Text message to unsettle

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

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

Who needs ghosts when a teenager will do?

Rained Today

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

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

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

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

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

Getting Drunk

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock Chick's 16th

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

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

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

Shadow of a Shrimp

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

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

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

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

Phobia's for everything

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

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

Breakfast twice

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

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

DLR to East London

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

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

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

The Pub

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

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

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

Wot no Table

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

Ode to the table.

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

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

Eyebrows Sir?

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

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

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

London Marathon and a rasberry chocolate cake

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

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

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

Stuck on Sponge Bob and the gym

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

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

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

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

Lunch and a moment to relax

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

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

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

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

Today it snowed in London

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

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

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

Ashes to Ashes, TV series

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

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

New Blog

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

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

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

Clocks go forward

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

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

Sad news and a Night out

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

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

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

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

Belly is gonna get ya

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

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

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