryan who happened to have started in a Soap called Eastenders first. During the first episode I kept expecting her to talk like a Cockney at any time. Then I thought maybe some American woman is the voice and she's just moving her mouth saying words which are dubbed out of the frame and overlapped by the American actress. But after a couple of episodes I soon got into the swing of this miss matched image and voice. Why on earth the producers and directors didn't let her remain English I don't know. I'm sure the Americans are not stupid enough to be caught out by her put-on American accent. In one episode she actually has to pretend to be English. And in typical American stereotype she has to have a middle-to-upper class Oxford accent. This made me want to puke. Hey if there's any Americans out there check out the English actor in the series "Dead like Me" now he is English and not some nonced up put-on just for the American audience. Then that's a Canadian series not American.

I'll be off in a week or so to see Sparkling Eyes again. I'm sure she'll be practicing her kick me up the ass routine if I don't make myself useful. To tell the truth I'm fed up with attempting to put up doors with the wrong tools knowing I'm being set up to fail. Maybe I should take up some kind of wood working. Which could be useful. Useful when hanging doors I bet.

2008 Something has to be done

First day back at Fish Factory for 2008. It's weird returning back to the grindstone on a Wednesday. A number of people have complained it felt like a Monday. I hate Mondays. No it's definitely a Wednesday and a new year. A very new year. Things are going to change, things will be different.

I've felt sorry for myself in some minor way, I didn't realise this, but Sparkling Eyes did. She demanded I change my attitude when I'd rang her up on New Year's day. She would ring back and I had better be different. Needless to say she didn't. Ring back that is. Whereas I took the opinion if she can't be bothered to ring back then I'll not be bothered to text her. It's her move now. She should of rung. I'd put myself out yesterday. No. I'm going to sit on my high horse here and not budge. This is the normal very macho thing to do if your a man. There's only so far more you should go when you already put yourself out. So I wait, still no text. Still no phone call. I may have made a mistake. But then I don't want to seem needy. I got my life to lead, things to do, blogs to write. Changes to make. Yes. Positively this year will see a change.

I've felt I've wasted too much time doing nothing. I was saying this or words to this effect to my compatriots in the pub over my Guinness. I'm going to do something different, it don't matter what it is it has to be something different. Something more constructive with my time. Something useful. So far I've looked at further education classes, dancing and creative writing. Though not all at the same time. I just know I got to do something. Something different and stop sitting here watching DVDs letting the world pass me by. Sparkling will no doubt take credit for this self inspirational bent. Being as she has spent time cajoling me, kicking me literally in the head, pulling my strings, pulling my leg, and jabbing a red nail varnished finger in my direction. I can feel the bruises. I'm on the road to somewhere and it don't matter where it is as long as I'm on the bus. I wonder if Sparkling will be driving, damn I know what she's like soon as I ring for my stop she'll over shoot it and make me walk the half mile back. Better get my boots on then.