Recovering from a busy week

It has been a busy week at the Fish Factory and instead of doing things which are good for me, like the gym or reading I'm ending up my evening with a pint or two in the pub.  Considering a pint is about £3 during the happy hour, two pints an evening and it soon adds up over a week.  So I have to control myself and miss out a day here and there.  If not for my pocket for my health.  It's surprising how the demands in the Fish Factory have an effect on needing time-out.  Which becomes more valuable.  Mind if there are people around I know we generally have a good chit chat and chill.  Having alcohol has a relaxing effect.  It's said to be a depressant, but I think it actually depends very much on the individual and their personality.  If you are generally a happy person but had a stressful day it can help pull down stress levels and allow the happiness to come through.  Of course like any other self administering drug it should be taken in moderation, because overdoing it makes you walk funny and think you are about to drop of the edge of the world.  Particularly so in the morning when the effects of a hangover start to hit home.  At which time you suddenly find you have the head of someone with a major migraine, becoming hyper sensitive to all sounds, movement and under the influence of a strange magnetism to good old Armitage Shanks (the maker of toilets).  A vomit does have a cathartic effect. Hours later when in the later stages of recovery you'll swear never to do it again and try and remember exactly what it was you did do.  People who were with you at the time will then prompt your recall, unless they to happen to be hiding away from the world and holding a crucifix up to any bacon or egg which is shoved in their direction.  Saying this, I have no doubt getting drunk once in a while is actually good for the soul, if such a thing exists, then if not it's good for the head, and allows you time to evaluate. This is all of course from my first hand knowledge.

We are the summation of our experiences in this world and our ability to remember them.  We are also the character which allows us to rise above experience which is aversive.  Be this recovering from a night out or any other flying horse manure which comes out of nowhere. 

This morning I missed Sparkling.  I wanted just to reach out and have a hug.  I wish I was a rich man, a little like the song or a little like the many millionaires who happen to be running government at this moment.  I don't ever see any of them queuing up to get an NHS dentist, that's for sure.  But were I a rich man my life would be different.  I'd then be able to ensure my loved ones were always as happy as they could be.  I'd run my own business or businesses.  I'd keep myself perpetually busy and perpetually studying on some kind of educational course. If not some kind of practical course.  I'd hope I would be a philanthropist to society and more.  Oh well, I'm not rich so I'd better get over it, and winning the lottery is even slimmer than being hit by lightening, so I've been told. Oh well back to the drawing board, world domination it will have to be.

The little fishes pile up

There are fishes piling up in the Fish Factory, and I just don't seem to get a chance to look at them. They require attention, a mind of which is clear of disturbances, a quiet environment.  This does not happen.  So the little fishes will have to pile up and wait.  Unfortunately we all know what happens to fish when it's been allowed to sit around idly for some time.  Oh well.  I'll have to change occupation. 

Something which doesn't need concentration.  A potato farmer perhaps?

Collecting a phone

Yesterday my new phone arrived, I wasn't around so it meant going to the Post Office to pick it up.  This morning I went.  The sorting office is on an industrial estate and returning from it meant a hundred yard walk to the bus stop.  There I sat waiting for the bus and couldn't help myself but open up my phone.  Oh what a wonderful sight it was.  Exactly the same as the one I had before, but new.  It's keys all familiar, it works in exactly the same way and how comforting it is to know this.  There's no need to rummage through the instruction book and I loved it.  Except it wasn't the same as it didn't have all the old photos or contacts on it.  It's an out of date phone now, but I really don't care and don't want to buy a new fangled touch screen phone which needs to be permanently plugged in to keep it charged.  I love it, not as much as Sparkling I'll say, but it did temporarily provide me with some form of comfort.  I caressed it's buttons.  As I sat there waiting I thought this bus shelter probably had seen a number of people sit there and open up their parcels with trepidation.  This evening I rang up the operator to get the old number transferred onto it.  Soon it will be nicely set up then I 'll have to colled phone numbers and put them in it.  Phone numbers of people I know of course, not ones I don't.

And if anyone is curious as to what model it is, it's a Sony Erickson K800i, presently my little baby, awwwe

Wrinkles and food Mr Barry Manilow

An advert come on the box.  It's Barry Manilow doing a concert and their selling tickets.  So there I am thinking the old codger must be getting on a bit.  I can remember his songs coming out what must of been at least 30 years ago.  But as I watched the short clips of him singing I could see a sheen on his skin.  It was smooth, very smooth.  I commented to Big Momma, saying "blimey, I got more wrinkles on my arse than he has on his face, look at  him."  She walks past and replies "no, you got more wrinkles on your face, have you had a look at it recently?"  Then she goes on to say, "I think they've migrated from your arse to your face."  Wonderful.  It's good to know I'm loved.

Mind my belly has been playing me up the last few days.  It could be a bout of IBS, whatever it has it's helped me keep an eye on my food intake.  Well, I can't help it actually.  Ten minutes after eating I'm running off to the loo.  At this rate I'll be losing some weight as well.  I noticed how my belt had to be pulled a bit tighter today.  I got a book from Amazon yesterday it's called Food Rules by Michael Pollan.  It basically gives common sense rules on how to eat and what to eat with the reasons why.  Like for instance, don't eat a breakfast cereal which changes the colour of the milk and never eat food which is labelled healthy food.  For healthy food doesn't actually come with a label.  It's true, I've never seen a carrot with it's own label attached to it.  Were I to start taking notice of this book I'd have to actually cook and make all my own food because none of it would be processed.  It also advises never to eat to you are full, only eat to you are 70 percent full, or even 80 percent, depending from what culture you're from.  This is tough news when my sentiment has been to eat till you're full and feeling bloated and then a half hour later the inevitable words have got to be said "oh my belly!"  Sparkling knows this very well.  She's the one who can see and read it before it happens, and takes the mickey out of me, having to put on her version of a London accent.   Come to think of it I feel bloated now.  I shouldn't of had those two hot cross buns earlier.  The problem is it's always difficult knowing when to stop.  Personally I'm not sure I know where the 70 percent mark is.  It's not like there's some kind of gauge which tells me.  I just get bloated, it's all there is to it.

Yep Manilow is looking good.  He's probably doing the extra concerts because he needs some additional retirement money or it makes him feel more valued in his old age.  And yes, he really is old, at least 70 I'd say.  Going by his figure he probably sticks to the 70 percent rule as well.  But what I ask, is this: is Barry Manilow happy?  Hell yes.  I got more wrinkles on my arse than he's got on his face and I'm 30 years younger.  I wonder if his milk changes colour when its added to cereal? 

What has Big Momma eaten?

Big Momma's diabetes has been playing up.  Or rather this is a result of her diet.  Waking up five or six times at night to visit the toilet for a tinkle. It is killing me.  I am exhausted in the morning from it all.  So it was a matter of trying to find out what she has been eating.  When asked if it was sweets she would say "no I've not had any," I then asked about chocolate biscuits, she shakes her head and emphatically again says "no, I've not had any of them either" as if to say she is completely innocent and nothing of harm has passed her lips.  Although there just happened to of been a half empty packet of honey covered peanuts she had yesterday.  I know it was half empty because I had the other half. Trying to find out what she has eaten is a guessing game.  It is likely been narrowed down to a bar of chocolate she was given yesterday, bananas which I am sure are not good for diabetics and possibly sultana's, which are middle on the Glycemic Index (GI).  But there must of been something else, I believe she is not telling the whole story and I don't know how to fathom it out what she has been putting down he cake hole, literally speaking.  I even asked her about cakes and yes, she said no to them as well.  Well this evening I went to the gym and if after a disturbed night of intermittent sleep and a work out at the gym I don't sleep then I'll just be unhappy.  Very unhappy.  While Bog Momma laughs her little head away and most likely catches up with the rest of her sleep in the afternoon while watching the box.  I sure hope she hasn't gone back to eating crisps and chocolate in the afternoons again.  I'm struggling now to keep my eyes open and it's only just gone 9:30 p.m.

She is clearly potty.  Then so is the Japanese inventor Dr. Nakamatsu, who has over 3000 patents in the Japanese patent office.  An example of his work is a holder for your mobile phone.  This is strapped to the wrist because he says carrying a mobile phone in a jacket pocket is bad for the heart.  I know this is not true.  It is actually using a mobile phone which is bad for the brain because of the microwaves.  However, Dr. Nakamtsu hasn't taken this into account.  I know as I've just spent or was it wasted an hour of my life watching a documentary on him from 4oD.  Yet, this gentleman is a shrewed business man.  He would not sell off his water assisted powered bicycle people carrier, because the person who asked for it was trying to get it at half price.  Well like all shrewed business men his hand is not on his heart it's welded to his wallet.  Dr. N is now 80 years old and plans to live to the age of 144 years.  He has taken photographs of every meal he has eaten for the last 34 years and then does an analysis on his blood.  Checking to see if his blood is particularly healthy after certain meals some days later.  He has even received a Nobel Prize.  No I got it wrong.  It was an Ig Nobel Prize (as in ignoble), which he collected.  In my view although a prestigious inventor his unique abilities also border on the crack pot.  Except for the fact he invented the floppy disk drive,but I've just checked Google and Wikipedia says it was IBM, now one of them must be telling a fib.

I wonder if Dr Nakamatsu would like to meet Big Momma? Now there's an interesting thought.

Portugues Tarts are not all the same

It was while up  North I had a go at making Portuguese Tarts, with the recipe and motivation provided by none other than the fantastic Jamie Oliver.  Today I had another go and although I was using my memory, which apparently just isn't so good now days, I learnt not all Portuguese tarts are the same.  Quite frankly.  these ones were a disaster.  Several disasters all in the one tart tin.  It should of been a muffin tin but on account of actually having no muffin tin a normal tart tin had to suffice.  Maybe this was the first mistake.  Or probably my first mistake was not trying to find the recipe again and think I knew what I was doing.  I made the usual big mess, with cinnamon powder, rolled up ready made puff pastry and my creme fresh filling which for some reason wasn't as good as it was last time.  A bloody disaster.  I'm beginning to dislike puff pastry now.  On the other hand we're only talking tarts.  It should be possible to conquer something as simple as a Portuguese tart.  Shouldn't it?  So I have no choice but to make them again.  Get the ingredients and review the recipe providing I can find it.

I recall something Thomas Edison said "I have not failed, I have just found 10,000 ways that don't work," now if I take this into account then I'd have at least 9,999 more attempts left before the perfect Portuguese tart pops out of the oven.   As if the tart is going to do this all on it's own accord.  No.  With a little help from moi it might though.  Then I can pat myself on the back and think I am a great cook.  One thing is for sure with 9,999 failures the pigeons, sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and magpies are all going to start looking a little bit bigger.

What to look for in a new phone - an old one

Perhaps it is part of being old and knowing what it is I want.  So I have now made an order on Amazon for a replacement mobile phone.  It's exactly the same make and model I had before.  I spend hours and  hours looking at the new touch screen ones, checking out YouTube and reading reviews, but I just couldn't justify the cost of something which is supposed to be a phone not a computer combined everything else object.  A mobile phone is for making phone calls and sending text messages.  Anything else is a plus.  One person extolled the virtues of their iPhone to me.  However, I really didn't grasp it.  Cost versus functionality.  They confessed it didn't always give them great reception, of having to sit in a certain position to make their phone calls (while in the office of all places).  I have even seen the wonderful tablet Apple computers and even though they look really flashy, they are full of novelty value which some people see as surpassing what a real laptop computer would be capable of doing.  They actually don't, but they are nice.  Functionality of a phone is what matters.  It must do what it says on the box.  There shouldn't be any of this sitting in a certain place or doing a headstand to get reception.  It should hold a charge which would last at least four days if not longer when switched off at night.  Who wants to spend their life charging up a phone?  Not anyone in their right mind.  Not me.  I can tell you.  I mean.  What about the world electricity supply and being green?  These have got to be big factors.  And as for the cost well... Do the manufacturers thing money grows on trees.  We're in a recession, and I been checking out a lot of trees lately so can say from first hand experience.  Money does not grow on trees.  Not the ones I seen.  Unless someone has got there before me and stripped them bare except for the leaves and the branches. 

So now I'll sit and wait on it arriving.  As well as taking out another contract.  A contract which will not cost an arm and a leg.  One with a company who will ensure they are there for one thing.  Supplying me with a good phone line when my Yoga lessons haven't paid off. 

An unsolicited phone call

There I was sitting down and enjoying a packet of hoola hoops when the phone rang.  It turned out to be my broadband service provider.  It was a woman called Emma, but although she gave me a very English sounding name I'm sure she was not English and was likely from another country.  One on the Asian continent.  She proceeded to talk about my service saying she wanted an alternative email address.  This was because I've never really used the email address they gave me, and this was where they sent the online bills.  The alternative would be to send paper bills and increase the charge because of this.  She then had to ask me some security questions.  I said it was her who rang me up and couldn't see why I should have to answer any security questions.  To bring a very long story to an abrupt ending I got pissed off and said if they were going to charge me extra for a paper bill I would cease their service. I managed to keep Emma on the phone for a good twenty minutes.  Thinking this will sort out unsolicited telephone calls from people in different countries who I have problems understanding what they are saying.  Bloody woman kept interrupting me and not letting me get on with what I wanted to say.  I must say, I did take a certain personal enjoyment out of being awkward.  Unfortunately I'm now having to look for an alternative broadband provider. 

So I serifed the net and found a site which advised of providers in my area.  Then I went through the process of testing the phone line.  And each time I put in my address and phone number details the web site's rejected it.  If I didn't know any better this would mean I couldn't get broadband even though I was actually using it.  I then took to phoning up a couple of providers.  It was at this point I was basically told if I wanted another provider I would have to change my telephone number as well.  This was because my telephone had been transferred once before.  I really do not understand what is going on with it all.  So an unsolicited phone call from a company I use but will not mention because I do not want to give them any further publicity has left me in a quandary.  It's now taking me more effort to sort out a new broadband provider than it would of been to have answered Emma's bloody questions in the first place.  Understanding and recognising this makes me even madder and more determined to find a new broadband provider and not change my telephone number.

Next time the bloody phone rings I'm not going to answer it. 

I'm not a mnemonist, but I'd like to be

I have just been reading how some golden spoon in the mouth graduate has gone on to make a million dollars from writing a book.  All of it came about in a serendipitous way, through contacts with mnemonists (someone who employs efficient memory techniques to remember lots of stuff e.g. decks of cards, random numbers etc).  I gnash my teeth in annoyance thinking this is something I should of done.  Except I keep forgetting. The thing being none of the methods used are new, they are all old hat.  Anyone can be a mnemonist, but it takes practice and dedication, then you could be worth a million dollars.  It's probably better still if you win the world memory championships.  It was through entering this contest the graduate began to stretch his own mind and become a mnemonist.

Make a mental note to self.  Try and remember more and do something about it.

Why are we not taught life skills? Beccause we're ducks

Why is it at school the most useful subjects for life are not taught?  Cooking is definitely up there.  It may even be number one.  Not just cooking as a choice once in teenage years, but cooking right the way through every year of school as a compulsory subject.  With it would be nutrition.  One goes in hand with the other.  Subjects like woodworking, plumbing and bricking should also be included.  Why should they only be the remit of a select few who can then charge the earth for their services.  I know one thing.  Were I able to do my own plumbing I'd do a hell of a better job than most of the plumbers out there.  I'd want to do the best job I could.  The same goes for all of these useful life skills which are so neglected.  Then, and only then, once each pupil has tried out these skills should they be allowed into all the other airy fairy subjects schools teach.  Geography, physics, English, math.  If these subjects can't be tangentially learnt through practical application in real life then what is their true value.  What level of chemistry is required to know water's boiling temperature?  If pupils have an innate fascination with a subject then they should be given all the encouragement required to allow them to transgress into it.  However, core subjects would be those which have value and use in real life.  Or maybe I'm talking aloud a lot of twaddle.  It's just an opinion an we're all entitled to our opinions.

But it would save on financial costs.  Costs of getting workmen in to do work, and then on another set of workmen to correct the mess the first set did.  It would give each individual a degree of self independence and confidence to know they do have life skills.  Just as I once read, it takes ten years to become an expert in any field.  So it goes to say, the possibility is each person could be an expert in perhaps five or six subjects during their life.  Depending if they can maintain a passion to learn.  To understand and constantly improve themselves.  However sadly we don't. 

It may well be the human brain has limitations.  At some point it then reaches a boredom level and just then cuts out.  The choice of changing career or being something different has got to come into play.  Even if it means becoming a duck.  Alternatively it may be a matter of finance.  Or it could be it is better in the world to only have a few individuals with skills as they can always be superior to those who don't have such skills.  This sounds like a form of social engineering.  I wonder if there has been a sociologist who has thought this?  If there has they sure didn't tell the rest of the world.  Such information could cause a revolution.  Nope.  They probably told the ducks, after all ducks listen to everything but are pretty poor electricians, carpenters and builders. 

The thing with ducks though, is they never know when there's a mandarin orange around the corner.

Putting the clock forward and breaking rules

Each year the clocks go forward and then backwards by an hour.  Last year I got a little lazy.  The clock in my bedroom was not changed.  So for about six months it was perpetually one hour in advance.  It was actually the correct GMT time.  When this happened I had no choice but to turn off the alarm.  Who in their right mind wants to get up an hour early for anything?  No one I know of.  As the clocks have gone forward again mine is now back in tune with the rest of the world.  So my question is: is this being lazy?  The answer most likely is: yes.  OK, now I have chastised myself I feel a lot better for it.  When the clocks go back again I'll do my best to conform.  Then again, wouldn't the world be so completely boring if there were people out there who didn't conform and everyone followed every rule?  We'd probably have to walk about with big rule books and everything we did was checked in the rule book to see it was allowed or legal.  A little like ruling a country. 

Each person would be their own country.  Then we could declare war if someone broke the rules.  It would become a national disaster.  Maybe sanction them.  Not allow them to purchase essential goods and especially luxury goods.  I'd bet they would then begin to conform pretty quickly.  Unless there were others who illicitly kept them supplied with the things they were not allowed to purchase.  A little like the black market.  To tell the truth I've never seen a black market my local market always appears to be pretty colourful, especially the different fruits and vegetables. All sounds a bit dramatic.  Particularly for forgetting to change the time on a clock.  Then again there are so many rules in the world.  Thousands upon thousands.  So a few are likely to get broken everyday.  Be it a country or an individual.  Then we might ask, what is the need for rules in the first place?  It would likely be, because they create conformity and conformity means a form of stability.  For instance were there just one individual who refused to drive on the correct side of the road then this person would in one journey cause many problems.  This is all too much to think about.  It begins to border onto the philosophical and we all know what philosophy does.  Makes you grow a beard, go bald and wear a toga. 

Now is that a stereotype or just confromity?

Losing a mobile phone

I lost my mobile phone.  It happened somewhere between getting off the train at Kings Cross and sitting on a an underground tube train, Northern Line.  I carried my phone over 400 miles only to then lose it on the last few miles of my journey.  When I got home my head was buzzing with what I needed to do.  What I should do.  I had considered ringing the phone, but there was no guarantee it would be answered.  I thought at this very moment whoever had found it could be ringing up their long lost relatives in Australia and having a reunion chat.  All at the expense of my next phone bill.  So the first thing was to get the SIM card cancelled and so I rang my mobile operator, they did this immediately and also were able to disable the phone from being used.  It was a relief and if anyone had used it they may of had about an hour of possible phone time to say hello and chat about the weather.  I'm now disappointed because the phone was a photo album of people, places and events.  I would look at them every now and again and smile.  I would laugh at a video I had taken when drunk in a kitchen with Sparkling and L & B man conversing over the culinary delight of a meal. He called it "pish" and pulled a face like he was about to puke.  Someone farted.  Not me.  We were all relaxed and happy.  So understandably I was a bit annoyed at the lost memories.  Oh how important it is to back up your data, even if it is on a phone.

Lucky my head is screwed on, at least that is something I'll not lose so quickly, I wish I could say the same for my memory and my waist line.

Off tomorrow

It's my last evening with Sparkling Eyes, my weight has probably gone up by a stone.  I've got Buds to keep me company and even some G & T, which has a flowery kind of smell.  But it does the job and gets me drunk.  I always feel like getting drunk on my last night.  It's the thought of missing Sparkling.  Whilst in the background Rock Chick takes the Micky out of my accent.  Sparkles is now giving me the third degree, she has that stare.  Without a pointing index finger but just as dangerous.  She is beautiful.  Even when my testicles are in a vice and she's the one turning the handle waiting to see what my reaction would be.  There's something I always know when I'm here.  It's the feeling of being happy and contented.  Even if I am the cat's bitch. Yep even the cat plays me like a fiddle.  Up, then down, then up again from my seat because he has decided he wants out the back door and in the front window.   If he wasn't male, I'd of thought he was female coz he changes his mind so much.  Maybe he has inside knowledge from living with Sparkling and Rock?  Who knows?  I certainly don't.  Not even in the early hours of the morning when he decides to step on my head and use it as stair to the window sill. 

Bud is waiting.  Better give it some attention.  Don't want it to feel lonely.

Jamie Oliver my mate and track suites

The past few days I have been making dinners.  With the aid of a trusty friend.  Jamie Oliver.  Actually I feel like me and Jamie are becoming great friends.  His 30 minute meals are a work of genius, if you watch them a couple of times there's always something new you get to learn.  They are piled with so many little tips.  He makes light work of salsa like dips.  Everything is presented in a you can do way, which makes you just want to get out there and try them.  For me, his book has been a little bible.  Or rather a big bible. Sparkling and Rock Chick have been my test subjects and to their delight have enjoyed most of the food I've produced.  Sometimes his meals can take a little longer than 30 minutes, a hell of a lot longer if you consider having to buy the extra ingredients.  You wouldn't believe the trouble I had trying to get hold of puff pastry and I still haven't done his Portugues tarts, but they are next on the list.  They will have vanilla extract in, lick your chops and weep baby hmmmm.

Today I put on my tracky suit.  A little bit like the ones my mate Jamie wears - just watch one of his shows.  Sparkling got it for me as a Chrimbo pressy.  It fitted then.  But for some reason now it's a little short in the leg.  It doesn't look as good as the first time I put it on.  I think it's shrunk in the wash.  I asked Sparkles if it had been in the wash.  She replied "no" but I know she is pulling my leg, there is no way I could of put on this much weight in such a short time.  The top barely covers my belly now.  Sparkles is going to drop me off at a superstore so I can pop in and get some jeans.  Thing is she has clearly stated she will not be coming with me.  Then she threw a number of derogatory names about the sort of person I looked like.  Thanks.  I can assure the readers of this BLOG I do not live in a caravan or on a housing estate of dodgy reputed.   Neither do I take drugs or sell drugs.  The ones I take are prescribed by my GP or are freely available on the shelf and are not for any mental illness.  Sparkling obviously is afraid I might tarnish her image in this tracky even though it was her choice.  Anyway I can't find any other apparel which would be suitable.  And I'm certainly not going to hit the superstore in a Batman and Robin outfit.  I could put the hood up and then no one will recognise me.  Mind security alert might be alerted, then I'll find myself being trailed by blokes talking into walkie talkies, keeping an eye on me.  Just in case I am a suspicious looking character.  What a palarva.

Dangerous Sports Lad is here keeping Rock Chick happy.  It's funny watching them interact, they make me laugh.  Rock definately wears the trousers in that relationship.  Apparently Rock Chick has also aquired a Cockney accent.  She has been in my company too long and now thinks she can imitate me.  So Rock gives an impression to Sparkling each time she wants to pass on something I've said.  Rock did get a little bit annoyed yesterday when I was helping her with home work.  It was my own fault.  I must remember Rock doesn't always appreciate man humour.  Or child like humour.  I'll admit to being irritating at times, but it was fun and I did apologise.  Dangerous sure has got his work cut out for him.  Lucky man lol. 

Today's lunch is likely to be a curry, but it won't be a Jamie one.  Sparkling will no longer let me go out and buy ingredients.  She says we have to use what is in the cupboard, even if it's not on Jamies list or not there.  Memo, must look out for cumin seeds.

What's happening on 26th March 2011

It's a week and a day in Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick's company.  On the first night I was told several times I was going to have my block knocked off.  Sparkling was going to do it but it was said in a kindly non threatening way, I know because the finger wasn't being pointed and Sparkles had a glass of wine in her hand.  I could of counted the number of times this was said but, would probably of lost count.  I was on the Guinness, very nice to, I felt happy.  As always, when I got a lift in the car I was happy.  Carrying a silly grin on my face.  Well I hadn't talked to anyone on the train journey either; I held it mostly together and didn't bombard Sparkles with inane chatter because the city centre was busy and Sparkles had to concentrate on the driving.  Last night Rock Chick also stumbled in a little worse for wear, this morning she's been not feeling so good.  It was a night on the town that did it, she says while standing outside a pub a man began talking to her and said she was related to Elvis.  I wonder if Elvis knows about it?  I'll ask him next time I bump into him at the bar. 

Today is 26th March 2011, there is a march in central London organized by the unions in protest against the government, at least 250,000 people are in attendance.  They have come from all over the country. The organisers advised to bring the whole family, so even little children are there, some being pushed in their prams.  Today is also the day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race later in the afternoon.  Cambridge have been given the better odds.  It might be a two horse race, but for some reason one of these horses has got more riding on it.  The weather is miserable in London, no sun, overcast.  Fine if you happen to be a rower.  The march is stretched around parliament.  Some have even said there are one million attending.  Massive.  Lastly I'll just say the clocks are about to go forward one hour as we catch up with British Summer time. 

OK got some washing up to do and I was going to have a walk, so as to exercise a little.  Sparkles is working about ten hours today so she won't be around much. I'll go down to the large super market and see if there's something worth looking at.  It's always worth a stroll.  I've just finished watching another episode of Come Dine With Me,  I wouldn't mind I'd seen it once already. The weather for tomorrow?  Cold and cloudy.  I'll keep my eye out for a good woolly hat.

Ironing Trousers

I have just been trying my skill at trouser ironing.  Taking three pairs of trousers, a quarter bottle or rum and a three quarter bottle of diet coke I set about it.  It's not the easiest thing in the world to iron.  But it certainly is a lot cheaper than getting professional pressing.  I also tried this a couple of weeks ago, but then I didn't have the aid of rum and coke.  Don't forget the ice.  An essential.  Oh yes and a little entertainment with help from the world service and continuous updates of the situation in Libya.  I must admit to being a news freak in this respect and eagerly eat up any bit of news there is.  First thing was, filling up the iron with water and plugging it in.  No first thing was checking out as many videos of trouser ironing I could find on YouTube.  There wasn't many.  In fact I thought if I can get the hang of trouser ironing I could do my own video of it.  But I'm beginning to think, ironing is a hell of a lot more difficult than one would think.  A bit like playing golf, or even just being able to hit a golf ball.  You sit there watching it on TV, slagging it off as a ponce's game and then find, just as you put down a golf ball and hit the bloody thing you look like a complete twat as nearly falling over.  I know, I have.  If Sparkling sees me because I've managed to twist her arm to come along she sits there in laugher.  I'm sure any woman who saw me with an iron and trousers this evening would also of been sitting there laughing.  But it's not right.  Ironing shouldn't be a gender related task.  It should be something everybody does.  I'm quite convinced now it is one of those useful tasks which they never tell you at school but would be a hell of a lot more useful than an 'O' level in geography.  Where I learnt geography was more about volcano's than it was about countries on the world map.  It should of been called geology, rather than geography.  Unlike ironing.  Which is definitely ironing and nothing else by any other name.  I will confess to one thing.  When I began the 4th rum and coke, whether the crease is in the right place just didn't seem to matter so much.  At least two of my three pairs of trousers now have train tracks where there was once a single line.  Not a single crisp line, because they needed an iron in the first place.  The train tracks happened after I got my hand on the iron.  Well, so what.  It's not the end of the world and I'll be sitting on my fat backside most of the time.  Viva le iron, viva life.  Love ya baby x x x

Not being valued

Sometimes the value of something becomes next to nothing but the thing is important and useful in life.  An example has got to be the toilet role.  A toilet roll is so simple, so functional, cheap and of course disposable, used every single day and always performs it's job.  So I don't know why it is the simple toilet roll is at times caste aside in favour of the less simple single tissue.  Toilets around the world have been flushing quite well without any problem and someone has to come along and invent the stacking tissue dispenser.  The reality is this is worse than re inventing the wheel, but worst of all is it's actually taking over from the good old fashioned roll.

The Fish Factory is a building 13 floors high.  Not massively tall, yet still taller than a house.  Here I work on the sixth floor, at one time I used to work on the seventh floor.  The first time I went to work on the seventh floor I got dizzy, in fact I got mildly dizzy for a few months.  Looking out of the window just seemed pretty scary.  Each day I still have to pop up to the seventh floor but usually only for short periods of time.  The toilets are situated between floors, and they are alternate gents and ladies.  So for me to hit the loo I have to go to floor six and a half.  It's odd but it's true.  Sometimes I am so busy at the Fish Factory sitting in my chair slicing and dicing the fishes I barely get a chance to get up and go to the bog.  Then I might fit in a visit just before I leave.  Unfortunately for me, without fail, the cleaners come along and nearly every day about the time I am leaving there they are cleaning out the loos.  This means I have to either walk up the stairs two floors or walk down them.  The situation can get desperate.  There I am wanting a crap only to find the cleaner has held open the door by putting an orange cone in front of it.  Maybe this is a good reason to get annoyed at cleaners, but it is good particularly if it's the time you just need to go.  When it's been held in a little too long this is the time when I could put the entire cleaning squad on a hit list.  Though sometimes, just sometimes they have got there before me and this becomes less of a worry.  Well except for the wet seat because it's been wiped over with some detergent and hasn't quite dried off. 

The other day I was in such a situation.  The loo had been cleaned and I had found a seat.  Content I sat down to do the business.  It is almost relaxing except for one thing.  The loo roll has been made redundant and instead a tall tissue container is attached to the wall.  It dispenses from the bottom.  Except when the cleaners have been there, they jam this container so tight trying to pull out a tissue is hardest thing in the world.  I want to leave but I can't wipe my bloody arse.  I desperately try to use my finger tips to pinch a tissue, but can't because it is like trying to pinch the wall paper off a wall.  Desperately pulling at this thing my finger nails are able to get some kind of grip and I tug.  The tissue comes away.  In normal circumstances this might be good, but in these circumstances all I have achieved in doing is tearing a piece of tissue the size of a bloody postage stamp off. I look at it.  Staring in bewilderment and confusion.  How the feck am I going to wipe my fat arse with a postage stamp?  With fecking great difficulty that's what. I try again.  This time I tear off a narrow band of tissue, maybe I could plat my hair with it, maybe it would be used by a centipede, but not for me.  Again I try and yet another postage stamp, and then another postage stamp.  This goes on for a moment.  I look at the bloody thing and am thinking of standing up and kicking the fecking shit out of it except that my trousers would fall round my ankles and my arse still needs a wipe.  I give it a thump, which of course does no good.  Eventually, my finger get a grip and about a dozen tissues come out.  Which is much better.  But this dozen tissues are still connected to each other and trying to pull one off has a kind of accordion effect where the others feel their brother is missing and must come along as well.

So it is about half past five in the afternoon, I learn how undervalued and wonderful the simple toilet roll is.  God save the toilet roll, long live the toilet roll, god save the roll.

Keep your trousers up

It was one of those days where I forgot an essential item of clothing and had to do the whole day without it.  The item was a belt, to hold my trousers up.  On my way into the Fish Factory I contemplated whether I should buy another belt but I've done this before.  Where I went to the shop picked one off the hanger bought it, put it on and then found I'd bought one which was two sizes too big for me.  Not to say I am inspired to get even fatter than I am.  When I got home I couldn't find the receipt so now it sits all on it's own in a draw with no waist to go round.  Consequently today the only thought which went through my mind was just to make do and keep pulling my trousers up if they felt like they were slipping.  At one point I wondered if they had slipped too much and I was now showing the top of my pants.  Fortunately I sit down most of the day and don't have to walk about so no one could see me pants, they were a new pair as well.  Mind, pants aren't the kind of thing you want to show people.  Even when they are on the washing line, you just hope they go quietly unnoticed.  Unless someone comes along stretches them around their waist and says "hey look at these biggies!"  Which has happened.  Not a particularly proud moment to say the least.

The past few months have been oddly timed.  Like a pair of trousers slipping.  No.  Just oddly timed.  It's always a matter of budgeting and timing.  Especially counting the Tuesdays between one pay day and the next.  It's like I been waiting for the 5 week month and I'm not sure whether I've had it or whether it will be this month.  the issue always is ensuring there is just enough finances in the account to work the extra week.  Talking about finances and waist lines.  I have just received a reminder for the Gym and the monthly charge has gone up.  It might only be a quid or two but it has now broken a psychological barrier.  It's not like I am hitting the gym 3 times a week.  Sometimes I don't go at all, like last week.  No wonder my trousers had no problem staying up.  So I have to consider cancelling membership.  Then I have two choices.  Join another cheaper gym, which there just happens to be quite close to the Fish Factory or exercise myself from home.  Jogging or maybe skipping.  I am sorely tempted by it.  In an era of austerity why should I keep on paying for the gym?  Especially as I'm not using it fully.  It doesn't make sense.  It's OK trying to stop my trousers falling down but I don't want to have to be buying more pairs because they have got even tighter and my girth has got even bigger.  Blimey, the things you have to do just to keep your trousers in place.

Walking off an attitude

Two in one day (blogs).  What can I say?  Not much.  I went for a nice long walk this morning after my earlier blog. At the end of it I was knackered, just over two miles.  I got to the supermarket and there was a crowd of people waiting to go in.  All I needed was shaving foam and mouth wash, so bought two of each and headed back to base.  Eventually at home I take out the tins and find they are shaving gel.  I'd bought the cheapest items on the shelf and it was the wrong stuff.  Now I'll have to use it and work up a lather out of the gel rather than instant foam.  Funny thing was I held the tins in front of my face and thought I had read what was on the labels.  I still need to calm my head and get control, get some exercise.  Chill out. 

Yesterday when the the train came into it's destination, the two doors slid open, as they do automatically and one man stood in the way on the side I was..  My usual pissed off mood came through with twats who like to try and get on the train when I've hardly had a chance to get off the train..  I said "let the people off the train first," his brain must of been disconnected from his limbs because it hardly registered.  So I just stood there for a moment.  He sort of shuffled but ineffectively to my left then stepped up part into me.  I was pissed off.  Pissed off and yet calm.  I didn't give a shit.  So shouldered past him as I got off the train.  Then called out "tosser."  If I carry on like this I'm going to get into a fight.  Better see if I can get some knuckle dusters mail order.  Wonder if they're on Amazon.

Blog Block and a moan

I'm suffering from Blog Block at the moment.  Although my days are pretty busy at the Fish Factory it seems when I sit down and think I should write a BLOG nothing comes.  I just can't think of a subject.  I can think of Fish Factory subjects but those technicalities would bore the tits of an overweight hippopotamus.  I could tell an imaginary story of a brick.  Because even bricks can have adventures, well they just sit there and see the world going by, but I'm sure there are meanderings which go on in their brick like brains.  If a bricks actually have attained any form of consciousness they certainly would have meanderings.  I know.  Sometimes I come back from the Fish Factory and feel like a brick, a brick in a non self conscious state.  One which would just rather sit and dribble from the side of his mouth.  Blubber, blubber.  See what I I mean?

Then there's Sparkling who has got right up my nose at the moment.  We've had very little communication over the last week.  The last text I received from her was 6 days ago.  Then I find out from a web site she had her debit card cloned and someone in Venezuela tried to use it.  Fine bloody thing I'm sure.  See.  Even Sparkling's bloody card is having a more interesting existence.  The thing is, communication is important.  A little text here or there and I'm happy.  Nothing makes me feel like I don't exist and I'm not worth talking to.  I got to the point of thinking well, I've had enough, I'm fed up.  If she wants to talk to me then she can bloody well pick up the phone.  Women.  Can't live with them, can't live without them.  If I was the type who had a number of mates right now I'd go out, with my mates, probably including the brick and get completely drunk.  So drunk I puke.  Then when I wake up the next morning I got to puke again because of the dizzy room.  To top it off I might even shit myself.  Then I need a couple of days away from the Fish Factory and every other Tom, Dick and Harriet.  A couple of days away.  Watching ants build nests, paint dry, clouds in the sky, absolutely anything.  I need to gain a moment of my own life back.  A moment of control and stop thinking about shit, shit in the head not soiled pants.  No wonder I keep waking up early in the morning.  And yes I know things could be worse I could have my nuts in a bloody vice being turned by some psycho maniac who likes to inflect pain on lonely fat men who are feeling neglected.  Bloody hell!

I haven't even been to the gym and done my fat man running on a machine routine for a while.  Not forgetting the fat man farting and walking away from a cloud of gas.  The chill of the weather and the dull dark days just haven't helped.  OK so it is getting lighter.  It's still so overcast at times it feels like the cloak of Dracula has been laid over London.  I wouldn't mind, but I can't see his bloody brides anywhere, at least they would bring out some reaction, some kind of life in me to buy garlic, crucifixes or run like hell.  I need to get out and clear my head.  Some control.  A good long walk.  Meditation.  Singing to myself and not just giving a shit if anyone hears me while I walk along.  Which reminds me better get a battery for my MP3 player.  Which will be something to keep me going and going and going.  Maybe then, just maybe I'll get my head straight and at least wont have Blog Block.

Revolt is in the air

There is a movement in North Africa, which is undeniably one towards freedom, but this freedom will not come cheap. So I watch every little bit of news and hope with my fingers crossed the people succeed.  I'll eat a couple of dates for a little bit of luck.

Days in the Fish factory are extremely busy.  I hardly get to put down my skilletting knife before another big whopper is put on the table in front of me.  Then some of those whoppers are more difficult to deal with than anticipated.  It's almost like I am becoming an adrenaline junky.  I didn't even get a chance to make a cafetiere of coffee today.  Which is probably good because sometimes I can feel my heart palpitates and I wonder if I carry on like this I'll be keeling over clutching my chest.  Saying "ouch, that hurt," oh well if it's going to happen it's going to happen and there's nothing I can do about it.  Except maybe try and stop eating so much Chinese food at lunch time.

There now tends to be times where I feel I have lost control of what is happening.  Where the Fish Factory is becoming everything.  It is becoming a ruling force, dictating what, where and when.  But making my move into middle fish territory was probably the best thing I did when taking everything into consideration.  It is a challenge and one I'm enjoying at the moment.  It's odd though, just odd.  In a couple of years I may be forced to leave the Factory, because fish will no longer be on the menu. However, just maybe, a glimmer of hope will arise on the horizon.  I don't like talking about hope.  Yet there very much is a small trace.  The trace is a revolution.  Not in Africa though, one right here on the doorstep.  At that time I'll expect the ones in power will know how Qaddafi feels.

Up the revolution.  Viva Che Guevara.

Where did the day go? Turpitude, rusticate.and unctuous.

Sometimes days float by like clouds, high up in the sky.  Then the day is over and without realising it I wonder exactly what it was I did.  How did I get to this place here, sitting on my arse typing?  Last night I went to bed tired.  I slept, woke up a couple of times in the night but then drifted off again to sleep.  The morning arose earlier as the sun now wakes up a bit quicker to, light through the window told me it was time to stop savouring the warmth of bed.  I got up.  Did a full day shift at the Fish Factory, had a quick pint of Guinness in the pub and subsequently caught the train home.  A cup of tea, some biscuits, then some toast and more tea, a little bit of face book and now I'm here to this moment.  Reflecting.  Where did it go? 

At lunch I came across a word I wasn't sure of the meaning.  Now I'm into the habit of noting such words in my phone to look them up later.  I've actually got three words now.  Two I've already looked up and forgotten their meaning.  For clarity this word was "turpitude."   Meaning: wickedness, vice, vileness or  wrongdoing.  It was used in the description of a politician's actions, so is quite apt, you could say was used in a perfectly consistent manner, seeing as we all know this is a trait some politicians do hold.  I might forget the word tomorrow but for this moment I got a good idea of how to use it.  Now if I take this one thing as an entire learning experience for the day then the day hasn't been lost. Provided I can still remember it tomorrow.

Spending a moment I've now looked up the other words. One was "rusticate" meaning: :to go to the country or live in the country.  Whilst the last word is "unctuous" this means: characterized by excessive piousness or moralistic fervor, especially in an affected manner; excessively smooth, suave, or smug.  Odd.  It also sounds like something which could easily be used on a politician getting the world's attention and have an overwhelming sense of self importance.  It's pretty damning when you think about it.  But again it is pertinent and has a place in the world. Which is all really we can hope for.  Places in the world, and of course being loved.  Maybe words like this would feel better if they were hugged, or seeing as we can't actually hug the words then we should all hug a politician and then the words would be made redundant and so evicted from modern English.  The world would become a better place, or we would hope it did.  It's about time we had more lovable and hug-able politicians.  OK now go out into the world and see if you can find any.

Don't rely on the weather

There is indubitably one thing the British like to talk about and it is the weather.  The reason is simple it's an easy ice breaker, it's a common fundamental of every day experience so everybody can talk about it and lastly it is completely unreliable.  It was the great weatherman Michael Fish who in 1987 did his session after the news and said there would not be a hurricane.  A concerned citizen had written in saying there would be, and the weather as though sensing pride before a fall dutifully and independently decided there would be a hurricane.  Fish got it badly wrong.  Winds of 110 miles per hour hit the South.  It didn't effect Scotland by the way, and some Scots felt they had missed out because they usually get all the bad weather.  Trees had fallen across every main road and every rail line.  It was odd seeing so many fallen and rumour had it, were the Russians to start a nuclear war we were going to be gonners.  Tree roots could be seen high in the air like an upturned dish unnaturally balancing on it's edge..  It took weeks to clear up afterwards.  I am sure I took some pictures of the occasion when I was into photography.  I'll have to see if I can find them.  Poor Michael Fish though.  I'm sure his standing as a weatherman toppled just as ignominiously as those trees did.  It's generally taken for granted weather forecasters make predictions with caveats, because experience tells us they just can't help but to get it wrong.  However, his hubris got the better of him.  To make such an big wrong prediction because he had been challenged by an anonymous person was without doubt doubly humiliating.  It don't matter if you predict a sunny day then it's overcast and rains, but to completely miss a hurricane is well off the scale.  Pun intended.  The weather is just unreliable.

Why then, when I know of this unreliability did I assume as in make an "ass" out of "u" and "me," spring was in the air.  Maybe it's all to do with the isobars and the wind.  The wind just can not be controlled, nor can the isobars either.  For there had been a clear bout of very cold weather in January and in the back of my mind there was this hope.  This wish.  A wish which bordered on a prayer.  A wish which was really no more than a wish without the genie, the weather had changed.  We had come out of the long cold and snowy winter and the wish it was over.  Spring would soon descend and make it milder.  The temperature went up instead of the usual 2 or 3 degrees it was reaching between 8 and 11 degrees Celsius.  Which after Scotland's very long cold winter felt like being in the Bahamas.  It is interesting how the human body just adapts even to cold weather.  How the internal central heating you have kicks in as more layers of clothing go on, scarves are tightly wrapped, vests put on and all food must be hot.  After coming through this period of hard tortuous living there was this undeniable want and need which goes beyond all reason.  The want to feel warmer and comfortable rather than constantly depressed with shortened days and bitter winds.  It is the human condition, a euphemism we call "hope," and hope does not have any place for reality, unfortunately reality is true and very much in your face regardless of hope's desires.  So I and I expect millions of other people in the UK had an immediate psychological quandary.  Either moan and groan because it is unfair, and no matter what anyone says reality is unfair.  Or quickly and appropriately just do your best to get over it.  I so wish I could say "get over it" in a strong Scottish tongue, because it would sound a lot better than my wimpy English tongue.  Anyway, to draw a longer conversation to a close.  It's bloody cold again and I'm pissed off with it.  I can hear those words now, ready... 1, 2, 3, ....."get over it."

Baby Gaga Ice Cream - I'll pass on that thanks

It was with a kind of macabre interest I watched a news item about an ice cream being sold in a shop in London.  It was titled Baby Gaga ice cream.  Not at all related to Lady Gaga, except in part of the name.  The shock was to do with the main ingredient.  This being human breast milk.  It's odd, because I would of thought a woman's breast milk was for a baby not for anyone else to purchase in ice cream form.  Then there comes the question of hygiene and exactly who these women are donating their milk.  The Local Authority have now stopped the shop from selling they ice cream on grounds it required testing for bacteria.  I can't help thinking in some way a woman's breast milk is a sacred thing.  Not something for an adult who has a couple of quid in their pocket and some weird fetish.  There may be some very good reasons why the women are selling or donating their breast milk.  More likely selling it.  But still I don't understand why they would do such a thing, perhaps I was born on a different planet, one where I suckled the titty of a 9 titted green monster, who loved me dearly of course.  But one thing is very much for sure, I don't have the faintest uncling to eat or suck or slurp breast milk which came from some unidentified woman, not genetically related to me when I'm over 6 months old.  I prefer my milk pasteurised and out of an old cow who grazes in lovely green pastures, green being a bit like the alien mother who suckled me when I was younger.  I want my milk with my tea, or my cappuccino and I don't want it from anything else which doesn't have four legs or says "moo."

Alligator hides behind a sofa - what is confidence?

Aghast I read an article of news at the consequence of a town in Brazil which had been flooded.  It was common place for this town being it is situated close to a river. The thing with the local river wildlife though is it doesn't understand houses are for people only.  So when houses are flooded all sorts of creatures pop in for a cup of tea.  In this article a lady returned home with her small son.  She thought it slightly odd her son was behind the sofa so long.  So she had a peak and saw he was gently patting the head of a  5 foot long alligator.  At this point the article didn't elaborate on whether the mother screamed or not.  Maybe she is used to over sized lizards.  What she did next was to call the fire brigate, who removed said uninvited visitor and let him free.  The fire brigade stated the obvious. "they were lucky he wasn't hungry he could of killed them."  Well it was pretty obvious.  Personally I think the alligator was being a little bit shy and his hiding behind the sofa was in relation to low confidence levels.  I mean it's not every day an alligator takes a fancy to turning up for tea.

Talking about confidence, the past few days I been wondering what exactly confidence is?  Whether it can be defined in some way.  one definition I came across was: ‘the belief in oneself and one's powers or abilities.’  But this doesn't say whether it is a character trait, something learned, or a cluster of so many different things nobody can put their finger on it.  Because every body is different. Everyone has different levels of confidence.

I wondered, if human beings were compared to computers they physically would be the machines, but how each computer runs would be the software.  Further physically, there's very little difference between people as they are all of the same species and so highly genetically compatible.  Going back to the machine analogy, confidence for humans is a key factor in how well our software is running.  What we get in education, is another basic piece of software, we might call it the fundamentals of the operating system.  But this isn't entirely true, because with education if it were an operating system it would mean only the most educated people would be functioning at the highest levels.  So confidence isn't necessarily a factor of educational achievement or ability.  Although maybe a little bit is necessary.

Then there are some people who are not just confident they appear over confident and come across as arrogant.  Where they make a show of confidence beyond the norm.  Further it may not be related to their actual ability, but if they do have such an ability then their arrogance has some kind of founding.  But is not nice to watch.  (I'm thinking of a particularly talented footballer with equal amounts of confidence/arrogance who I dislike).  It's not nice to watch because you feel the need to take a bath after seeing it.  Like witnessing the arrogance of crazy Cornell Gaddafi.  In his case it is equally frightening.  Alternatively, being quietly confident and not espousing it is the secret to being liked.  Lets not even consider the subject of success and confidence.  The internal confidence we hold of ourselves is also different from confidence other people may have in us.  I may be confident in my tight rope walking ability, although I have never actually done it.  In this case my confidence would quite rightly be labelled as "delusional" but even delusional people gain status and gain followers.  (Don't look in this direction because it ain't happening, I can see from my BLOG stats it doesn't). No the problem with delusional people is they don't know they are delusional.

So confidence is a little like an alligator hiding behind a sofa.  If it's a big three seater sofa then it may well be a pretty big alligator.  The question is unanswered.  I wish though, I were able to give confidence to someone in the form of a magic potion, but like motivation, this is a quality each individual has to find for themselves.  It may very well be confidence is an alligator and it just needs a little pat on the head.  Mind keep a broom at hand and put the fire services on speed dial, just in case it needs damping down.

Tired and looking for oxygen

It has been a week of madness at the Fish Factory.  At times I answered the phone and even forgot who I was or whether it was morning or afternoon.  So today when it got quieter, I just seemed to shut down and go into a go-slow mode.  They'd had more than their pound of flesh.  They'd had a pound of flesh plus a quarter of chocolate covered raisins and peanuts, which by the way I haven't seen in shops for a long time.  Gone are those days.  Very far gone.  So after such a busy time there is a point where zombie mode takes over, this was the place I had gotten today.  Stretching out my arms and groaning.

My darling Sparkling Eyes sent me a Valentine's card the other week.  It arrived early. She apparently had bought it when she wasn't wearing her glasses and just liked the look, even though there was a pink written message on the front.  It was a little saucy.  So I decided it was probably best not to put it on display.  But right now I have taken it out of it's envelop again just to get another look.  Sparkling had written on the inside "never buy a card when you don't have your glasses on."  Like Sparkling I didn't fully read the text on the front and so it didn't register.  I had to close the card and re read what it said.  Yes she's right.  I'd probably add the rule "never buy a card until you have read every word on it" which goes quite well with her's.  Last night I rang Sparkles and she didn't want to chat to me because she thought her day had been boring.  This then became a game between the two of us.  She tries to get me off the phone while I desperately try and think of conversation to get her involved in.  It's not that Sparkling has had an uneventful day.  What matters is I am actually getting to talk to her and hear her voice.  Because I don't hear her voice every day, and no matter what it is she talks about I am interested in.  She then jests I am a stalker.  Whereas for me our conversation no matter how menial makes me happy.  Sparkles managed to shove me off the phone even after I told her I thought our chats were like oxygen.  She laughed and thought I was odd, but I know she liked it.  Indeed I can't help how I feel.  When you love someone and don't get to see them often then they are always on your mind.  Until you get told to do the dishes, or they put something brain dead on TV like X-Factor.  At this point the oxygen can be a bit soporific.

Not Type 1 but Type 2

Well there's a little bit of relief.  Big Momma went to the docs and was told it is Type 2 diabetes and not Type 1. She has some pills to take and has been advised to be aware of her sight deterioration.  Maybe in a few days time I'll get some undisturbed sleep.  With a bit less of the tinkle tinkle.  It's good news for everyone and a little bit of a relief.  Now we can all keep an eye on the biscuits and chcolates. 

Big Momma discovers she has Type 1 Diabetes

Today Big Momma found out she had Type 1 diabetes.  The doctors surgery had been chasing her up for a blood test for a few days, she kept putting it off because of the weather and not feeling too well.  Then the results came through and prompted today's phone call.  This she told me as I walked in the door.  So asked "which one is that, coz there's two types?" her response was "I don't know, but I got it.  The nurse was surprised."  To tell the truth it hasn't been a big surprise to me considering I hardly get a decent night's sleep unless I'm well and truly knocked out.  Big Momma is up about 5 times during the night to have a tinkle.  With a little luck this could mean my disturbed nights will come to an end as she no longer clumps out of bed, opens the world's loudest squeaky door and plants herself on the pan. 

The writing was on the wall.  I should be worried as well because I know it can be a hereditary thing.  Momma said I could eat the biscuits, I headed to the kitchen after taking my secret stash of chocolate covered biscuits upstairs.  Surprise, surprise.  There lay three different packets of cookies, chocolate, chocolate and hazelnut and I think a double chocolate.   I've concentrated on my own for the time being and now feel like I've overdosed, a little light headed, maybe even heart palpitations.  Thank heavens I go to the gym. I know I can endure the sudden strain on my metabolism.

I checked a couple of books on drugs and found a description of Type 1 diabetes.  Simply put it's the worse kind.  The one where you have to take an insulin injection for the rest of your life and monitor it on a constant basis.  I reprimanded Momma.  I know her afternoon pastime is a movie and a bar of chocolate.  She'll now have to attend a diabetes clinic and get lots of advise.  She didn't like the idea of giving up on her white bread. It's got a high GI index.  It's odd because she had to give a urine sample few months back, they said then she just had an infection.  How come the docs didn't notice anything else wrong is typical miss diagnosis.  I said she may make more friends, with those who have the same condition.  I intimated there was a diabetes stripa-gram.  It was a bloke who covered himself in sweet wrappers and would say to the girls "come on darling peel off a wrapper for something nice and sugary."  She laughed.  Considering Big Momma now lives for junk food this could mean the biggest change of her life is about to happen.  We'll see, but don't bet on it.  I can't see Cadbury's going bust any time soon.

Question Time is hit yet again by time wasting idiots

So there I am catching up on Question Time from the BBC iplayer, and as I'm watching the panel get questions from the audience.  I'm beginning to think there happens to be a number of morons amongst the overseers.  I look at the individuals asking questions, then spend a moment of my very personal time and attention listening.  My life ticks away like a clock. I wonder what they are trying to say and unfortunately come to one sad conclusion. Even on TV, a significant number of idiots slip through the vetting process.  If indeed there is a vetting process for audience members.  It is as though these sub normal participants have eventually got their heart's desire and noticed on prime time national TV.  If, it is said everyone is allowed 15 minutes of fame, it would seem this is the place to get it.  Put in an application to be part of the audience on a politically based TV show and talk a load of bollocks just because the camera is on you and they can't be impolite and tell you to feck off.  Which is the BBC for you.  There are no bouncers or apparent security personnel.  If there are they are very polite and stay in the shadows.  Why on earth can't the intellect sucking leaches be evicted?  Thrown out on their ears.  Given the boot.  Pulled of with a Shepard's crook.  Dropped in the muck.  Placed anywhere but certainly not in this time, place or event. 

Wow, got that off my chest and feel a lot better for it.

What do you do when you can't get to sleep?

I went to bed last night, physically tired and needing sleep.  Read a little bit of my book at bedtime, it's a thriller by Jo Nesbo where a policeman is trying to catch a bank robber, then let my head lay on the pillow in anticipation of slumber.  By this time it must of been getting close to midnight or even slightly after.  My eyes were tired, my body was saying in as far as it can talk "sleep, sleep" yet my expectation did not come about.  I thought well it is early yet and you can't really expect to get instantaneous sleep as soon as the pillow approaches.  Certainly this time round it was the case.  It was like I was on the edge of sleep but unable to go to sleep.  I would of liked to say I had drank too much coffee and it was the caffeine, but it wasn't the caffeine, I hadn't taken anything in the way of a stimulant.  Unlike other times when trying to sleep and it doesn't come I didn't think about sleeping, I just lay there.  At one point I wondered whether it was worth getting up out of bed and making a cup of tea.  Well at least then I would have an excuse.  I got pretty close to this, but again for some reason didn't.

It was odd, because I seemed to be in the mental zone.  You know the place.  Where if someone poses you a question or puzzle it is easier to concentrate.  Not to say the solution would be any quicker in coming.  It was being in the mentally alert zone.  I noticed everything as well.  The creaks and groans of the house, the wind blowing outside, Big Momma in the next room breathing deeply.  I was sensitised but not afraid.  Not afraid and alert as in Sparkling recently telling me she had gone to bed after watching the horror movie Paranormal Activity 1 then 2.  I didn't have the I-am-too-scared-to-sleep alertness.  No.  This was something very different.  This was the kind of alertness you absolutely desire when stuck on a very difficult Soduku and every body around you is making noise.  This was the kind of alertness where you can actually achieve things.  Great.  I wanted to achieve bliss in the land of sheep and fluffy dogs when the one thing I wanted wasn't going to happen.  It's all pretty paradoxical.  Just like a dream.  It might of been I was really asleep but dreaming I was awake.  Or it could be we are all asleep this very moment and our lives are just reality imaginings.  Blimey.  Sounds like I'm going into the world of Neo from the Matrix, if not some weird theoretical metaphysical argument.  The kind where I might say "A" exists where "A" is some random event.  Then state "B" exists as a time and place.  Then say all "As" will occur in a "B," which of course would be true.  However, my next statement is what if "C" existed outside of "A" and "B" and yet it was as real as anything else.  Yep.  This will get you thinking.  Unless you consider this is the ramblings of a crazy man, which could also be true and would mean "C" was a concept beyond the mind of sanity so could be disregarded.  Oh dear.  Whatever you do don't disregard my blue suede shoes, Elvis used to say.  If not it was something quite close to it.  So returning back to not being able to sleep.  I had some how entered a land of being completely relaxed but also completely alert.  Now if only there was a switch which could tap into such a state "on" or "off."  Which would be interesting.

So much thinking is making me feel tired.  Hopefully I'll sleep like a log tonight.  One which has not rolled over or wondered what it will be made into.  One which lays quite still and just "is" and nothing else.  Blimey sounds like another case of "C" to me.

Happy Valentine's - now what about a horror movie?

I managed to get a Valentines card to Sparkling in time, in fact she received it early and there I was thinking it might not get there at all.  Then today, the dozen roses turned up.  Awwwe.  Rock in the meantime had Dangerous Sports Lad turn up with a card wishing her happy valentines.  There were tears, lots of them I understand, a puffed up face and red eyes as well.  Even though he couldn't afford a gift this time round I made a promise.  Awwwe, he made her very happy.  And his making Rock happy makes me happy to.  Sparkling said the evening had been set.  The girlie's were all going round, she was going to get lots of snacks in for them and they were all going to sit there watching horror movies.  It's odd.  Valentine's day and they are choosing to spend the night with horror movies.  I really, honestly do not know what goes on in the female head.  It is a mystery beyond all mysteries.

In the meantime last night I got involved in car crash, catch up TV on various media web sites.  There was the hour and a half of the 50 worst plastic surgeries, there was an episode of Being Human, a documentary on Nepalese widows who apparently are completely shunned by society.  I tell you it had me in tears when I heard their Hindu Holly man chastise widows as women who had done a very bad deed in an earlier life.   It made me want to beat the crap out of him.  Then I ended at some point by watching another documentary about a single girl living in a flat in London who was in danger of having her small son taken away because of a violent partner.  Any trace of horror films no.  None at all.  I think my hormones are on the brink, I'm needing more tissues than the girls on valentines day.  As for bloody horror movies, I think I'd need a three seater sofa to hide behind.

They all want a bit of me and then don't listen

How is it possible to foster independence in others?  While at the Fish Factory I am finding as a middle fish a lot of the smaller fishes asking me lots of questions.  It is like they do not have a brain for themselves to go and find the answer or to work it out.  I remember when I was a smaller fish, I would work out for myself the answer and very seldom seek help.  I saw myself as self sufficient.  I could read the bible of fishes decisions, I could read through all the literature and then I would decide on my own what to do given I'd worked it out.  Whereas now, they all seem to come to me.  It's almost as though there is a dependency or denial of seeking their own truths.  It's easier to ask the boss, I'll not work it out.  So goes their brains.  I'm therefore driven to complete distraction and unable to do my own fish gutting which is starting to mount up.  Of course as the pile gets higher it also becomes smelly as well.  So what do I do? What is the answer?  I'm sure having a tizzy fit will not cure the situation, instead it will likely make them scared of me and scared little fishes are hardly going to get on with their job very well.  Perhaps I am treating them too much with kid gloves. Whilst on the other hand there are few options I have.  The tool of giving a verbal reprimand has been taken away.  Again it's a negative thing so would likely do no good.

Unless I can find an answer to this precarious situation I'm going to start losing my hair, become a complete and utter alcoholic and likely a zombie as well.  As well I find there is only so far I can go with these fishes.  I can lead them to water but it's up to them if they drink it.  Right now this bunch get led to water, have a sniff, turn their nose up because it doesn't suit their particular tastes and go walking off into the wilderness.

Happiness in being drunk

It's always nice to be told you are getting fat.  Especially by another person who is fatter than yourself.  And although I really should not bother about it, it does effect me.  So this evening I went out and had a walk, because for this week it seems visiting the gym just isn't on the cards.  Whilst visiting the pub has been, and yesterday I got drunk on my mere 3 pints.  But hell.  I was happy and being happy is one of the golden secrets of life.  So in my happiness I made a couple of phone calls to the ones I like to share my merry demeanour with.  Sparkling and then L & B Man.

I rang Sparkles, she was at home.  Or rather she actually answered the phone because she's been known to ignore it..  Yes, a little surprising.  I told her how I missed her and could of done with a hug.  I don't know what it is, but I got the feeling she was then trying to fob me off because she told me to ring L & B man.  I suppose when you are lucid a drunk man on the end of the telephone can be a pain in the arse.  I don't know why, but there it's there.  I felt it.  She also said I was now winding her up, which must be one of my many talents which comes out after a pint or two.  So I told her I loved her again and would ring L & B, for at this point her power of persuasion had worked.  I immediately ran Mr L & B man.  I was on the train at the time and it had quite a few people on it, but I really didn't care who overheard me.  L & B must have some kind of clairvoyance because I only said a couple of words and he asked if I had been in the boozer again.  One of the London gay pubs, because he thinks whatever pub I go to has got to be gay.  He then asked if I had spoken to Sparkling.  I said I had, his response was Sparkling must of told me to feck-off then which was why I was now ringing him.  Why this attitude I pondered again, what on earth is it sobre people have against the inebriated?  I did my duty and spread a bit more love and jollity to L & B and as I was having a problem listening to him on account of his telly being on in the background and not because of difficulty understanding his accent, then I thought it was best to leave him to his own devices.  I didn't realise but he was doing a little preparation for an interview.  I wouldn't of rung him up had I known.  I wished him luck and said I'd employ him.

Getting home I had a couple of cups of tea, watched some TV and hit the hay, feeling pretty good.  Happy, merry and still slightly drunk.  For some reason I could only read a couple of pages of my night time read, don't matter I'll catch up some more the next day.  I woke up this morning feeling not quite as good as when I went to bed, but it wasn't too bad.  It was even earlier a start to the day than the last week or so.  But one thing is so very true, drunk or sobre, happiness is still a big secret to life.  Lets not forget, seeing the cat as I open the kitchen door in the morning and finding he hasn't had a crap in his dirt tray.  Now I think of it.  Today was probably a pretty good one.

Stalked by my dentist

I am beginning to think I might be getting stalked by my dentist.  He's a nice enough bloke, but I'm going to have to let him down gently.  Well he is always easy going when I have to see  him.  It was only last week I last saw him to have an inlay re cemented.  Then yesterday a letter arrived.  The kind in a white envelop where it's difficult to see or guess who sent it.  Then I opened, the top was headed on the dentist paper, I'm now due my next appointment.  Why on earth a good relationship is being broken up by frequent seeing of each other is beyond me.  So what do I do? 

Gather my thoughts.  Gather my strength and make an appointment, I'm sure it's all coincidental. Bloody teeth, what would we do without them?  Suck eggs probably.

Pros and cons of Facebook - hypocrite

A few days ago, actually it was a Sunday to be precise, when I was completely at my wits end as what to do with myself.  The usual stuff.  No mates.  Don't want to go out as it was too cold and windy, no prospect of a chat with Sparkling and only a deranged Big Momma for company and grumpy cat.  I decided to join Face book.  It would give me an avenue by which to chat to some people now and again as well as providing it's own little distractions.  Face book games such as FarmVille and Glory of Rome.  It seems both of which also require friends or communication with other people to increase game status.  Anyway.  I joined it.  So spent a few hours trying to work out what it was about.  What I could and could not do to correct my personal profile, because of course being concerned with personal I.D. theft I'm careful about putting real details of who I am.  Then I was encouraged by the odd person here and there to add them as friends.  So I did.  Then I found I had been tagged on photos, and then I found I started receiving emails.  I think the count must now be in excess of 50 over a couple of days.  Which makes me begin to think it should of be renamed Junk Email book instead.  It seems it don't matter what someone else does in respect of my profile I then receive a notification.  When I don't really give a toss what they are doing, because it's only bits of me on there, not the whole me.  If you know what I mean?  I'm sure you do.

So besides a temporary addiction to a couple of games I'm wondering whether it was a good idea joining it.  Sparkling at first seemed annoyed.  In fact she had a groan at me, telling me I was a hypocrite because I said I would never go on it.  But I had.  I asked her if I should come off Face book and she said "yes" so I'm still on it and I'll make up my own mind when I want to come off it thank you very much.  But, saying this.  What a load of old codswallop people write.  It's nearly as bad as sitting in the pub listening to the Old Witch who should of been burnt at the steak for the dribble she spouts.  In fact this is one reason why I now don't frequent the pub as much as I used to, not to mention a growing waste line.  So at the moment I can't say I am too impressed with it.  I'm trying to see what the attraction is but it is escaping me for the time being.  It's like seeing the trailers for a recently released film, one with a good actor, great special effects, rave reviews and then when I've gone out to see it myself, hopes all high it turns out to be a load of pisshy knickers.  A bit like the smell of Channel 5 by the way.  Which is also a typically hyped up marketing product but even after decades still perseveres.  All I can say is if Face book doesn't show me a side which suggests it's something adults can use rather than adolescent self indulgent teens I'll have to think a little more and decide whether I should become a double hypocrite and kill off my account.  But for now I am enjoying the games.  I can hear someone thinking at the back of the class, "little things for little minds" ha ha, no I say sarcastically, read the dribble on there and you'll know what I mean.

Lady Gaga, Madonna and Superman - who's the odd one out?

It is a fact, the more you feed into popular culture the more likely you will be to get hits on your web site.  So I am conducting a little experiment and adding something different.  I'm going to talk about Lady Gaga, who I know little about, Madonna who I know even more little about and Superman who I probably know a bit a great deal in comparison.  So the odd one out is actually not one but two. Which by the sound of it probably makes the title of this blog a little misleading.  OK, it is, get over it.

The odd two out are Lady Gaga and Madonna and Superman could never be odd.  On account he has been round more years than the other two, jumps buildings in a single bound and if he feels like it can even fly, in fact flying to him is like walking and singing to Lady Gaga and Madonna.  Probably more so for Madonna because she's the second oldest and Lady Gaga is the youngest and I'd say the hottest.  But if I were to think of something Rock Chick said to me then I'd be pretty careful about saying Lady Gaga is hot at all because Rock would say Lady Gaga has got a little extra bit.  Personally I don't think Lady Gaga does have any extra bits otherwise she would not be called Lady Gaga.  As for Madonna we all know she doesn't have any extra parts but she is pretty Gaga.  I mean gaga in real life.  It's remarkable how when you get to learn more about artists or famous people and the curtains are dropped on their real character you find either they are not people you would want to know or they are more than eccentric.  Eccentric to the point of asking yourself why on earth did you like their music in the first place.  Not that Superman is at all known for music, but if he was then he would be under the spotlight.  But the reality is we all know a lot more about Superman in real life than M or G. Except for one thing Superman isn't real, which is a shame a blooming big shame because that would also mean Lois Lane was real as well and she is someone every man would like to meet, but we'd never manage to deal with the competition.

Now Superman's alter ego is the mild mannered Clarke Kent.  A very nice chap if I may say so.  He wears glasses and is always in a suit.  Madonna's alter ego is:  Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone.  The Ciccone would suggest she has a Italian heritage.  In which case you have to admire Guy Richie who didn't end pushing up daisies in some remote field somewhere.  Whilst Lady Gagga's alternate self is: Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta.  Actually I quite like the name Stefani, but as some other pop heroine has this as a last name it would probably cause some confusion amongst all the teeny fans, who listen to such music.  You see hormones and pop music usually lead to some kind of brain malfunction in teens that they forget a lot of stuff.  Fortunately parents do try to keep them in the know by shouting their name at them as much as possible.  Unfortunately it doesn't seem to work.  You would of thought parents have learnt this lesson as well.  On account they were once teenagers and they ignored their own name being shouted to.

 Which brings me to the conclusion what is there in a name after all?  And how come there isn't any just ordinary named people who are famous and looked upon with great respect.  You know.  Like Fred Blogs.  Now if Fred Bloggs was actually called Lady Gagga it would be quite interesting if he'd be as famous as she is.  On the other hand, I can hear Rock saying Fred Bloggs is Lady Gaga.  Great.  Maybe I should change my pop icon to someone different.  Someone where there can be no gender question or ambivalence, yes.  Like Boy George maybe.

Watching Scotland lose at Rugby and avoiding food poisoning

It's Saturday and feels quiet, like I don't have anything in particular to do, but were I to put my mind to it I'm sure I would find something. It's a little bit like the feeling you get when you know you should be studying for an exam but can't be bothered, because study just doesn't excite, and no matter  how much you try it either doesn't go in or you can't remember it.  This unfortunately was probably why I failed all my exams at school.  Then to be marked with the curse of an underachiever and worthy of nothing.  What a poor world it is to judge someone as a failure because they just don't pass an exam, which used to be how I felt.

So I console myself as I watch the rugby action, it's Scotland versus France.  I've sent a couple of text messages to L & B man, on account he's Scottish and probably going to be interested in Scotland losing.  The game is fast paced, I'm watching it now.  So far France is in the lead 17 to 7, the Scots are used to losing so it won't be too bad if they don't win.  If they win they will get pissed.  If they lose they'll get pissed.  I used to think I should support Scotland because of Sparkling an all.  But then when I found the Scots would even support Germany if they were playing England I changed my views. It maybe an archaic and stereotypical set of biases held by both nations and unfortunately one which seems to be perpetuated, but if someone is willing to challenge and break that view then surely the other side should do the same.  They didn't for me, so if Scotland lose, touch haggis.  The first half is over and there is no change in the score.  Yep, looks like there's some work to do if they want to come back.  I know if Sparkling isn't at work she will be watching the rugby.  She's got a thing about rugby players.  I think it might be the big thighs.  I'm sure it's not the cauliflower ears.

Big momma made lunch today.  It was toad in the hole.  Normally something I like.  Yet there was something wrong with the batter, it was half cooked.  I tried a bit of sausage, which had an odd taste to it.  There was something again not quite right about the taste, I asked if it was in date.  "Yes" I was told.  I didn't eat any more, went to the fridge found the packet and found it was 5 days out of date.  If the fridge was having one of it's freezing everything phases it might of been alright, but it doesn't feel particularly cold.  So I went without and did what I normally do when I can't trust a thing cooked by momma.  Go to a cafe and eat there.  I've had more cafe food in my life than momma has cooked hot dinners.  Otherwise I'd be in the hospital every couple of weeks and knowing the docs by their first name.

I pop in and out of the rugby window, listening while typing.  Oh dear.  France have scored again it's now 24 to 7, another bad day for Scotland. I'm caught in the action of the game and before I know it Scotland have scored a try.  I hear the bag pipes from somewhere in the crowd of supporters and yes although I am English I'm shouting for Scotland.   The score is now 24 to 14.  It must of been the bag pipes.  The sound of a dead cat puffed up with air and being squeezed under someones arm pit.  How comes so many of the French players have names which sound like toilets?  It must be the language.  The ref is having his say.   Oh shame, another missed kick from the French, and they were the ones who invented the Exocet missile.  There's another try by the French.  Nice play 31 to 14.  Maybe Scotland could loan a couple of English players, just for this game.  No, don't think it will happen.  I must say though.  Rugby is a team game, much more than footy and I was once told there's a position for every type of body shape.  Even fat men.  Well it's all over now 34 to 21, looks like someone hasn't been eating their greens.

Two seater sofa versus three seater sofa - three please

Sparkling has been on the look out for a suite and has seen a possible candidate.  A two seater and a three seater, there may even be a single but I can't remember what she said.  So much for building up a great memory this year.  It's a fabric one and in pretty good nick.  The only problem with the suite is whether it will fit through the door so she is going to measure it up and get L & B man to have a look to see what he thinks. 

The thought of a three seater settee almost made my heart jump, I smiled.  Thinking of the time when I'd been relegated to the sofa, which is presently only two a seater and is just no good at all for laying on.  With only two choices of position, curled up in a ball, which after a while makes you feel a bit cramped, or the other position which is hanging your legs over the arm at one end and head laying on the arm at the other end.  My legs then end up with cramp, or my feet cold because there's nothing covering them.  The number of hours sleep is reduced by half.  Not forgetting the cat who then with tail in the air and superiority goes up to stairs to take up the vacant space on the bed and lick himself, purring all along. But there are times when Sparkling has fallen asleep on the sofa when she's tired or inebriated and I'm sure she's woken up cramped and aching as well. Yes, so the idea of stretching out at a reasonable length on a three seater is so welcoming.  Then being in Sparkles bad books wont actually mean losing additional hours of rest.  It might even be comfy.  I hope so, I'm thinking of it now, bloody weird. 

I managed to get my inlay cemented back on the tooth today.  It's a good feeling, there was a space left behind big enough to put a sofa in.  I worried if I carried on with it then the thing would crack, which might have meant losing the tooth.  Eating on the left side of my mouth has been a pain as well.  It felt like eating slowly I was becoming a conscientious girl on a sparrows knee cap diet.  Now I can really tuck into my food.  Which will likely mean I can get fatter if I'm not careful.  Then I'm sure a three seater sofa would be pretty useful.

Exercise - do eyebrows count?

I sat on the exercise carpet, pulled the soles of my feet together and willed my knees down.  Then I caught myself in the mirror, and for five minutes exercised my eyebrows up and down.  Listening to the music I tried to make them synchronise to it, I thought of doing an eyebrow Mexican wave.  Tried it a couple of times and just couldn't pull it off.  Nearly but not quite.  Next was to try and create a Uni-brow by frowning hard but nope, those thick caterpillars didn't meet up.  By the end of the track I then realised eyebrow exercise doesn't count in the gym and wouldn't result in a sweat. However, I'm sure there must of been the odd calorie burnt.