Beware of the bar stool Witch

The old Witch sat where she always sat. At the bar with her pint of Stella, trying to verbally barge into any conversation she could. I sat with my back to her, the though this could be another one of my deranged family members flitted across my mind. I didn't want to imagine it for it gave me a dizzy spell and the need for fresh air. Mr Cashier man sat opposite me while I concentrated in half conversation with him and half reading today's broadsheet. At one point he said I was being patronising when I related an article about the painter Caravaggio. It just must be the way I have with words, some people think it, whilst I was being genuine. In the end I come to the conclusion I don't give a damn how they take me, but I do admire honesty, so replied in an honest way how my comments were not to be taken as patronising. Meanwhile a cackle from the Old Witch cut through my body like the scythe of Thanatos. I starred at my companion and then quietly made a suggestion to him.

“you see the Old Witch at the bar?”
“yes” came his reply as his eyes glanced in her direction but in a way so as not to draw attention.
“Why don’t you go and ask her out? I know you get on OK with her, I’ve seen you chat to her before. And do it about this time of day, when I come in the pub.”

There then was a moment. Possibly two or three moments as I watched his body language. A slight head turn to the left and the right, he bought his hand up to his face and held it for a second as though in thought. Took his hand away. Readied himself as though about to make a brave statement. Glanced left then right and then eventually addressed me. Saying:

“you want me to ask her out? About this time of the evening, when you come in?”
“yes” and I nodded my head, we were talking quietly in secret squirrel fashion.
“How much are you willing to pay me?” Now was a moment of my own time to think about it. The thought of an evening without the Witch was so exciting, one of peace to drink my Guinness and chat to less mentally disturbed individuals. I replied:
“I’ll go to a tenner.” Mr Cashier looked at me in contemplation saying.
“I would, but I don’t think the offer would be accepted.” He was right. The Old Witch would probably make a voodoo doll in his image and stick it a few times. I wouldn’t mind but poor Mr Cashier had only just come back to work after 8 months off with a broken leg and still he wasn’t right. Groaning about how his good leg now hurt.

I finished my pint and left. It seems freedom from the insane is a luxury to have. It even stops my enjoyment of a pint. Well as the saying goes, ‘there’s more out than in’.

Sparkling's anaphylactic shock

I recevied a text message from Sparkling while I was in the pub. Catching up with an fish who used to manage me. The text was difficult to fully comprehend on account of the spelling and text lingo she used. However, it was quite clear in another sense, something very serious had happened. Sparkling had to call the emergency services because she had a severe reaction to a burger and began to show the symptons of anaphylactic shock. Hives, followed by a swelling of the tongue and inability to talk, she rang up for an ambulance and the operator asked her to stay on the line because if she collapsed then the operator would of known. The ambulance arrived, she was then pumped with adrenaline and taken to hospital. The docs have her the once over and then pumped more drugs into her. She's starting to feel a lot more chilled out and the symptons are subsiding. Except for the hives. They wanted to keep her in the hospital for observation, whilst Sparkling wanted to get home. Sparkling one out. I rushed home and then rang up Sparkling. I was aghast at what Sparkling had gone through. It's the first time she had ever taken such a reaction. Then I asked how come she didn't go next door to see her neighbour and I got distracted in the thought of poor Sparkling with a swollen tongue standing on her neighbour's door step waiting for the door to open. Then when it did making a funny noise because she could no longer talk properly.

I couldn't help it. A silent laugh erupted. I kept it as best I could under control but Sparkling being her ever so sensitive self said she would put the phone down on me. A short second in time past, then the line went dead. Oh dear, I'd hit a raw nerve so soon but could not help myself. I know if it happened to me Sparkling would of been exactly the same. But as L & B man says "get over it." So I'd have no choice but to get over it pretty quickly. I was in shock myself though. I have never heard of a burger doing such a thing. It was only the weekend when I'd had a couple of burgers myself.

I'm up to Scotland in a few days time to see Sparkling. Then I'll have to make amends, tell her I love her. Rub feet, be a servant and above all avoid any meat products which might be a little bit suspect.

Sleeping like an alien abductee

I really do not know what is happening to me lately. Except I'm sleeping so heavily it's like I been abducted by an alien and put back in my bed every morning. Well if I am it must be some very strange alien, because I'd of thought they needed to start experiemnting on some other person by now. Though this theory probably doesn't hold water it's the only one I can think of for now which comes close to how heavily I am sleeping. OK I wake up maybe once, the time the bright light shines through the curtains and I hear this tapping noise on the window. Then there was the other moment when I'm sure I had a probe stuck into my head, or was it an egg whisk? No the egg whisk was another dream.

I go to bed, close my eyes and then wake up in practically the same postion I started off in. With very little disturbed. I then wonder if I actually had any sleep and maybe have been through some kind of time shift jumping thing. But as the light from the early morning comes through the window I know I have slept. As for dreams? Well, they are elusive. I must have a memory like a siv, because I can't remember a single aspect of dream reality either.

Maybe I just should not worry about such a thing. After all there's a lot of people out there who can't get any sleep at all. They have insomnia at the thought of an alien banging on the window. Well, maybe my alien is more chilled out and relaxed and has lost the guide book on how to make human's feel uncomfortable and give them nightmares. Fox and Scully look out coz here is one man who enjoys his alien abductions into slumber land. I just wish those little green men would pick up my dirty socks and stick them in the washing machine as well, or put some waffles on just as I wake up. I suppose then I would have a disturbed sleep, because aliens just don't have the faintest idea how to cook waffles.

Clean pipes and a very smooth Guinness

After a day of extra time in the Fish Factory, I needed a break. The cool taste of a pint and some time for myself. As I didn’t have any reading material I ended up buying about Team working and then searched for somewhere to read it in peace and quite. I checked out the usual pub, but on seeing the Witch and Troglodyte in there again I decided to give it a miss. There is just so much ignorance a person can deal with in any one week. I then went in search of another pub with my book. Except this other pub looked like a dive, as two shifty characters stood outside smoking a cigarette each with similar Neanderthal tendencies I had avoided from the Trog and associate dumb Witch. I then ventured towards a third pub, walked in and there saw one of the regulars I recognised I’ll call him Mr Belgium. On account this was where he was born. Anyway, Mr Belgium finished his pint and recommended a fourth pub which he said drew a very good pint of Guinness.

It’s odd what your taste buds get used to, my normal pub I knew really wasn’t much good when it came to a pint of the black stuff. I just have this feeling they are not cleaning out the pipes on a regular basis. My Guinness always has a strange tang to it. I endure this tang and in so doing spend about an hour supping. We entered this fourth pub, with Mr Belgium announcing this pub did the best Guinness he had ever tasted. O.K. Well you have to give these things a try.

The bar was big and pub seemed pretty big on the inside as well. Two flat screen TVs were on, there was some kind of football match on. I took a cursory glance at the game and wondered. Talking to Mr Belgium we walked to the bar and ordered the pints. Mr Belgium took my plastic bag with new book with him outside the pub to an area they had set aside for smokers. The bar staff seemed to be taking an eternity with the Guinness. I looked up again at the TVs and realised they were not playing football as one of the players picked up the ball and ran with it. Neither was it rugby. The ball was definitely round. The clientele of the pub had without doubt Irish accents. Maybe this was some kind of Irish footy I thought. The Guinness came and I took the pints outside to sit with Mr Belgium.

Mr Belgium admired his pint and said it was exactly how a real Guinness should look. Myself, well I thought it might of looked a little darker than normal, and they hadn’t put a leaf on top. With a little scepticism I drank my first sip. Hmmm. It was different. It was more silk and smooth than I had tasted before. Then I found, it went down so much easier. There was no one hour or more slow sipping. This beautiful elixir must of lasted a half hour maybe less. We had a second and I was then beginning to feel slightly intoxicated. I took it a little slower. The conversation was good and I really enjoyed the afternoon.

The moral of the story? Make sure the pipes are clean before pouring a pint otherwise your punters will just not drink it.

A Witch and a Trogladyke sup their drinks

After a day in the Fish Factory and having one of the fellow fishes get stressed out because of the size of bubbles they were asked to blow, I deserved a pint in the pub. It's what I give myself for having endured and mostly remained calm in the face of big bubbles. I got there and the usual bunch were sitting together, so I found a seat on the end and joined them. Someone had spent a lot of coins feeding the music box and so various tunes were being played out. They were a mix of 80s music and I quite liked them. The group conversation led onto the up and coming World Cup football so I found myself not participating. The intricacies of why certain team members were picked and how the England coach(who is Italian) was going back on his word. Inevitably it sounds like we have another team who have been picked for failure and because of their own prima donna self belief are really going to do nothing for the national team. But I digress. For the subject should be two other characters at the bar.

There sits a crazy old woman, dressed like a Witch and who says she is a Witch. Well if this is her belief I'm not going to state otherwise. Except she is potty without a doubt, I know because many of the other regulars have said so and because I have witnessed her behaviour myself. She's one of these people who likes others to hear her opinion no matter how bigoted she is, and then proclaims it's not her who is the bigot but the rest of the world. At which point she then makes a mortal enemy of the individual who states an alternative view and whispers a spell under her breath. Scarey or what. Mind it always makes me check my Guinness just incase there happens to be a newt's tail in the bottom.

Anyway, I learnt today when she was commenting on one of the other regulars she said something along the lines of "I don't care for him and I wish he were dead," when he had actually just died and the funeral was taking place the next day. The misguided Witch, consequently decided not to frequent the pub for a couple of evenings. What a relief. Then it makes sense after a bloomer of this kind. Her insensitivity knows no bounds we all thought. The days while the witch was absent were conspicuous by our conversations not being littered with interjections from the old girl. Opinions which were pleasant by their absence. So today when I entered, there she was sat at the bar, in her usual seat. Next to her was a one of her family. A man who doesn't look like the Witch at all. However, I am sure he has some genetic connection with a Troglodyte from H. G. Wells Time Machine. Except he is bald and in the film they had longish white hair. The other family trait of being ignorant, opinionated and of dubious intent is also instilled in Mr Trog. It must be a genetic marker, it is the only reason I can come up with the character similarity. Anyway, to cut a long story to a slightly shorter story, it was about this time I realised maybe this was why people would frequent different pubs. For simply, if going to one pub highlights the miscreants in there, going to another there may well be slightly fewer abnormal personalities.

Hence the term "pub crawl." Then again it could just be me, and my abnormal preferrence of quiet pubs, and people who can string one or two sentences together without their knuckles scraping the floor, or some spell being cast. There sure are some eccentric people out there, at a pub near you, so why not visit one I say.

Magpie chases a squirrel

I saw an amazing sight this morning after leaving home. I have never seen it before and may never see it again in my life. But it was absolutely stunning. It involved a squirrel and a magpie. Not far from where I live there is a family of magpies. They have resided in a specific tree for years. Over these years I've seen them out and about and learnt a little bit about their behaviour. They are like other birds pretty territorial. But there is an added intelligence. They seem to go about in pairs or groups. Where one bird will sit up high on a lamp post and watch down as it's mates go hoping about on the ground. Then if there is danger, the one on the lampost will begin to squark a bit like a crow and warn the other.

Squirrels have ventured away from the woods and now there are a few who go in gardens. One time I even saw a squirrel climb up the side of a house as though it were spiderman. It was absolutely no effort at all. Just imagine how sharp those claws must be, and how strong they are as a climbing animal.

I walked up the road and there was a squirrel bounding along, jumping as if it were on hot coals from one place to another. Following closely behind was this magpie. The magpie was bullying the squirrel to move on, to go into a different area. When the little fat squirrel stopped after the odd bound, the magpie would get annoyed jump up and flap it's wings a little until the squirrel got a bit pissed off and carried on bouding away. Away from the territory of the magpie. I took out my phone and by the time I had put it into video mode the squirrel and magpie had dissappeared from sight. Maybe the squirrel turned round at some point and said to the magpie those invevitable words "blimey, your nuts mate."

Clatter, clatter, clatter

The pidgin's are still in the roof, should I say under the tiles and like an early morning alarm I am wakened. Any time through 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. they come out. Clatter, clatter, clatter, go the tiles. Another morning I wonder about whether I should of set my alarm for say 3 a.m., get a ladder out and then wait. As each clatters itself into a new day, I could then end it's day by wringing its neck. There would be a pile of dead birds. The next delema is my own conscience. I'd be a pidgin murderer. Plus it will not actuall stop a new lot of birds from getting under the tiles. I could hear them on the roof. Cooing to each other. So I got up in my PJs, went out in the back garden and spied them. I shook a fist, clapped my hands and they took absolutely no notice at me. I hoped no one was watching, they'd see this crazy man in his PJs and call for the white coats if they did. I'm fortunately still here writing. I crouched down, picked up some mud and an empty snail shell and threw them up at the pidgins. Nothing happened again. They were wise because my aim was crap. I took some more lumpy mud and threw again. It was slightly better and enough just to spook one of the feathered pests. In turn the others took off. Door closed, cat refused to go out, I went back to bed. Trying to close my eyes and catch some more sleep. Twenty minutes later, clatter, clatter, clatter.

Some things just happen to be unchangeable. They go on and then drastic action is needed. Heaven's knows how much money it will cost to get the roof fixed if any of the times drop off. Bloody cat is no use. He's not had any of the pidgins at all. For sale, one lazy cat and the need for a good long lay in without any disturbances.

Names and words

This morning I sat wondering how long it had been since I had seen Sparkling. Checked the diary and counted off the weeks. Three. Three weeks and it feels like longer. Sparkles seems to be constantly in demand at her new job, but at the same time she is happy and enjoying each moment of it. She is loved at the cake factory. I got her a badge because she had aquired a nick name. Mrs Slocum. So I ordered it online and it has the name Mollie on it, after the actress who played the part in the comedy series called "Are You Being Served." I'm not sure I like the idea of dating Mrs Slocum, luckily I'm no Mr Peacock. I just don't have the height. But I can't help it, call her Sparkling, Mrs Slocum or simply Molly, I'm missing my honey.

I did something odd this morning and formatted my MP3 player thereby wiping off all the music on it. Well you have to have a clean sweep every now and again. I then spent the next hour or so putting music back on. But this time I chose 90 per cent music I hadn't heard a great deal off. OK there's the odd favourite on there, a couple of albums of Bob Newheart and some classic jazz classics which never die in my mind, and hopefully most other peoples minds as well. I'm listening to one of the albums now actually. Except not on the usual headphones I use on account of Mrs Slocum deciding she had to appropriate them because her ones had gone walk about. It's an album by Mr Buble, pronounced Boooblay. Why on earth should someone have a surname of Buble and say it's Boooblay I don't know. Which reminds me of a comedy program with a Mrs Bucket, who used to pronounce her name as Bookay. It's all in a name. Or rather they'd rather not have the name they were born with so plagarise it into something else. I'm a right one saying this. Not that I change the pronounciation of my own name. But I have a tendency every so often of pronouncing other words differently from the norm. A bit like the song about potatoe or potarto, or tomatoe or tomateyoe. In the end it's about understanding and everybody knowing what everybody else means even if the words are pronounced differently.

This Mr Buble isn't too bad. Mrs Slocum loves him, typical. Young, handsome, good voice, and looks sexy. Hey, I could be talking about myself.

Entertained but not fed

I was entertained yesterday, and got paid for it. Bloody marvelous. It was a training course in relation to the Fish Factory. The attendees were few, only 5 of us when there should of been double. We sat down and basically got entertained the whole day. A live actress played different parts as though she were a different person in each part. Either this or she really did have some kind of multiple personalityc complex. Further, I'm glad she was live coz if she was dead it would of only been one part she could of played.

The day passed by quickly. Some of the demonstrations were related in psychological contexts, when examining different personalities. Which I thought were a little on the crude side, if not outdated. I came away with some questions in my mind, wondering if I really did learn anything from it? Whether something happened which would change the way I did things, and I'm still wondering. If you have to think about something then maybe it didn't work. It's like when someone asks you a question and you know they are expecting you to say "yes" but in your heart you want to say "no" so you take a minute or two to deliberate, not saying anything. Their response could be an assumption because you said nothing then you agree. But you haven't. Get what I mean? Well, this was how I felt afterwards, today.

I'm not going to grumble, or should I say I am grumbling, but not loudly. It was a wonderful day. Sun was out. Then they laid on dinner. Unfortunately the cook was not really a cook at all and did a great job at murdering food. it must be a real inherent talent some people have. The kind of person who should never be allowed near a cooking utensil, potatoe, chicken breast, knife, fork. The kind of person who should of been given an intravenous drip to provide all their bodily nutrition, because they have some inner hate towards food. Blimey. Just realised I got another course next week. Better get myself to the shops and buy some sandwich materials. Something I can masacre instead.

The smell of chocolate after Welsh Rabbit

It was odd this morning. I got up a little later than usual, because I just wanted to, and had the beginnings of a headache. Then went into the kitchen and made breakfast. Two slices of toast, the bread was malted brown and then added some cheese on top. The beautiful Welsh Rabbit. I watched the cheese as it began to bubble wondering whether I should wait longer for it to turn a golden brown colour. It didn't because patience had decided to take a hike. I dropped the toast on a plate, spread just a little of piri piri sauce ontop and ate. Listening to the Radio 4, Today program. Finished a cup of tea and unplugged the radio to take upstairs. Going into the front room I was hit by a smell. It was undoubtedly the smell of chocolate powder. The kind used to make hot chocolate drinks. This was odd I thought. The smell of slightly burnt toast would of made more sense however, the kitchen door had been closed. I couldn't understand where it came from. It was just there. So for a moment rather than worry about whether there was some kind of brain thing going on, I took another couple of deep breaths, wondered, just a little and carried on with waking up.

I once read a short story. It took only a few lines in the book. A man is on a cliff he's afraid because it looks like he is going to fall. He stumbles and does fall, except he doesn't scream. As gravity takes its effect and the cliff faces passes him by he grabs out at a flower he sees jutting from a small edge. Calmly as he can, he sniffs it and enjoys the aroma.

Tell you what, bet it wasn't as good as the smell of chocolate.

Fearful imaginations

I was watching a clip from the space shuttle lift of last night, it was a special event because this was the last take off mission. A camera was mounted on the shuttle and the view point kept swopping. From ground to shuttle. As it got higher and higher the ground got further away. I started to wonder what it would be like on the shuttle as the vibrations from one hell of a giant fuel cell candle stick created enough thrust to take it into orbit. Then as the camera veiw went back to the shuttle I began to feel a little queezy, even disorientated. I wasn't on the thing, because I know I was reclined in my non reclining office like chair, but there was a dizzy spell which came over me. Like the ground really was getting further away and I had no wings. Of being helpless. I imagined I had a parachute and was able to drift back to earth. How I would kiss the ground. Fortunately the clip ended and I felt a lot better for it. Being a stupid I then watched it a second time. Except as I got higher off the ground I stopped the clip and turned the player off. Getting dizzy once was more than enough.

This morning I woke up in some wierd comedy dream. I thought it would make a funny book. It was about two men. I think I was on of them, and I was about to have a vasectomy. It was a little disconcerting as I lay there on this table with my legs up. Some chatter happened, I can't recall who was talking to who. But there was some kind of missunderstanding and then I realised I shouldn't of been in this operating theatre. Just about this time a sharp needle was stuck in my scrotum. I got up out of bed and wondered what was going on with me. Where are these self punishing dreams and imaginations coming from? Was there something wrong with my brain chemistry? And was the story good enough to write into a book, so as to make other people laugh. Except now I've forgotten most of what it was. Such is the nature of dreams. I sure hope Sparkling didn't have the same dream, she would of woken up with laughter and I'd never live it down.

A little bit drunk

Got drunk tonight. Rang up sparkling and spoke to her for 4:53 (mins:seconds) I know this because I checked out my mobile phone. She was on her way to bed. Having been up late the previous night. She told me I was drunk after i'd only said a couple of words. I was speaking from a Chinese take away. Lovely. Well the Singapore fried was very lovely. I then followed with a couple of more text messages. I'm not sure what they said. I'll find out in the morning when I am sobre enough to read them and interpret them. But I was careful. Spelling wise. Being drunk, you can't help but do things slowly, and look for support where ever you find it. Standing and leaning against any object, wall or thing which is available. The rice was good. But seeing as the conversation was so short I had no choice but to ring someone else up. It's no good being drunk without some kind of company. You just have to know there is anover person about. Even if what you say is a load of bollocks. I don't talk bollocks all the time. Just when drunk. So rang up L & B man, but got his other half on the line, Civil Service lady. We chatted. I think I talked more bollocks and was eventually passed over to L & B man. He apparently had been in the bath, then had come out and was wearing pink boxer shorts. The bloody tart. Pink!!!!! I will admit to always having my suspicions. Anyone who wears pink boxers has got to be dodgy. I think I told both Civil Service and L & B I loved them. Must of been on account of the leisurely stagger I had. Anyone drunk would know. For some reason the connection between brain and legs gets a bit wobbly. Hence the wobbly walk. Well, at least the chat lasted longer. About the 11 minute range. L & B man said I had rung him up because I was scared of getting mugged. By ringing him up, if I handed my phone to the mugger he'd then tell them in his strong Scotish accent to leave me alone and I'd be fine. Thing is when you are staggering about, you don't really give a second thought about muggers. Well i don't. I was completely happy. As long as they gave me time to have a chit chat. OK must go now. Have a cup of tea waiting and need to sobre up a little bit. Not a lot, just a little. Love you all x x x

Just seen an interview with a 16 year old rapper called Fugative. He said he had began writing songs at the age of 7. I expect it was Postman Pat. The interviewer equally as dumb stated so you have been doing this for 10 years then. This is what the world calls dumbing down.

Sparkling's ghostly promise

I've often stated there is no such thing as ghosts. Yet on the other hand I've been quaking in my shoes such things actually exist. Which is a contradiction in itself to not believe in something means it can not exist. For some unknown reason the two opposing views are able to be present at the same time in my mind. No matter how hard I try to shake off the notion there may actually be ghosty things out there, and no matter how logical and sane my head happens to be at the time. I'm aware of the little shivers which can crawl down the back but these are just a reaction from the nervous system, they don't mean anything else. Even trying to reason with myself is at fault. It's something difficult to do, reason with yourself I mean. Anyway. Sparkling has similar sentiments. However, she has said to me if anything happens to her she will come back as a ghost to scare the living daylights out of me. I don't know why this is, but her macarbre sense of humour stretches beyond anything I could think of, I certainly wouldn't want to come back and scare people witless. But Sparkling does, no one else, just moi. Not an enemy, not someone she utterly hates, but me. Great. Looks like I'll be wearing adult nappies when I'm old, bald, fatter and a lot greyer all over. Brill, I look forward to it.

Some time up North

It's day 5 at the House of Sparkling. Last night when I came out of the bathroom there she stood and "boo'd" me. My heart lost a beat. On another occaision while trying to help removed mascara from her face she reacted as though about to bite my finger off. The other night when Dangerous Sports Lad had left I became the subject of Rock Chick's humour. I was down and out in the first round. There was no letting up with it. I said to Rock Chick "you are dangerous" it was then I so wished Dangerous Sports Lad was back to keep her entertained. As a mark of Sparkling's impact on Rock,Rock let me into a macarbre secret. She said she was happy when Dangerous was miserable. When he was on the moan she took pleasure. Hmmm. It was like she was saying the only person who can make him happy was me. So he'd better be bloody miserable in any other circumstances. There is some odd power there. She has insight. Unfortunately, insight into men at the ripe age of something or other which I'll not say here.

Sparkling went off to work on an unexpected call out this afternoon. I was left alone with Rock and tried my usual dribble chat. She wasn't having it and it ended in Rock Chick telling me not to talk rubbish to her and to shut up. This morning I nearly fell down the stairs as the cat decided to try and trip me up. He would not stop meowing. I fed him then went back to bed. He meowed some more.

My alcohol consumption has gone up again. Sparkling was amused as I polished off the better part of a bottle of wine and shouted at the political debate on TV. "He's lying" I yelled. Of course he was, whoever he happened to be. Sparkling is mad at me because I'm not voting this election. Each moment she gets to rub my nose into it she does. Apparently I am allowed no say at all in politics now. If I say too much the finger point comes out, the index finger point. Yes I know, I deserve it. I just finished a portion of chips and curry sauce, Sparkling turned, looked at me and said "you're a typical man, Bud and chips." Maybe not so typical I interjected. Better get some cream and do her feet now, I'm on call after all.

And so have been my experiences these past few days.

An observational thought

I was walking along on my way to see the Little Monster Boy when I started thinking about how we do not see things. You can walk past something everyday and never really look at it. Certainly I considered, not until you take a seat and maybe begin to draw it. Then patterns emerge, shapes take on a different meaning and reality. Of course it depends on how skilled you are with a pencil and a piece of paper. But spending those few minutes just observing is an eye openner. However, watching paint dry would be taking the exercise a little too far. So I'll not be letting myself be overcome with the smell of paint fumes if i can help it. Contemplating this issue as I walked along I then took out my phone and saved my odd notions in a recording. Maybe one day in the future some aliens will find it and think these humans were a funny lot.

Leg wrestler attack in Chinese eatery

It was lunch so I headed towards the eat-as-much-as-you-like-Chinese.  I go there because the food is already prepared, it takes no time to find a seat, then it’s a matter of sitting down and getting a plate full of grub.  Generally it’s not too busy.  Then someone recognised me from the fish factory.  It was a fishy who had come in with her small children and cousin.  She chatted away and introduced me to the little ones.  They were so cute.  A boy she carried because he was tired out and had enough, he could have been no more than one year old at most, and a little girl who was perhaps four or five.  The little girl however loved to talk.  She told me her name and then she would not stop chatting.  An expression came to mind “can talk the hind legs off a donkey” which I was told she often would do.  Then on leaving the Chinese I said my good-byes and the little girl ran after me.  I patted her on the head and said she should go back to her mummy.  Then horror of horror’s it looked like she was about to cling to my leg.  I’ve seen this before with some young children.  They become like some growth just stuck to your shin.  Wrapping their arms and legs around it.  I was a little disconcerted.  Fortunately for me the cousin came running after the little princess and managed to intercept her before she began leg wrestling.  In my state of confusion and bewilderment and fear, I found myself about to go out of the door without paying.  Fortunately the cashier got my attention while I made the excuse of being attacked by a leg hugger.  She smiled.

I have now had two weeks at the fish factory as a middle size fishy.  Taking one day off work this week I returned to 14 emails.  It then took me the next two days to catch up with myself.  I am just running around after my own tail, constantly trying to catch up and wishing I knew how to do the swimming a bit better.  In the meantime the fish even bigger than me, pulls me into the office to have copious chats.  About this and about that and about everything else.  The thing now, is I have made the move.  Further there is no going back.  If I decided I was not up to it then I am basically without a pond to swim in. 

Things could be worse though.  I could be in a plane flying over Europe only to find the engines get clogged up with ash from an erupting volcano in Iceland.  When Iceland got blamed for a financial collapse to a lot of European organizations we asked for our cash back, but she gave us ash instead.  Great.  Ms Iceland obviously has a hearing problem.  Now the news programs advise us to be cautous of breathing in volcanic ash because it could be bad for you lungs.  If it doesn’t rain it sure does poor.

Sparrows pecking my head.

I was chatting to Sparkling earlier tonight and mentioned how my worries were like being pecked by a thousand sparrows on my head.  Then she somewhere during the conversation she mentioned how Rock Chick and Dangerous Sports lad were getting serious.  My response was now I had an emu pecking at my head as well.  A bloody big one.  For the thought of a young lady still in teenage years being in a serious relationship is like the Devil being caught in a shower of holy rain, in short one bummer of a soaking.  Sparkling is philosophical over it.  Maybe it's me who worries too much.  Especially with the other sparrows each having a go at my scalp, no wonder my hair is thinning out.  As Micheal Winner says in the advert on TV, "calm down, it's only a commercial."  Ultimately we are all allowed to make our own errors.  Sometimes even twice.  Occasionally more. Then again things could be worse which is another way of looking at it. 

Tooth ache versus migraine fat boy

The Talkatives came round today for a short stay. Mrs Talkative would not shut up and her consistent droning on and on was really doing my head in. I dropped a couple of hints like "you don't have to talk so loud" and "just eat your breakfast don't talk." They fell on deft ears. So it ended up with me having to leave the house on two occasions just to get away from the droning. It was about her tooth and how she was on antibiotics. Although her tooth was bad there was nothing wrong with her jaw. I could of droned on about what it's like when I get a migraine. As if she would want to know. All what mattered was her own tooth and pain. Maybe the incessant talking is why the little ones don't say much. On one short walk out I took Princess Talkative and did my best to get some kind of conversation out of her. Her common answer to my questions was a simple "yes" or "no" but her favourite reply when asked her opinion about something was "I don't know." How can a nearly 8 year old girl have such a pitiful answer. She smiled and laughed and giggled at me as I tried so desperately to get her to chat. Little Princess Talkative was however, not going to get sucked in. Maybe I should of taken off my scary mask and put on a funny face one. Alternatively perhaps being avuncular is not one of my personal skill sets.

I'm alarmed at my ever growing belly. It's getting out of control now, so the walking had a dual purpose, escape and exercise. I am so overcome by this ever growing waistline I even checked out Weight Watchers Web Site and wondered whether I should go. I do understand groups of people can combine to help each other with their social support or chastisement. Though part of me knows there is a formula to it, and it's a matter of working it out. Like there are three things, one eating, two exercise and three attitude. Combine them all and you have the recipe for weight loss. Some advertising may say eat jojo berries, or whatever they are called. However the reality is you just have to be more sensible. The human body is like a calculator, it adds up every calorie consumed and then every calorie burnt, if more is consumed than burnt you get fat, simple. I wonder if migraines burn up calories? If they did then I'd be a matchstick man right now. OK better not have a second alcoholic drink, a pint on the lips is an inch on the hips.

Coping as a Middle Fish, Consuming alcohol

Well I have now done a total of 5 days at the Fish Factory as a middle size fish, 3 days last week and 2 days this week. At this pace I'll be retired just after nuclear disarmament takes place. It's like a constant drip of water, or rather a constant flowing overhang from Niagara Falls. I'm sure I’ve made a few mistakes and am likely to make more mistakes. My time is not my own. I don't have the luxury of just sitting still and getting on with the gutting like I used to do. Now I just wait for the fish to come dropping out of the sky to keep me occupied. The thing is, it's not just dropping, it's a bloody downpour. I get into the Factory and don't know where to start or what I should do. I leave the Fish Factory and find I'm juggling twenty flaming daggers and with the feeling I've forgotten something and I'm not pulling my weight. My weight now days being a little more considerable than what it has been. I sent a text to Sparkling and said I was likely to have a nervous breakdown with it all. Other middle fishes I talk to tell me of similar stories when they first began swimming in this particular pond. Half of me wonders whether I have taken on more than I can chew. The other half says I will get it, I will understand it, just I'm not getting the gradual ease into middle pond swimming as you'd expect. I also wonder how the hell I got to be in this position. Even today I spoke to someone and said I should of turned up for the interview in a clowns costume, maybe they wouldn't of considered me appropriate as a middle fish. For the moment it is all moans and groans. I just have to see it through for the time being. I just have to keep persevering. I know I will get there. I will.

When I hit the homestead I'm generally half pissed nowadays. I don't know if going to the pub is the right strategy to use, in fact I probably know it is not the right strategy. I should definitely be doing a bit more meditation, but each bout of meditation is equal to about half a pint of drinking time. Though sometimes I even wonder why I got to the pub because there are hardly enough of the usual crowd to talk to.

I hear my mate Mr L & B is consuming alcohol in Poland. Where for some reason their beer is a massive 10 per cent proof. Although he has a stronger alcoholic constitution than I do, he is pissed by 9 p.m. Wow, imagine being pisse by 9 p.m. Well it's quite easy for me because of my lower tolerance. At this proportion of alcohol a pint of beer is like drinking a pint of wine, no body in their right mind could do many of them. Well he's probably not in his right mind, more of his left mind. If there's any mind to go by. Wow. If I drink my normal Guinness and he drinks this fancy Polish paint stripper, we'd probably be slightly closer in tolerance and timing than a normal session. No. I don't think so. He'd still drink me well under the table, then he'd be up doing his Britney Houston impression. Which reminds me of a moment in January when we were both in a room with nobody about and he was wearing a wig, stockings and false titties. It was a pretty big bra he had on. I don't know what it was filled with, but I'm sure his man boobs were not large enough to fill those cups up. Actually, the more I think about this moment the more I wish i could forget it. Who wants to have memory of being alone in a room with a drunk man dressed like a tranny. Mind, I think a tranny would definately of had better dress sense. Overall though it is one of those treasured moments I'll not forget. No matter how much I try.

So to end. I haven't come to a conclusion whether alcohol is the answer. It's just one of many answers and happens to be helping at the moment. Hic.

Adjusting To The Role Of A Middle Fish, looking to alcohol

Well I have now done a total of 5 days at the Fish Factory as a middle size fish, 3 days last week and 2 days this week. At this pace I'll be retired just after nuclear disarmament takes place. It's like a constant drip of water, or rather a constant flowing overhang from Niagara Falls. I'm sure I’ve made a few mistakes and am likely to make more mistakes. My time is not my own. I don't have the luxury of just sitting still and getting on with the gutting like I used to do. Now I just wait for the fish to come dropping out of the sky to keep me occupied. The thing is, it's not just dropping, it's a bloody downpour. I get into the Fish Factor and don't know where to start or what I should do. I leave the Fish Factory and find I'm juggling twenty flaming daggers and with the feeling I've forgotten something and I'm not pulling my weight. My weight now days being a little more considerable than what it has been. I sent a text to Sparkling and said I was likely to have a nervous breakdown with it all. Other middle fishes I talk to tell me of similar stories when they first began swimming in this particular pond. Half of me wonders whether I have taken on more than I can chew. The other half says I will get it, I will understand it, just I'm not getting the gradual ease into middle pond swimming as you'd expect. I also wonder how the hell I got to be in this position. Even today I spoke to someone and said I should of turned up for the interview in a clowns costume, maybe they wouldn't of considered me appropriate as a middle fish. For the moment it is all moans and groans. I just have to see it through for the time being. I just have to keep persevering. I know I will get there. I will.

When I hit the homestead I'm generally half pissed nowadays. I don't know if going to the pub is the right strategy to use, in fact I probably know it is not the right strategy. I should definitely be doing a bit more meditation, but each bout of meditation is equal to about half a pint of drinking time. Though sometimes I even wonder why I got to the pub because there are hardly enough of the usual crowd to talk to.

I hear my mate Mr L & B is consuming alcohol in Poland. Where for some reason their beer is a massive 10 per cent proof. Although he has a stronger alcoholic constitution than I do, he is pissed by 9 p.m. Wow, imagine being pisse by 9 p.m. Well it's quite easy for me because of my lower tolerance. At this proportion of alcohol a pint of beer is like drinking a pint of wine, no body in their right mind could do many of them. Well he's probably not in his right mind, more of his left mind. If there's any mind to go by. Wow. If I drink my normal Guinness and he drinks this fancy Polish paint stripper, we'd probably be slightly closer in tolerance and timing than a normal session. No. I don't think so. He'd still drink me well under the table, then he'd be up doing his Britney Houston impression. Which reminds me of a moment in January when we were both in a room with nobody about and he was wearing a wig, stockings and false titties. It was a pretty big bra he had on. I don't know what it was filled with, but I'm sure his man boobs were not large enough to fill those cups up. Actually, the more I think about this moment the more I wish i could forget it. Who wants to have memory of being alone in a room with a drunk man dressed like a tranny. Mind, I think a tranny would definately of had better dress sense. Overall though it is one of those treasured moments I'll not forget. No matter how much I try.

So to end. I haven't come to a conclusion whether alcohol is the answer. It's just one of many answers and happens to be helping at the moment. Hic.

Retired English Teacher roastsing a chicken

I don't know what it is but there is a growing intolerance I have with people I have normally tolerated for many years. A constant thought comes to my head and it is "they really don't get it," this is because they only see something from their own point of view. Take for instance a long time friend of mine, probably the only one I have left now. The retired English Teacher. I love him and respect him but why is it I get irritated when he goes into diatribes about things he does not understand as though he is giving some precious information away. An example is when I spoke to him about Sparkling searching for a job. I then had to endure about forty minutes of his advice on how to search for a job, what places to try and what methods to use, even though he has been retired for the last ten plus some years. I didn't interrupt him because he is the type who just doesn't know when to stop. On and on and on he went. I felt like shouting out "do you think she is stupid!" So I delved deep into my inner resource of patience and tolerance, to accept he would say what he had to say because it was a conversation which gave him meaning to life, at this particular moment. Even though I knew his advice was rubbish and was really falling on deaf ears. I tried to think about other things and listen to the radio in the background as it counted down the top classic tunes for the Easter weekend. Well it was either this or let my inner Devil take over and commit homicide. It is a generic phenomenon this talk-at-you. Everyone wants to say something, everyone wants their view point heard and there are few enough people around who actually have the skills to listen. It might be when I reach the retired English teacher's age I'll be the same. Then again maybe not, because for me it is difficult to tolerate many people, I just think there are loads of undiagnosed mentally ill people walking about. Of which I would include anyone with a over zealous belief systems, those who have a pride in ignorance and others who like eating too many polo's.

I don't believe I can fly. I've tried it. My arms don't work and I am not a bird. In colloquial London-English a "bird" can mean female. However, I'm talking about the feathered variety. I don't have feathers. However, if I did have feathers then I might very well be considered a bird. Hopefully not a chicken though, because they get eaten. Were I a bird, I'd probably be a member of the non flight variety, on account of my belly. Which shall I add the retired English teacher commented on. Saying I was fat. OK I been for a couple of long walks over this Easter period in the hope they would shed a few pounds, but these gave to be taken in context with fried breakfasts and eating Easter eggs. Therefore there is some pretty good reason why I can't fly, not being a bird, not having feathers and being fat can count as three of them.

It was at pretty short notice I went to see the retired English Teacher. I could of pulled out of my hat an excuse he uses. Something along the lines of needing two weeks notice because my social diary is so full. It's never full and it would of been slightly petty had I used his common excuse. He did however say I my help was to be required in cooking lunch. Lunch being a roast chicken. It was with dismay I saw him fish from his fridge decidedly dodgy looking broccoli which looked very limp to say the least. He had come up with the notion of sticking a lemon and satsuma inside the chicken as well. But the lemons were not a lemon colour any more, they had gone kind of darkish and their skins hard. We did find a clementine or satsuma, I can't say for sure which it was, just it was one of those small squashed up looking orange fruits. He cut it in half and down the chicken's bum it went, with some garlic and half an onion. I can honestly say they did not actually make much difference to the flavour. For some reason it must of taken us about three to four hours, including preparation and cooking time before we ate. Next time I thought, if I have sufficient notice, I'll bring my own vegetables. It didn't help he had little idea on how to work his oven. So the chicken had to have some extra time cooking, lets not forget so did the roast potatoes. However, the whole event was taken with humour, a bottle of Stella helped and a glass of red wine went someway towards this merriness as well.

And in this last respect, I notice how alcohol seemed to chill me out some more. It seems in this world there is most definately a purpose for the correct application of drugs.

Fallen tree, middle fish and how I need a holiday

Scotland has had some pretty bad winds over the last few days. So Sparkling told me. This was without the wind being generated from my own fat belly and butt. A small tree in Sparkling's back garden has toppled over. It had been there years and years. The blossom was a beautiful purple and now it will never flower again. It's sad. However, Sparkling being made of more gumption than the average man decided she would spend a day cutting, hacking and sawing to remove the now drooped wooden structure. Meanwhile I sit eating chocolate Easter egg. Sparkling did say it would of been a task she'd of expected me to do. Of course I would of done it. But as with most women when Sparkles gets this urge something must be done, she then sets her mind to it. I had advised her there was a reciprocating saw in the shed and it might help.

Some hours later. Having been morally supported by two little grandchildren to a neighbour the job was mostly completed. Her back aching, and the blade on the reciprocating saw broken, what once was a broken down tree is now just chunks of wooden remains in the garden waste bin. I warned such a long labour would end up with her being stiff the next day or two. She hasn't got back to me yet so I don't know if her back had taken the toll. Then I recal she had said there was some left. Some which the saw and her efforts could not penetrate. The roots. So waiting for me now will be the task of digging out the roots. It may take a day or two, or longer. But as Sparkles has done such a good job, I will be ever so willing to help.

It's odd. I have now been working as a middle fish in the factory, having completed three days and I have complained to Sparkles I need a holiday. Her response is, it was about time I had a challenge and I worked for my money. It seems there is a downside to having your desires fulfilled. I can't wait to get at those tree roots.

Also being a middle fish I will need to make myself more accessible to the other little fishes. The one's who will be looking towards me for answers. When I previously would keep my phone number completely confidential now I am on the verge of giving it away to all and sundry fish. Any time I could be rung up, but I'm not in the Fish Factory at any time. Sparkles is pushing me on this to be available, to take the mantle and rise to the challenge. All I want is a holiday. If the last three days are anything to go by, I'm going to be requesting a holiday every couple of weeks. Someone throw this middle fish a life belt, one big enough to go around my waist. Which is another sore point, because Sparkling has told me she has lost 13 pounds in weight. Nearly a whole stone!!!! I am now depressed. The belly has got me, I really do need a holiday.

A nasty bit of software

Last night, there I sat just minding my own business watching an episode of 24, when out of the blue a message popped up on my monitor about needing some antivirus software. It then wanted to scan my PC, so I let it. However there was something not quite right, something different about this software. It told me I had loads of files infected and then it wanted me to download the full version and pay a subscription. At this time I was becoming annoyed. I tried to forget it and re booted. Then the nightmare began. For now the majority of the programs I used would not work. A little window popped up said each file was infected and just refused to run it. For your interest the nasty little fella is called:

Antivirus Suite or Antivirus Soft

By some great fortune I was able to use Mozilla explorer and then search for a solution. So yesterday my evening finished with the thought "what am I going to do?" Today, this evening I spent over an hour plus some, finding the solution and stamping up and down with both feet on the nasty little bug who decided to throw a spanner in the works. The worse thing about it was I had not even consciously downloaded this thing. It just seems to get onto your PC and then you end up going nuts. Whoever these people are which own the company who created this infection they need to be sued. Sued by every person who got infected. Taken to the cleaners. Then I'll wonder if they will do it again. In fact this is a pretty good idea. If the origin of any virus can be chased back to its source then every one ever let out to roam the net and their creators should be sued. Sued till they could no longer own a keyboard and had to think about where their next penny was coming from, then we'd see their creativity put to use.

So be aware, be afraid and if you have a second pc use it to find the solution on Google. I'm off to see my lawyer, pounds signs are just flicking up.

Some thoughts, some not thoughts and a bigger fish

This was my first day at the Fish Factoryas a slightly bigger fish. It seemed to begin slow, but ended up as one of those days where it felt I was getting nowhere. Nothing was being achieved. Information was coming and going, being passed on, then there were two separate meetings one a introduction to another middle fish who I knew anyway and in the afternoon a short training session. Which was exhausting. All "mind" work on how to use an implement. Then before I knew it the day had flashed passed. I had done a 9 hour day, quite a lot for me and the maximum allowed. Somehow I managed to send a text to Sparkling, which was probably as I left the Fish Factory. In reviewing the things I did, which seemed few, the one I so wanted to do but could not, was to attach a tie pin to my tie. Sparkling sent it to me, and for some unfathomable reason this seemed so very important. I tried at least three or four times and they were at different times but it would not attach itself. So I put it in my pocket and felt it there. I wanted it so much to be on my tie because for me it represented Sparkling being there. When it refused to stay in place I was a little sad.

Then life goes on. Fortunately the day was relatively uneventful and no overly big trials were forced upon me.

I'm reading a new book and have just finished at a page where the author quotes a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet Act 2 Scene 2, it is "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." When I think about things, I then merge into feelings of those things, of their importance to me. I was sad about the tie pin, because Sparkling is the most important person in the world to me, and I want so much to hug her and tell her I love her. Her absence from my everyday life does not mean she is not in my everyday life for she is part of many of my thoughts. Unless I am really busy, then there is no time for any reflection. So my thoughts of her were associated to the tie pin and the fact I have not seen her for a long time. However, the quote relates no all thoughts regardless of their outcome. It says in other words, I can not be harmed by something unless I give way to the worry and vexations of whatever it is. Then it's not the actual object which really harms me, it is my own thoughts. My own feelings. It's complicated to tell the truth. For sometimes it is not so easy to stop thinking about something, then the mind just goes off like an untamed horse running down the street and it can not be caught or stopped, it just goes into it's own panic. Heavy stuff.

How would such a dilemma be overcome I then ask myself. Alcohol, drugs, meditation, ringing up the Samaritans and boring to tears some other poor soul on the end of the phone who has a do-gooder attitude. Oh yes. Say at 3 a.m. in the morning, which would pretty much teach them having a do-gooder attitude can result in an interrupted night's sleep. A little like those people who go on a course in how to Counsel think they have suddenly become qualified psychologists, but are more ignorant, than much else. No. Lets not be so nasty to someone who volunteers for "listening" duties and doesn't get paid for it. I'm sure there are some very good Counsellors out there, somewhere. For listening to another human being and empathising with them is a powerful tool to have in the old kit bag. The old kit bag of personal traits not related to a personal curiosity of other people's woes. I'm not so hot on the drugs side, but I must admit to a little bit of alcohol now and again, and even some meditation (don't confuse with medication=drugs). Thinking of nothing is a wonderful thing to do, I personally would say the whole world would get on with itself a lot better if it just took time to sit down and think of nothing. I tried this one day last week when walking to the Fish Factory, it was a great exercise and really got me to slow down.

So it is, the perception of time can pass very quickly, I miss Sparkling and need to get some time with her, otherwise I'll become just another cog in the Fish Factory. Needing a little oiling once in a while.

There's an eskimo in my head

The clocks went forward and it's there's a likelihood of snow this week. The weather system and seasons have now gone in crazy mode. It was only last week I took some photographs of beautiful flowering crocuses and some very large bumble bees diving inside them. I noticed as they tentatively extracted themselves and were covered in orange pollen. Then it seemed they literally jumped over to the next crocus to begin all over again. If it snows the crocuses may die and the bees will no doubt get pretty confused. Which reminds me, I had better get out a jumper, just in case. You have got to be prepared.

I woke up this morning with yesterday's migraine come headache still lingering. Sometimes I might go weeks without one and then other times I'll get two or three in the same week. Something odd though happened this morning. I washed my hair and briefly while washing it the migraine disappeared. Whether I'm imagining a brief moment normality I can not tell. As the intensity is less today than yesterday maybe it will completely go in a short while. Maybe it's all down to having a big brain and not a big enough head for it to be housed in. So it tries to break out and then realises its just got to make do with what space there is and live with it. My brain is revolting, and I'm not letting it get away. Or perhaps it's the little men inside who crank the cogs up. I know they are probably asking me to eat some fish because they are fed up with the amount of Chinese food I'm eating. I can see them jumping up and down causing the thudding. Yep, one of those little brain working chaps is shouting out "I'm not Chinese mate, give me some fish!" I expect I must of employed this particular fellow from some far of Eskimo land, on account of the amount of snow and cold weather there has been around this winter. Because little Eskimo brain workers aren't bothered by the cold.

I just finished reading a book called Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrick. It's about some MIT students who count cards and take on the Blackjack tables of Las Vegas. I must admit to enjoying most of it, but I don't think it was as good a read as the film which came from it, called "21" with Kevin Spacey. So I will not be recommending it. The writing styles although clear isn't quite to my liking. Or maybe it's the little rich smart kids running around Vegas. Well the world has changed quite a bit since then so card counting is not what it used to be.

I'm still missing my cat Tigger. I think of him and have even pretended to give him a stroke. This morning I realised this is because I am at the "denial" stage of grieving. There being five stages each independent and overlapping and without and random. Kubler-Ross I think her name was, termed them as denial, depression, aggression, bargaining and acceptance. I know I need to accept poor Tigger has gone, but I don't want to because he was such a loving beautiful cat. Even now writing this wells up my eyes. Sometimes saying "get over it" doesn't work. I will it's just a matter of time. If only the brain worker in my head would stop jumping up and down it might be a little easier.

Hope you like the picture on top, it's my very own one of a kind and unique. If we get snow I'll take another and post it with my moans and groans. Come on now Crazyfirdayman, it's not the end of the world, things change, weather is unpredictable and life goes on. So get over it. Yep, the little brain worker is shouting out again. When I get the fish I'm going to slap him round the head with it.

Finding a calm sea

In a world where the sea rages it is necessary to find a quiet spot. For instance it would be no good sitting in a rubber dingy on top of the same raging sea. It will just get battered about, all over the place with you inside it. Wondering if it was such a bright idea to get in the dingy in the first place. Lets not forget, being bashed about by your supplies. It could be dangerous if there are in tins of food or a knife and fork. What I'm talking about is being able to find an inner place away from the trials of real life.

I have just sat down meditating to help calm my mind and calm my mood. The objective was to think of nothing and so I sat staring at a wall trying to count from one to ten. I imagined a ship on the ocean in the far distance, as though I possessed X-ray eyes and could see it through the wall. The ship was one I had been on before, when I went on a holiday to Portugal with Sparkling. It was a replica of the oldie type sailing ships, but it also had a motor and propeller. So it wasn't quite a true replica, but if you think of the oldie type ships with sails and ropes, you'll get an idea of what I'm talking about. Unfortunately, my head was a raging sea, swaying back and forth. Thoughts of events which had disappointed me, both at home and in the Fish Factory. My mind running in overdrive, trying to piece together what I should do. Yet the other part of it was saying take no action. It is very difficult to say the least when being vexed to just empty the head. Before I knew it half an hour had passed while I sat there. There was certainly some kind of relaxation going on. I sat on the edge of my seat, concentrating on posture and trying to do something with my back. The meditation wasn't succeeding, it was probably on a different sea from the one I was on. Fortunately I feel tired and maybe this tiredness will help me have a good night sleep. If it does it will mean the meditation has helped out a little and not let the worry monkeys play with my head, throwing peanuts or the skins from bananas at me.

Sometimes when I feel myself going into a moan, and then doing nothing but grown I get frustrated with myself I should not of allowed something to get to me. Finding a calm sea, a calm place to be is an art form, a martial art form of the mind. Imaginary or not, whatever place it is the art then comes in going to this place when in need. Hopefully everybody else doesn't have the same idea. It would hardly be much good if on this imaginary sea there are a billion other people. They have got to go find their own place. Someplace far away before I conjure up a great man eating whale, called Moby Dick the Second. On account of Moby Dick the First being on holiday.

So for tonight, peace evades me, I'll just have to not take any stimulants and let the monkeys go free.

One drug is just like the other even if its twelve times more expensive

I had a headache today. One of those splitters, the type where on occasion the pain was so much I felt I was going to lose my balance and fall over. Like a skittle, a human skittle. In search of rapid relief I thought the best thing to do was to go to a local store which has a pharmacy. I spoke to the counter assistant and asked her recommendation on some drugs I'd picked up off the shelf. She gave me some advice then went and fetched the pharmacist. The green packet I chose had the right wording on it consumer wise. It advertised how it worked fast and was good for both headaches and migraines. It contained paracetamol. The pharmacist asked me some questions and then explained this wonderful looking packet of pills I had chosen would be no different from any other packet of paracetamol. As there was already a 20 pence packet under my desk in the Fish Factory and the ones I had thought about were about twelve times more expensive, there was only one conclusion. They were returned back to the shelf. The pharmacist advised I should see my GP because it seems over the counter drugs would not be effective enough. Then I was informed to drink plenty of water, because being dehydrated is a big reason for headaches and to not take any stimulants, such as coffee or tea. This again is a little odd because you will find some manufacturers of paracetamol will do a version which has caffeine included. Oh yes, and further not to drink alcohol. Seeing as I was sobre and on the edge of falling over drinking a pint would very likely of made me lose balance.

The pharmacist had was good in her job. She had the qualities of someone who knew what they were talking about and was able to listen to me as a customer. She also did try and recommend another product if I was feeling feverish, but I could see this was a second thought and she was then working in her capacity as a big store pharmacist trying to sell something else. No not for me.

There is no doubt in my mind, unless I'm tipsy, I have got to see my GP. If I don't I could end up falling over all over the place without so much as a drop of alcohol pass my lips. Such a thing would border on catastrophe.

Bye Tigger (sad blog)

On the morning of 22 March 2010. Unknown to me Big Momma decided to have one of the cat's put down. Tigger. He was the most kind gentle and easy going cat I have ever known. I will no longer greet him in the morning with a fuss and the imitable words "who loves ya baby." The whole experience has been pretty sad. I had no say, or no last words, or no last cuddle or stroke of my four legged feline friend. So I was pretty pissed off. Especially as I went to hit the hay and begin the usual routine to ensure I kicked him out off my room (he was a resltess farty sleeper) and closed the door to make sure he couldn't disturb me. Except this time he was not there. Surprised and not sure why I went to look for him and could not spy him hiding anywhere. It was then I was told he was no longer alive.

The thing which gets me, was poor Old Man Tigger, still had a couple of more years of life in him. He was healthier than he had been in ages. OK he suffered from arthritis, had catarachs and needed an operation because of a liver problem and I'm informed had a weak heart. But he gave his love so freely, he demanded attention to be let out. He scoffed up one plate after another of biscuits and purred like a steam train while doing so. I don't know how but he even learnt to say a very close cat "hello" putting the right inflection just at the right moment in his "meow." He was healthier because momma had actually bothered to take him to the vet after he'd had a spell of illness. An infection I think, with some anti biotics he was on top of the world. Alright, he liked to have a good crap in the middle of the night, in exactly the same place. So there was always newspaper there. However, no matter how many times I advised his biscuits and food should be removed at 4 or 5 pm to stop this big momma would not listen. It was after his visit to the vet the concern about his heart and liver came out. Yet he was a happy cat, and as lively as you would expect. For an Old Man of about a score in human years, say 140 in cat years. The vet's were up for giving him the operation, they had done the preliminary work. Scans, blood samples and so on. But Big Momma could not be bothered. She'd had enough of clearing up his crap in the morning. Even though she has no sense of smell. She made the decision, said she was going to do it, but I didn't believe her and then I find out. Gone. No longer here.

I was so angry very angry. She said he had a weak heart, I said "well he bloody has now, it's not functioning at all." Then I said I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. No reply came. I was angry and in disbelief she could do such a thing. A pet of twenty years forms more attachments than most relatives in my case have with me.

The most remarkable memory I have of Tigger is how he thought the world belonged to him. On an incredibly hot days of the summer he had a discerning habit. He'd go into the front garden walking into the middle of the road and just lay down and stretch himself out. Although it was a quiet cul-de-sac road, cars and people still went up and down. Yet for Tigger there was some self oblivion he held. He was meaty, not fat, athletic meaty and could out run or climb any dog in the few short strides that would be needed. When he was a lot younger he had inflicted a cut on a dog and escaped. But as every day passed and age caught up, the little bravery he had, which wasn't really much at all disappeared even more. Other cats could use his garden to walk through and it didn't bother him, he'd just sleep on the grass or ignore them. If they then wanted to beat him up he would let out the loudest whines and we'd then run out to let him in or shoo away his opponent. For him a stroke, love and a bowl of biscuits was his pleasure.

OK it's only a cat. I[ll get over him in a few days, but just this minute I'm mad and sad. Miss you Tigg.

The cat who likes to sit down for a nap

This picture was taken today. It's Stinky one of two cats who board and lodge at the prestigious hotel known as Hotel Crazyfirdayman. He at times has a belief in being human and certainly doesn't mind sharing a seat. He got into this pose all on his own and needed no coaxing at all. Normally I'd of thought the chair was only big enough for one, but when you're a cat any little space to squeeze in will do. He was quite content and snoozed away part of the afternoon in this position.

From meeting a monkey to an explanation of ducks and ealges

I had a weird dream this morning. I was even concerned by it. The thing was afterwards there were two thoughts on my mind. First to go back to sleep and see if I could change the dream for a better ending and second was to instantly forget it. Which mostly happens any day of the week. As the dream was a reflection of some inner part of what my character could be like I'll not share it. I was disconcerted. Dreams can be another form of conscience, it's bad enough having a conscience follow you about like a monkey all day long and constantly ask for peanuts. But to have one when I should be dreaming of wonderful deserted beaches, coconuts and scantily clad women is too much. Mind, if there were any scantily clad women in my dream I can guarantee Sparkling would be coming around from under the nearest coconut tree then poking me in the eye. Which I would very much deserve. As I said, conscience is something you just can't get away from.

Talking of monkeys, I spent an hour watching YouTube videos by a management guru. Called the "one minute manage meets the monkey" and they are quite enlightening. The monkey is a responsibility, like a burden, it can be passed about so it hitches a ride on someone else's back. The one minute manager's goal was basically to be so good at supporting employees, they would be taken to a level of independence. The belief being, the employees should find out their own solutions and be their own experts, all the one minute manager does is give them support, guidance and confidence. Except this guy was saying if he had an employee who kept coming to him passing his monkeys on, he'd sack them. Ultimately though the goal was to be able to go on holiday or take a break and find everything had run smoothly without him being in the workplace. Which was how he saw management at it's highest level. Another guru I checked out had come up with a novel hierarchy. Where instead of a triangle with the point on the top, the point was on the bottom. Simply being, everybody at management level was there to support all those on the ground floor. It made sense the more he spoke about it. He then went on to talk about ducks and eagles. Not quite the same as monkeys I thought. But again pretty visual images which made it easier to understand.

I went on to check out some items about Ducks and Eagles and order a book. It was a compulsion purchase from Amazon. But I couldn't help it. To add to the 8 or 9 I already have unread and waiting. The whole thing just seemed so inspirational to me. This guy Wayne Dyer had divided people into two types at work, these he called the Ducks and the Eagles. Ducks were basically the complainers, and they really didn't change a great deal, they just quacked and complained with the other ducks on the ground. Whilst an eagle would soar. It might be difficult to see yourself as an Eagle, with those brown feathers and bright hooked beak, but Dyer is really talking about providing a service to the best of your abilities. With enthusiasm, with want, with an inner understanding of being the best you can. Then people wanted to come back to the Eagle, they wanted to be in the presence of an Eagle rather than a Duck. So the Eagle would win the day. I just read a great article about a Taxi driver who decided to be an Eagle. He made it his mission to provide the best service he could to his clients. By being well groomed, having the shiniest cab, providing reading material or refreshments if needed, altering the air conditioning. Nothing would be out of his way to help his client. It ended up he no longer had to tout for business because people would ring him up an he was making more money than he'd ever made before. It sounded inspirational, hence my impulse purchase. I'll read the book and maybe update you when it's finished. Or sooner.

So the motto is, don't let the monkeys get on your back and fly like an eagle. Mind, if you did have a monkey on your back it would be pretty difficult to fly like an eagle.

Ripples

A pebble dropped in a pond causes ripples. It don't have to be a big one either. It could be one of those little ones, but the ripples are felt right up to the edges of the pond. They then come back with less energy until the water is still again.

Such is the dynamics of social interactions in any group setting. Sometimes those who have nothing to talk about will chat about the little ripples caused. But if the ripples are small then they have no facts to go on. Their thoughts on the pebble are without any real knowledge or foundation, they can only surmise, guess. Then wonder if there is a threat, wonder if they should be taking action or not. Draw up their own conclusions and then by their own actions, others still make comment.

What a complicated world of social interactions it is. Give me a game of chess any day.

St Patrick's day and no company

It's St Patrick's Day, and in my dilemma of celebration I thought there might be a few familiar faces at the pub. There wasn't. It might be because it's a Wednesday and people just do not go out on a Wednesday to celebrate anything, except me. I had put off going to the gym and decided two pints of Guinness had my name on and were waiting. It only seemed justifiably right to celebrate. Even though I'm not Irish. Then from what I understand even some Irish people don't celebrate St Patrick's day either. How unloyal of them is all I can say. But then it could be because it's the middle of the week. Halfway through, tomorrow will be more than halfway through, and Friday would certainly have been better. I'd of guaranteed there would be substantially more people getting into the St Patrick's day mode. Oh well, sod the lot of them. My usual contingent of alcoholics were not even present. I could of very easily have gone past my limit and maybe hit three and a half pints. However, without any support two sufficed this evening.

I sent Sparkling a text and asked her if there was a St Scotland day. There was no reply so I can take it there is no such thing, but I'm sure there is. St Andrews day perhaps? During which Guinness isn't probably drunk as much as Scotch. Then Scotch is a lot stronger. I'd be under the table in no time were I to start on it. Shame they didn't have Guinness as well.

I had even taken my gym kit into the Fish Factory so I was going to hit the treadmill rather than the pub. For some reason the desire to sweat didn't appeal as much as a pint. I think I am now getting into some bad habits. I'm drinking too much and eating too many chips. At this rate I should be thinking about a Will. Hmmm.

Now there's a good reason to have another pint.

Drawing up a CV and getting sentimental

I spoke to Sparkling briefly on the phone. Her day had been a nightmare and she was in the process of going out. So the voice I got was irritated, to mildly put it. The conversation was kept short and I stayed calm, and told her I love her. A text arrived not long after and an explanation of her dire day. I wished we could of chatted for longer, and I was able to help her relax with a foot massage.

This evening I've been trying to find my CV. There should of been a copy of one somewhere on the computer, but it has been so long since I wrote it, the computer may have been an old one thrown out some time ago. The notion to update my CV had come because of earlier interview successes. I thought it would be good to try and make something which said here is my life. It was a mistake. A mistake because it meant finding the information from previously completed application forms and from old examination certificates. I started listing with education first and employers next. As the time went on, maybe a couple of hours I began to get sad. Wondering about my achievements. How it is you can go to college or University, get qualified and never see a job worthy of your qualifications. Then whatever job you eventually end up getting, it doesn't use what you got. Especially if you know more than the big fish. The whales and even sharks have no conception of what knowledge some of the goldfish hold. As I looked at those certificates, some quite a few years old melancholy began to descend. I could barely remember the times I was at school. It was through evening classes my education really took off. I wrote down the months and years on the CV for each course I had done. The grades weren't much to talk about. My best being a "B" in English. I don't know why I felt sad, I just did. I just felt I needed a hug and some company as tears began to well in my eyes. No, it might not be a good idea to update your CV.

It was the places, the people, and the names which had evaporated from my memory. For now, quite some years later I felt alone. I so could do with such a very big hug. The sort you might get from Mr Blobby. The sort which would make you happy and warm, then laugh and laugh until the tears where nothing but joy. Where is Mr Blobby when you need him? Mind with my extending girth I'll be getting there myself some day.

Sausages are not a slimming pill

I had a little walk today, in a hope it would help move the sausages I ate for breakfast. But there doesn't seem to be much of a difference. I am reconciled to now becoming fat. There just is not an inclination in me to stop eating things which really are no good for the human body. Something has to be done, however the doing part is the most difficult bit. Sparkling's joined weight watchers, and after she found no weight loss last week her solution was to eat the better part of a packet of hobnobs. Nice to. Is it just an age thing? Maybe. Maybe if we both blame it on age then there is nothing which can be done and it's just a matter of settling down and getting on with it. Mind Sparkling is looking slimmer than me. Where is the instant slim quick pill when you want one?

How to become an instant millionaire

It's quite easy really, there are no secrets either and anyone can do it. Although possibly a little more difficult for a man than a woman. The answer is not long winded either, but I'll give you a few extra answers just in case any one of them isn't enough in itself.

Marry one.

Move to Turkey.

Move to Zimbabwe.

Win the lottery.

Find out whether you are a long lost relative to Bill Gates, the Queen, the Sultan of Brunei

Take note of today's winning events, e.g. footy, horses, dogs, get in a time machine, go back to yesterday and bet an accumulator

Find a very rare mineral, liquid or artifact which somone else desperately wants.

Make a bomb which would blow up the world and hold us all to hostage.

Invent something no one can live without and get it patented first.

Slim food - chips and battered sausage

I did a little shopping today and popped into a generic stationary/newspaper/book/DVD shop for a little nose about. There I spied a book on how to get a hot buff body in only 12 weeks of exercise. It mentioned on the front there were 100s of exercises. It looked interesting and I picked it up for a quick glance through the pages. One of the sections it had was about diet and foods to eat. The steak looked great and so did the fresh Caspian peppers. But no matter how hard I looked it just did not have a picture of last night's meal. A large portion of chips with a big sausage in batter. No matter how many pages I flicked over, I could not see them anywhere. Not forgetting the tomato sauce as well. There was only one conclusion I could come to, eating chips and battered sausage is not part of a healthy diet towards looking fit and hot. I was a little disappointed.

For it is about time someone out there came up with the eat as much crap as you like and still get slim fit and healthy book. The pictures would include chips, pies, cakes and chocolate bars. In addition the author would write a wonderful footnote at the beginning of the book which said you had to strictly abide by this diet otherwise he could not guarantee the same results as other bean pole followers. Well, it's the thought which counts.

Only thoughts don't make you slim either.

Facing up to the test

On the 21st Feb 2010, not long ago I wrote a blog about whether I should swim in the sea with the bigger fishes. This is my way of referring to industry and commerce in order to protect the innocent little fishes. I can happily say I was successful in acquiring a slightly bigger status on a temporary basis of between 3 and 6 months. Depending on how well I do. What I must admit was the odds were not too bad, given there were just a total of three fishes trying out for the new pond. Somehow I must of done something which impressed the two large clown fish who sat opposite me at the table. The interview was followed by a test. Which I felt so badly about I nearly just gave up and walked away, but as I was sitting next to one of the clown fish at the time I did the test, it made it a little more difficult to be so brash. I was happy when the news came to me and I succeeded. Not just for my own self confidence but another reason.

For one of the other two candidate little fishes was someone I am not getting along with. Someone who has got up my nose, given me an pain in the neck, vexed me, caused me to rage internally to the point I could of swam to the bottom of the pond got a pile of stones and then swam to the top of the pond to drop them on him. I now look upon this person with a little bit of pity. I know in the fish pond of industry I should do my best to get along with everyone, but sometimes it doesn't matter who you are there will always be some fish who has a particularly bad smell about them. In the way they talk, act or the manner they work. Then when you find out you're not the only person who has had the odd run in it's not your own sanity which is at issue. I have no doubt there are many fish ponds of life where a great deal of maladjusted fishes swim about and when you meet them the ubiquitous question comes to mind "how the hell did they get to be here?" Yes, it does. You just can't deny it. If fortune then spins her web and decides luck will not favour you gills you could then find yourself amongst an entire fish grouping of completely maladaptive fish personalities. Sharks, puffer fishes, little scared crapless minoes just not knowing where to turn, and the self absorbed "I am the best" twat fish. Who no matter how much you try to discus or logically deliberate a point they will always think they are right. Unfortunately, it's not an issue of argument or debate but one of their being the best and knowing more, or just thinking they know more. I personally learnt to hold my tongue and then no longer discuss any topic outside of the industrious fish pond we shared for a few hours of the day. Not even what was on last night's Fish Soaps. A saying came to mind along the lines of not feeding the fire with oxygen or something of this nature.

Yesterday, after about 2 months of long term preparation I entered the arena again and sat opposite three bigger fishes as they decided to pit their questions at me. They had already got me to sit a test which meant sitting in a room for an hour and a bitty. Writing like mad. Like a dispossessed LSD taking agony aunt, to someones personal dilemma. As I seated myself to face these familiar fishes they began by asking me to do a short presentation on the test I had just completed then threw their six questions at me. It was nice to say I had to answer six questions however, in the moment they told me a big wave of dread came over. the dread was along the lines of "blooming Aida, I'm gonna be here forever." I kept a stoic fish face on, just like the one I would use if I were a poker player. Listened to the first question which I think I slightly misunderstood, but answered. It was a half shaky start for me and I felt I should of done better. The same went for the second question. After which I seemed to get into the swing and warmed up. It was easier. By the end of this jousting period I had began to get horse and lose my gills. But regardless of the not so good account I gave of two of the questions I really went on to enjoy the whole experience not caring anymore whether I got the slightly bigger fish opportunity or not. It no longer mattered. I know, I had tried the best I could in the circumstances even if I hadn't remembered everything. I was alive, I still had a position as a slightly bigger fish for a short while and it really wasn't the end of the world.

Sparkling bless her. Is always a wonderful support in everything I do, but I decided to keep to side her suggestions on how to overcome the interview nerves. Which came in two parts. First she advised me to walk into the room hunch my back up and do a muscle man pose, going "grrrrrr" then secondly, say with as big a smile as I possibly could, with my tongue on the roof of my mouth "HELLO." I will admit to practicing this technique in front of Sparkling while she drank wine and laughed. She kept telling me I hadn't quite got it and asked me to repeat it a couple of times. She laughed a lot and this gave me a little clue maybe she was pulling my leg. It didn't matter though, because her encouragement and love was more important to me than much else.

I'm now waiting a response to yesterday's grilling. Next time I will bring along the sea salt.

Who holds the knife an fork?

It is with a loquacious tongue I let it be known, there are things of this world beyond understanding of man. No. Not just man. All men. And of those things in particular, woman stands out as number one. So it is I re learn my lesson. As I sit watching TV with Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I'll also mention how I have become the temporary slave to a black and white feline cat, who goes by the name of Oliver. But this one doesn't moan out for more food like Oliver in the play. This namesake meows and the house shakes.

I and Sparkling managed to walk around a large DIY store without breaking out into an argument. I'm sure it was because we were both tired out. A wave of fatigue pulled my eyelids down and beckoned me to just let them close. Sparkling was talking to me, trying to convince me over something, I can't remember what on account of having memory problems and not finishing a great memory book on account of forgetting where I put it. To continue. Sparkling carried on talking to me and I could not put up any fight, my fight had gone. My eyes did indeed close. I stood there and momentarily slept. I could feel myself waver and wondered if I would fall over. I agreed with Sparkling. At this moment she could of been selling my left kidney to a dodgy looking man standing at the entrance with a carving knife and fork in his hand. Fortunately she wasn't. I managed to walk out intact. We then went to have a coffee, I ate some biscuits, put three teaspoons of sugar in my coffee and swallowed it down like a life elixir. On the way out I noticed the odd looking man was missing.

Tonight I'll sleep with one eye open.

I was promised a new delight. Chicken livers, deep fried. I been looking forward to this dish for about 24 hours, unfortunately on our walk around the supermarket there was none in sight. Instead Sparkling did me dinner with a large pie, peas and roast tatties. My belly extended further while Sparkling ran off to Weight Watchers to see how much she lost this week. Were there a weight gainers club I'd of leisurely trotted along and asked what the latest fat fad was, no doubt Sparkling would of been there earlier taken notes and began to list my next day's meals before the germination of food came to my own mind. So I'm feeling fatter than usual, maybe there is some kind of inverse relationship between Sparkling's own weight loss and my weight gain? Lets cross out the "maybe" and replace it with a definite "yes." The feline fellow I run about after could be doing me a favour, he could just be giving me the exercise I need. Unfortunately it's not enough, I'd have to open up every door window and cupboard at least a thousand times in the day to burn off the pie. Heaven's knows what it would of been had there been chicken livers available. The only way I'm going to lose weight is if I cut something off. Where's the man with a knife and fork gone?