Don't know how to describe my feelings right now, if I'm honest, except "weird." The house I lived in for the first 21 years of my life (I officially moved out three days after my 21st birthday), which has been in my family since 1953, and which has always been there in my mind as a place of refuge in the bad times, solace in the sad times and celebration in the glad times, as of today belongs to someone else.
By the time we left it for the last time - last Saturday afternoon - it did feel more like "just a house" than it has ever felt. No longer a home. And truth be told it hasn't been my home for all of those 30+ years since I moved out, except in the sense of "going home" to visit Mum, as we often did. After 8 months of intermittent trips to throw away old things, collect treasured things and rearrange remaining things to present the house at its best for the purposes of sale, it looked and felt like an empty shell. Only faint echoes lingered of the happy times spent there. Lifetimes. I learned to walk there. I learned to ride a bike there. I learned to drive there. I read my 'O' and 'A' Level results over breakfast there. I found out I'd got into university there. I had my first sex there. And my first broken heart, stood by the sideboard reading that letter. My Dad died there. My Mum turned into an old lady there.
And now someone else will build memories there and put down roots - perhaps even 60 years deep like our family did. They'll put their own stamp on the place until almost every trace of the planning and saving and working and painting and tiling and building my Mum & Dad did is erased; replaced with something newer, bigger, brighter and not ours.
Well... not quite erased. It will still be there in my memory. My old family home. And that's why I'll never drive down to Ridgway Close again. Or at least, never intend to. I want that house - that home - to stay as it is in my memory. The happy, sunny, carefree home of my childhood.
Showing posts with label thirty years. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thirty years. Show all posts
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
For once, I have no clever title
Woke at 1.01am for yet another nocturnal "visit" and, still wide awake more than an hour later, I finally decided I might as well get up. The clock check was 2.22. I experience a lot of these nicely patterned times, especially at night (I've written several times about them before under the 'spookiness' tag) and I have no idea why. Maybe seeing patterns in things is a sign of mental illness. But there again, being able to wonder if it is is probably a sign that I'm alright. :o) But this post isn't about spooky patterns on the clock, or insomnia.
My Mum died on Sunday night.
Didn't get much sleep that night either, but more a case of never getting to sleep in the first place. At least, not until after 3.30. And then I was up again two hours later. Last night was a bit better (being knackered helps) but tonight it looks like I'm back on the merry-go-round of thinking of everything I need to do, and things I already did. Things I didn't do that maybe I should have.
I've been telling people it wasn't unexpected, and it wasn't. She had COPD, and everyone knows that's a one-way street, but more than that - after the events of recent weeks we would have to have been abnormally ostrich-like not to expect "the worst." But can you ever be prepared for it? Maybe on an intellectual level. Perhaps that intellectual preparation allows you to skip the traditional first stage of grief - i.e. denial. Although, you know, the irony of denying that I'm in denial is not lost on me. I seem to be missing out on the 'anger' part as well. Who would I be angry with? Mum? It's hardly her fault (apart from the smoking of course, but it feels like it's always been decades too late to do anything about that). The care home? They did what they could. God? Let's not even go there. And what would I be angry about? That she's free from pain? No longer has to fight to get every breath? That - the next few weeks of estate management aside - I'm absolved from the duty of those five-hour round trips to visit someone who had become unrecognisable as the woman most often referred to as "awesome" by my friends, old and new, and those of my in-laws that met her. Whose failing memory left her incapable of remembering conversations we'd repeated four times since our arrival not half an hour earlier? And, perhaps more significantly, of remembering that we had visited at all. Or telephoned, on the weeks we couldn't visit.
I'd rather friends remembered her as the vibrant capable welcoming whirlwind who cooked up a full fried English breakfast for eight when we dropped in unannounced one Bank Holiday Monday morning after an all-night party. That breakfast is still fondly remembered more than thirty years later by all who partook.
There's a lot more to say, but I have that happy memory in my mind so I'll stop for now.
My Mum died on Sunday night.
Didn't get much sleep that night either, but more a case of never getting to sleep in the first place. At least, not until after 3.30. And then I was up again two hours later. Last night was a bit better (being knackered helps) but tonight it looks like I'm back on the merry-go-round of thinking of everything I need to do, and things I already did. Things I didn't do that maybe I should have.
I've been telling people it wasn't unexpected, and it wasn't. She had COPD, and everyone knows that's a one-way street, but more than that - after the events of recent weeks we would have to have been abnormally ostrich-like not to expect "the worst." But can you ever be prepared for it? Maybe on an intellectual level. Perhaps that intellectual preparation allows you to skip the traditional first stage of grief - i.e. denial. Although, you know, the irony of denying that I'm in denial is not lost on me. I seem to be missing out on the 'anger' part as well. Who would I be angry with? Mum? It's hardly her fault (apart from the smoking of course, but it feels like it's always been decades too late to do anything about that). The care home? They did what they could. God? Let's not even go there. And what would I be angry about? That she's free from pain? No longer has to fight to get every breath? That - the next few weeks of estate management aside - I'm absolved from the duty of those five-hour round trips to visit someone who had become unrecognisable as the woman most often referred to as "awesome" by my friends, old and new, and those of my in-laws that met her. Whose failing memory left her incapable of remembering conversations we'd repeated four times since our arrival not half an hour earlier? And, perhaps more significantly, of remembering that we had visited at all. Or telephoned, on the weeks we couldn't visit.
I'd rather friends remembered her as the vibrant capable welcoming whirlwind who cooked up a full fried English breakfast for eight when we dropped in unannounced one Bank Holiday Monday morning after an all-night party. That breakfast is still fondly remembered more than thirty years later by all who partook.
There's a lot more to say, but I have that happy memory in my mind so I'll stop for now.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Vinyl: Making Movies
Owned on digital media: No
Want to replace: Yes
This is the one. The album that first really got me into Dire Straits. The album I remember listening to lying on the floor of a Lake District living room, cans firmly fixed to head, trying to ignore all the point-scoring shit that regularly flew around that particular bunch of in-laws. I immersed myself in the music for as long as I could. Which turned out to be until Momma In-Law burst in and ordered all the "children" (the youngest of us was, at that time, 23) out so that the "adults" could sit in comfort with their "adult" conversation.
Interesting to reflect with my traditional 30-year perspective that the behaviour that was soon to follow that event was not what anyone could pretend deserved the tag: adult.
Even with such uncomfortable associations, the music's still good :o) I've marked the "want to replace" flag as 'yes' above, but a closer look at the track list shows there's only a couple that I don't already have on various digital compilations (Alchemy, Very Best of...) so I'm not convinced it's worth it.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Vinyl: Dire Straits
Owned on digital media: Yes
Want to replace: n/a
Like pretty much anyone who was listening to music at the end of the 70s, I'd heard "Sultans of Swing" and revelled in the fresh new sound of Dire Straits, but it was some years later that I bought my first DS album, and it wasn't this one.
Only later, when the completist in me began to assemble their back catalogue, did this album find its way into my collection. With 30 years of perspective it still seems incredible that BBC chose not to play Sultans on its first release, but then they've never been particularly smart about their music choices. Well at least, not until the advent of 6music.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Getting preprandial with privet
The brilliant forecast for this weekend turned into a gorgeous reality, and after months of being cooped up in the house and the almost endless decorating it was good to be outside, making a start with the traditional first gardening jobs of Spring.
But our small lawn takes less than 15 minute to mow, so it wasn't long before I was casting around for something else to do.
The remnants of next door's raspberry canes were starting to make themselves known again around the roots of our copper beech hedge, in various parts of the border, and popping up in the middle of the lawn, so I spent an hour or so trying to tease their roots out from around all the other roots. I managed accidentally to bring up a chunk of the lupin that had become totally enveloped by raspberry tendrils, but 80% of the lupin remained, so not too much damage done.
I was in the mood for a larger challenge than this though. Like digging up the privet in the front garden. I'd cut this back in late summer last year as it was up to about 15 feet, and starving all the trees of light. Cutting them back revealed the size of the main stumps. Comparing them to the trunks that I'd helped my Dad pull out of the front garden in Nottingham 30 years ago, I reckon that hedge must have been there as long as the house. But, you know, privet? It's a bit 1950s isn't it? So we wanted rid.
I didn't feel like breaking my back on the privet trunks back then, but I was up for the task now. It's funny how those jobs that you dread tackling, and put off for the longest time, usually turn out to be nowhere near as bad as you expect. The first three stumps were so shallowly rooted that all I had to do was grab them and pull, and they came up in my hand. Admittedly it began to get tougher after that. The further away the privet stretched towards the road, the deeper the soil in the bed, and consequently the deeper the roots. Some of them even headed off under the wall, requiring the application of a bow saw.
Even so the whole job took a lot less time than I'd expected, and left behind quite a wide bed, filled with lovely rich loam, that I'll be able to fill with some nice dwarf rhododendrons once I've dug in a few bags of peat.
But our small lawn takes less than 15 minute to mow, so it wasn't long before I was casting around for something else to do.
The remnants of next door's raspberry canes were starting to make themselves known again around the roots of our copper beech hedge, in various parts of the border, and popping up in the middle of the lawn, so I spent an hour or so trying to tease their roots out from around all the other roots. I managed accidentally to bring up a chunk of the lupin that had become totally enveloped by raspberry tendrils, but 80% of the lupin remained, so not too much damage done.
I was in the mood for a larger challenge than this though. Like digging up the privet in the front garden. I'd cut this back in late summer last year as it was up to about 15 feet, and starving all the trees of light. Cutting them back revealed the size of the main stumps. Comparing them to the trunks that I'd helped my Dad pull out of the front garden in Nottingham 30 years ago, I reckon that hedge must have been there as long as the house. But, you know, privet? It's a bit 1950s isn't it? So we wanted rid.
I didn't feel like breaking my back on the privet trunks back then, but I was up for the task now. It's funny how those jobs that you dread tackling, and put off for the longest time, usually turn out to be nowhere near as bad as you expect. The first three stumps were so shallowly rooted that all I had to do was grab them and pull, and they came up in my hand. Admittedly it began to get tougher after that. The further away the privet stretched towards the road, the deeper the soil in the bed, and consequently the deeper the roots. Some of them even headed off under the wall, requiring the application of a bow saw.
Even so the whole job took a lot less time than I'd expected, and left behind quite a wide bed, filled with lovely rich loam, that I'll be able to fill with some nice dwarf rhododendrons once I've dug in a few bags of peat.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Shake your booty
For reasons I won't bore you with, we're doing a fair bit of sorting out at the moment. It means we've uncovered a lot of boxes marked "eBay" - more out of a desperate hope that they might somehow list themselves and walk out of the door, than with any expectation that we'll ever actively engage in their sale - as well as making life-changing decisions to finally throw out that box of bubble wrap and the futon base that's a bit split.
Having (almost) confronted the eBay demon, we started considering other options for tat disposal, the most obvious and convenient being a car boot sale. There's one held every weekend at Bowlers, so we decided to pop along there today for a bit of a nose, suss out the competition and get some idea what second-hand books, CDs and DVDs sell for these days.
This short visit was a revelation on many levels, the first being that in the approximately thirty years between my last car boot sale (as a vendor) and this (as a browser) Nothing. Has. Changed. Except perhaps that, here at least, some indoor pitches have power, and vendors plug their tat in to prove it still works. Oh, and it's £15 for a pitch now, when it used to be a fiver. But broken down pasting tables? Check! Dog-eared paperbacks? Check! Unrecognisable bits of kitchen paraphernalia? Check! Old clocks, mirrors, grandma's teeth mug, scuffed toys, jigsaw puzzles in broken boxes? Yes, they're all still there. Might be exactly the same stuff as I used to pick through thirty years ago as far as I can tell, apart from the DVDs of course. We didn't have DVDs in 1980.
Most DVDs look to be selling for a pound or two. Some vendors had attempted to arbitrarily apply a range of pricing based on some vague perception of rarity, popularity or whatever, in 50p increments starting at £1. Others just applied a tatty notice stating "all DVDs £2" to a boxful. But whatever pricing was in operation, we never saw anyone browsing the movies. We later discovered this particular venue has a bit of a reputation for carrying snide merchandise, which was a bit disappointing as we've a couple of dozen to shift. It wasn't just films - no-one seemed to be in a buying mood. Punters in general were a bit thin on the ground; surprising for such a sunny Sunday. Maybe having such a large sale every week in the same place suffers from the law of diminishing returns. Certainly, on the face of it, we'd be hard pushed to make back our pitch price, which kind of defeats the object. Anyone want to buy a model Ferrari?
Having (almost) confronted the eBay demon, we started considering other options for tat disposal, the most obvious and convenient being a car boot sale. There's one held every weekend at Bowlers, so we decided to pop along there today for a bit of a nose, suss out the competition and get some idea what second-hand books, CDs and DVDs sell for these days.
Most DVDs look to be selling for a pound or two. Some vendors had attempted to arbitrarily apply a range of pricing based on some vague perception of rarity, popularity or whatever, in 50p increments starting at £1. Others just applied a tatty notice stating "all DVDs £2" to a boxful. But whatever pricing was in operation, we never saw anyone browsing the movies. We later discovered this particular venue has a bit of a reputation for carrying snide merchandise, which was a bit disappointing as we've a couple of dozen to shift. It wasn't just films - no-one seemed to be in a buying mood. Punters in general were a bit thin on the ground; surprising for such a sunny Sunday. Maybe having such a large sale every week in the same place suffers from the law of diminishing returns. Certainly, on the face of it, we'd be hard pushed to make back our pitch price, which kind of defeats the object. Anyone want to buy a model Ferrari?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Google and Pac-Man
Google's "doodles" - the changes to their logo they make every so often to celebrate some national or international event, holiday, or hot news topic - have quickly become legendary. In fact one of the only complaints I have with the iGoogle home page is that we never see any indication that there's a new doodle to enjoy.
Last weekend, two legends collided. It was the 30th anniversary of Pac-Man, widely regarded as "the game that started it all" (even though, being first released in 1980, it trailed Space Invaders by two years), and in celebration Google installed its first fully interactive doodle - a working copy of Pac-Man with the maze spelling out "Google" and whose gameplay faithfully reproduced the original, including ghost behaviours, fruits, and even the original bug that corrupts the screen on the 256th level.
Media coverage suggests that the game didn't start playing unless you pressed the Insert Coin button (which temporarily replaced the usual "I'm Feeling Lucky"), but this certainly wasn't true for me. Maybe it's different on Chrome, but the game started right up after a short delay and I reached instinctively for the arrow keys (I was a huge Pac-Man fan) and began playing immediately. I reached the fifth level, which I was pretty pleased about given that I haven't played for, like, 20 years. Some things never leave you.
But celebrating Pac-Man's 30th birthday, and Google's inventiveness and sense of fun, is only part of the reason for this post. And it's the "sense of fun" angle that I'd like to concentrate on first, because to me that's what it was all about. It was a weekend, Google's doodles are a fine tradition that always raise a smile in our house, and this particular doodle gave Google's users the chance - briefly - to relive a much-loved time in their youth when it was OK to while away a few hours chasing an animated cartoon mouth around a maze.
So it was with a dawning sense of OMG that I read some of the 571 comments posted on the news article I found on the subject. Many of them mirrored my own reaction ("wow" "cool" "brings back memories" etc) but fully half of them were complaints about the noise, about the intrusion into their browser space, about the waste of time and money, and any other possible thing you could think of to complain about and even some that would never occur to most people I know. Incredible.
These comments drew stinging reactions from the supporters of Google's efforts, as you'd expect, with people pointing out variously that Google (and all its services) is free, that doodles are only ever up for a day (or two at most), that all computers are equipped with a "mute" function, and that in the end if they weren't happy, why didn't these people just close their browsers or navigate to another page? But all of that common sense couldn't hide the fact that there are vast numbers of people out there who have utterly lost their sense of humour, of fun, and of celebration. And what's worse, they're not even prepared to sit quietly while those of us who haven't lost those things get on with it.
It gets worse.
Someone who must recently have had a humourectomy has now calculated the world-wide LOSS OF PRODUCTIVITY that the Pac-Man doodle caused. Yep. Five million man hours, apparently, giving a total monetary value - based on a low-to-average U.S. salary - of $120 million. A figure arrived at using some broadly-drawn assumptions on the amount of time usually spent on the Google home page versus the amount of time spent there when the Pac-Man doodle was active.
Oh dear. Oh woe is me. For a few extra seconds, all over the world, people weren't making money. Strike us all down with a bolt of lightning. Good grief. One of the saddest aspects of "this modern world" which has crept up on us during those thirty years since Pac-Man arrived, is that too many people have forgotten there is more to life than making money. Lift your heads up from those desks, people. Take your noses from the grindstone for a few precious minutes and have some fun ffs.
Last weekend, two legends collided. It was the 30th anniversary of Pac-Man, widely regarded as "the game that started it all" (even though, being first released in 1980, it trailed Space Invaders by two years), and in celebration Google installed its first fully interactive doodle - a working copy of Pac-Man with the maze spelling out "Google" and whose gameplay faithfully reproduced the original, including ghost behaviours, fruits, and even the original bug that corrupts the screen on the 256th level.
But celebrating Pac-Man's 30th birthday, and Google's inventiveness and sense of fun, is only part of the reason for this post. And it's the "sense of fun" angle that I'd like to concentrate on first, because to me that's what it was all about. It was a weekend, Google's doodles are a fine tradition that always raise a smile in our house, and this particular doodle gave Google's users the chance - briefly - to relive a much-loved time in their youth when it was OK to while away a few hours chasing an animated cartoon mouth around a maze.
So it was with a dawning sense of OMG that I read some of the 571 comments posted on the news article I found on the subject. Many of them mirrored my own reaction ("wow" "cool" "brings back memories" etc) but fully half of them were complaints about the noise, about the intrusion into their browser space, about the waste of time and money, and any other possible thing you could think of to complain about and even some that would never occur to most people I know. Incredible.
These comments drew stinging reactions from the supporters of Google's efforts, as you'd expect, with people pointing out variously that Google (and all its services) is free, that doodles are only ever up for a day (or two at most), that all computers are equipped with a "mute" function, and that in the end if they weren't happy, why didn't these people just close their browsers or navigate to another page? But all of that common sense couldn't hide the fact that there are vast numbers of people out there who have utterly lost their sense of humour, of fun, and of celebration. And what's worse, they're not even prepared to sit quietly while those of us who haven't lost those things get on with it.
It gets worse.
Someone who must recently have had a humourectomy has now calculated the world-wide LOSS OF PRODUCTIVITY that the Pac-Man doodle caused. Yep. Five million man hours, apparently, giving a total monetary value - based on a low-to-average U.S. salary - of $120 million. A figure arrived at using some broadly-drawn assumptions on the amount of time usually spent on the Google home page versus the amount of time spent there when the Pac-Man doodle was active.
Oh dear. Oh woe is me. For a few extra seconds, all over the world, people weren't making money. Strike us all down with a bolt of lightning. Good grief. One of the saddest aspects of "this modern world" which has crept up on us during those thirty years since Pac-Man arrived, is that too many people have forgotten there is more to life than making money. Lift your heads up from those desks, people. Take your noses from the grindstone for a few precious minutes and have some fun ffs.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Stags and Dens, and self-determination
It's a fair few years since I went to a stag do (probably not thirty, but not that far off), but as our mates Jamie and Lise are getting hitched immediately prior to setting sail for a new life in Spain, and therefore opportunities to socialise with either or both of them will shortly be severely curtailed, when I learnt that one of the Players was organising a surprise stag do for him at the Frog and Bucket the decision to attend was a no-brainer (even though it clashed with a "girls' weekend").
We were due to meet at the Dry Bar at 7pm, where Jamie would arrive on the pretext of having a quick drink before catching a train for a quiet night watching DVDs at a mate's house, to find around 20 of his friends waiting to drag him off for a completely different sort of night. I'd never been to the Dry Bar so I hopped a taxi. The driver, who gave every appearance of never having heard of the Dry Bar, dropped me off on Oldham Street outside an anonymous building. Armed with the knowledge that said bar was #28 on the street, and noticing the shop opposite was #51, I headed off confidently in the direction of Piccadilly, looking for an even numbered door on my side to give me some new bearings. When I reached #14 I backtracked, counting doorways, and found myself back where I started. Maybe the cabbie was more clued up than I'd imagined.
One friendly face was visible behind the double doors (Hi Bon!) so I grabbed a pint and settled in to await further arrivals. Those of the male members of the Players who could make it drifted in by ones and twos until we received a text message that Jamie was on his way. The ruse worked perfectly, his normally bemused look giving way to total surprise as he rounded to corner to cheers and applause. After another quick lemonade we set off for the Frog and Bucket.
I'm not normally one to criticise (*cough*) so I should probably just say the comedy was appalling. Luckily that's not why we went - at least not for the sort on stage. The craic among the group was way funnier. The first of three acts seemed to think all he had to do was say "nobhead" a few times, interspersed with other colourful language, and we'd all fall about laughing. Halfway through his act I glanced around our group. Almost to a man we were all sat there with our arms folded, staring him down and daring him to make us laugh. I was glad it wasn't just me. He didn't raise a single chuckle during his entire act, even though a group of young ladies on a hen night, or birthday party, seemed to think it all pant-wettingly funny, and literally fell about in their seats screaming and giggling fit to bust. Maybe it was all much funnier if you were pissed. Or an airhead.
The woman who was on second raised the bar a little, but you still wouldn't have been able to limbo under it. Her delivery was good (an Irish accent always helps) but her material weak and predictable at best. I saw her best gag coming several minutes before she finally got to the punchline.
After all that we had great expectations of the "headline act," but he proved to be almost a rerun of the first guy only with more charisma. The compère was funny though. Or at least it seemed funny at the time. Thinking back over what he said (wondering whether to repeat the intercourse here and deciding against it) it wasn't especially funny, but at the time I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I've read that most comedy arises when one group of people is made to feel superior to another, and that was certainly true of this situation, as Jamie had the piss ripped mercilessly from him. Maybe the fact that each of us in Jamie's vicinity knew at some gut level we were only a glance away from being subjected to some of the same, which could have given it more of an edge. All in all, it epitomised the phrase: "you had to be there."
Sometime between the first and second act, the Stag Night Organiser came around with a tray of shots. Now I'm not the biggest fan of shots at the best of times, but the truth is, I've been feeling like shit for the last three days and have been off work with it. Sore throat, congestion, cough, splitting headache, fever and a general lack of energy. It was an act of monumental selflessness to attend the stag do in the first place (*cough*) and I certainly didn't intend to make things worse by getting off my face.
So I selected the smallest shot available, and when the toast was made I touched the glass to my lips and set it down on the table, out of sight among the menus. After the second act one of my table-mates (names omitted to protect self-esteem) noticed the unconsumed shot.
TM: Hey! You didn't drink your shot!
Me: I know. I didn't want it in the first place.
TM: Well I didn't want mine, but I drank it.
I looked pityingly at him as he bemoaned his lack of... whatever it was that allowed me to ignore the shot and the herd behaviour that surrounded it.
Sometime later I heard the Organiser ask the bloke next to him to go around and collect fivers from everyone for another round of shots. TM reached into his wallet immediately and produced a crisp fiver.
Bloke: John?
Me: No thanks.
Bloke: (with theatrical inflection) I don't think it's optional!
Me: Isn't it?
I locked eyes with the bloke until he moved away to the next Stagger.
TM: You've done it again! How do you do that? I didn't want another shot...
What made it worse for the guy was the shot, when it arrived, was a double scotch. Only from the smell of it, it had been distilled from kerosene rather than the more usual substrate. But I'm not smug. Well, not very.
We were due to meet at the Dry Bar at 7pm, where Jamie would arrive on the pretext of having a quick drink before catching a train for a quiet night watching DVDs at a mate's house, to find around 20 of his friends waiting to drag him off for a completely different sort of night. I'd never been to the Dry Bar so I hopped a taxi. The driver, who gave every appearance of never having heard of the Dry Bar, dropped me off on Oldham Street outside an anonymous building. Armed with the knowledge that said bar was #28 on the street, and noticing the shop opposite was #51, I headed off confidently in the direction of Piccadilly, looking for an even numbered door on my side to give me some new bearings. When I reached #14 I backtracked, counting doorways, and found myself back where I started. Maybe the cabbie was more clued up than I'd imagined.
One friendly face was visible behind the double doors (Hi Bon!) so I grabbed a pint and settled in to await further arrivals. Those of the male members of the Players who could make it drifted in by ones and twos until we received a text message that Jamie was on his way. The ruse worked perfectly, his normally bemused look giving way to total surprise as he rounded to corner to cheers and applause. After another quick lemonade we set off for the Frog and Bucket.
I'm not normally one to criticise (*cough*) so I should probably just say the comedy was appalling. Luckily that's not why we went - at least not for the sort on stage. The craic among the group was way funnier. The first of three acts seemed to think all he had to do was say "nobhead" a few times, interspersed with other colourful language, and we'd all fall about laughing. Halfway through his act I glanced around our group. Almost to a man we were all sat there with our arms folded, staring him down and daring him to make us laugh. I was glad it wasn't just me. He didn't raise a single chuckle during his entire act, even though a group of young ladies on a hen night, or birthday party, seemed to think it all pant-wettingly funny, and literally fell about in their seats screaming and giggling fit to bust. Maybe it was all much funnier if you were pissed. Or an airhead.
The woman who was on second raised the bar a little, but you still wouldn't have been able to limbo under it. Her delivery was good (an Irish accent always helps) but her material weak and predictable at best. I saw her best gag coming several minutes before she finally got to the punchline.
After all that we had great expectations of the "headline act," but he proved to be almost a rerun of the first guy only with more charisma. The compère was funny though. Or at least it seemed funny at the time. Thinking back over what he said (wondering whether to repeat the intercourse here and deciding against it) it wasn't especially funny, but at the time I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I've read that most comedy arises when one group of people is made to feel superior to another, and that was certainly true of this situation, as Jamie had the piss ripped mercilessly from him. Maybe the fact that each of us in Jamie's vicinity knew at some gut level we were only a glance away from being subjected to some of the same, which could have given it more of an edge. All in all, it epitomised the phrase: "you had to be there."
Sometime between the first and second act, the Stag Night Organiser came around with a tray of shots. Now I'm not the biggest fan of shots at the best of times, but the truth is, I've been feeling like shit for the last three days and have been off work with it. Sore throat, congestion, cough, splitting headache, fever and a general lack of energy. It was an act of monumental selflessness to attend the stag do in the first place (*cough*) and I certainly didn't intend to make things worse by getting off my face.
So I selected the smallest shot available, and when the toast was made I touched the glass to my lips and set it down on the table, out of sight among the menus. After the second act one of my table-mates (names omitted to protect self-esteem) noticed the unconsumed shot.
TM: Hey! You didn't drink your shot!
Me: I know. I didn't want it in the first place.
TM: Well I didn't want mine, but I drank it.
I looked pityingly at him as he bemoaned his lack of... whatever it was that allowed me to ignore the shot and the herd behaviour that surrounded it.
Sometime later I heard the Organiser ask the bloke next to him to go around and collect fivers from everyone for another round of shots. TM reached into his wallet immediately and produced a crisp fiver.
Bloke: John?
Me: No thanks.
Bloke: (with theatrical inflection) I don't think it's optional!
Me: Isn't it?
I locked eyes with the bloke until he moved away to the next Stagger.
TM: You've done it again! How do you do that? I didn't want another shot...
What made it worse for the guy was the shot, when it arrived, was a double scotch. Only from the smell of it, it had been distilled from kerosene rather than the more usual substrate. But I'm not smug. Well, not very.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I can't really get the hang of this blogging lark
I always seem to be two weeks behind with this. I watched Steve Davis finish his first round match against Mark King in the 2010 World Snooker championships last week and wanted to put something in writing about how impressed I'd been, not just with his performance - still managing to win matches at this level at the age of 52 and on his 30th appearance at the Crucible; still committed enough to put in the hours of practice he must need to counteract the loss of visual acuity and muscle tone that the ticking clock must bring - but with the reaction of the crowd. The standing ovations as he entered the arena were really very moving. The entire audience recognising his achievements not only on the table but as an ambassador for snooker in particular and sportsmanship in general, in a way I can't imagine them doing for any other player.
But despite starting that post last week, I never got around to finishing it. A few days passed, Steve won his second round match and made it to the quarters. A fantastic achievement that energised the whole competition. There were reports of people stopping him in the street to congratulate him, and somehow the lights over the baize seemed to shine brighter and the balls on the table were more colourful in the reflected glory of his success.
The dream stopped at the quarter finals, where he was beaten by the guy who would eventually go on to win - Australian Neil Robertson. Throughout all that drama I either couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to put finger to keyboard, or I was in the Lakes, away from the computer.
You may have spotted that I couldn't possibly have known that Neil Robertson won on the date this post was made. It didn't happen until the Bank Holiday Monday after we returned from the Lakes. I'm writing this up on the 7th of May, and that's what I mean by being two weeks behind. This has turned (or has always been) more of a retrospective record of events than a blog, and it's beginning to do my head in.
Trouble is, whenever I enjoy a spurt (of writing activity I mean) and catch up, this will inevitably be followed by a period where there's nothing to write about, or a total dearth of enthusiasm. Back the pendulum swings and I'm two weeks behind again. >sigh< I guess there are more important things to worry about :-\
But despite starting that post last week, I never got around to finishing it. A few days passed, Steve won his second round match and made it to the quarters. A fantastic achievement that energised the whole competition. There were reports of people stopping him in the street to congratulate him, and somehow the lights over the baize seemed to shine brighter and the balls on the table were more colourful in the reflected glory of his success.
The dream stopped at the quarter finals, where he was beaten by the guy who would eventually go on to win - Australian Neil Robertson. Throughout all that drama I either couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to put finger to keyboard, or I was in the Lakes, away from the computer.
You may have spotted that I couldn't possibly have known that Neil Robertson won on the date this post was made. It didn't happen until the Bank Holiday Monday after we returned from the Lakes. I'm writing this up on the 7th of May, and that's what I mean by being two weeks behind. This has turned (or has always been) more of a retrospective record of events than a blog, and it's beginning to do my head in.
Trouble is, whenever I enjoy a spurt (of writing activity I mean) and catch up, this will inevitably be followed by a period where there's nothing to write about, or a total dearth of enthusiasm. Back the pendulum swings and I'm two weeks behind again. >sigh< I guess there are more important things to worry about :-\
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I think I may have left it too late...
...to do the last lawn cut of the year.
It's been snowing pretty much all day here. Last night's temperature fell to -7°C so this lot settled on top of the previous lot, which itself was atop another load. All that makes it the longest and coldest cold snap I can think of since the last time I lived on this road - way back in the winter of 1980/1.
I love it, but only because I'm off this week and - apart from ferrying Nikki to and from work - I don't have to go out in it. These days, snow is best appreciated from behind glass, with the heating turned up.
It's been snowing pretty much all day here. Last night's temperature fell to -7°C so this lot settled on top of the previous lot, which itself was atop another load. All that makes it the longest and coldest cold snap I can think of since the last time I lived on this road - way back in the winter of 1980/1.I love it, but only because I'm off this week and - apart from ferrying Nikki to and from work - I don't have to go out in it. These days, snow is best appreciated from behind glass, with the heating turned up.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Shifters, shifters, there were never such devoted shifters
It was all hands to the pumps today to help the shifters... shift. The idea being that if each person took responsibility for their own stuff the job would go a lot smoother. Many hands and all that. 'Course the theory falls down when some of them can't make it owing to prior engagements, so we ended up wedging two lots of desktop kit and three people's boxes into the back of the car for the short journey to Cheadle.
Ironically, this was my first sight of Nikki's old offices. Having parked outside them virtually every working day for almost three years when picking her up, I'd never ventured inside. As you might expect from a small office in an old building, they looked very tired. The general demeanour was not helped by the empty desks, piles of boxes, and small heaps of detritus left behind when desks had been moved from positions they'd occupied for 30 years. But even looking beyond that it was clear that the offices would have been quite poky and dark to work in. Narrow corridors, old furniture, and very reminiscent of the kind of working environment I "enjoyed" for at least the first ten years of my career.
We dodged around the professional removals men who were taking the old desks away to a charity auction, and soon had the car loaded up and ready to roll.
The new place is a complete contrast. In fact I get the impression the amount of space has taken everyone by surprise. The phrase I heard most often after arriving there was "it didn't look this big on the plans." Which, you know, is nice for them all. Plenty of light, airy space. Brand new furniture. A newly-fitted kitchen (not yet complete when we were there, but with fitter beavering away), new phones, new network and, for those who had not had flat panel monitors before, all new monitors.
All this newness inspired Nikki to want some new desk accoutrements, so we headed off round the ring road to IKEA and wandered through the store enjoying the fact that we didn't have to rush for once. She found exactly what she was looking for: a set of two stand-up magazine holders and an in-tray (both called, confusingly, DOKUMENT), and we picked up a few things for our place too, including a pair of KASSETT boxes for the study. No amusing ikease names jumped out at us today, sadly.
A quick hop back to the business park, narrowly avoiding the Canada geese that have settled in by the lake, and an even more rapid assembly of Nikki's new in-tray and we were ready to come home and enjoy a midday cuppa. Our leaving was delayed slightly by the arrival of her new IP phone. We had a play with it before we left but disappointingly I was unable to find a CTU ring tone. An admittedly small drawback in the face of all the smart newness.
Ironically, this was my first sight of Nikki's old offices. Having parked outside them virtually every working day for almost three years when picking her up, I'd never ventured inside. As you might expect from a small office in an old building, they looked very tired. The general demeanour was not helped by the empty desks, piles of boxes, and small heaps of detritus left behind when desks had been moved from positions they'd occupied for 30 years. But even looking beyond that it was clear that the offices would have been quite poky and dark to work in. Narrow corridors, old furniture, and very reminiscent of the kind of working environment I "enjoyed" for at least the first ten years of my career.
We dodged around the professional removals men who were taking the old desks away to a charity auction, and soon had the car loaded up and ready to roll.
The new place is a complete contrast. In fact I get the impression the amount of space has taken everyone by surprise. The phrase I heard most often after arriving there was "it didn't look this big on the plans." Which, you know, is nice for them all. Plenty of light, airy space. Brand new furniture. A newly-fitted kitchen (not yet complete when we were there, but with fitter beavering away), new phones, new network and, for those who had not had flat panel monitors before, all new monitors.
All this newness inspired Nikki to want some new desk accoutrements, so we headed off round the ring road to IKEA and wandered through the store enjoying the fact that we didn't have to rush for once. She found exactly what she was looking for: a set of two stand-up magazine holders and an in-tray (both called, confusingly, DOKUMENT), and we picked up a few things for our place too, including a pair of KASSETT boxes for the study. No amusing ikease names jumped out at us today, sadly.
A quick hop back to the business park, narrowly avoiding the Canada geese that have settled in by the lake, and an even more rapid assembly of Nikki's new in-tray and we were ready to come home and enjoy a midday cuppa. Our leaving was delayed slightly by the arrival of her new IP phone. We had a play with it before we left but disappointingly I was unable to find a CTU ring tone. An admittedly small drawback in the face of all the smart newness.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Book Review: Stranger in a Strange Land
For only the second time in three years, I chose the book club book for this month. I offered a choice of (what I thought were) three outstanding SF novels from different times, and this - Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land - won the vote.Billed as "the most famous science fantasy novel of all time" (Heinlein was never known for his reticence) I've been trying to remember when I last read this. The obvious answer is "thirty years ago" but I don't think it's quite as long as that. What I *do* remember is a lasting impression of a book I enjoyed immensely, back then.
So... what book was that then? Because when I started rereading this, I thought it was the most pompous, inflated, self-important drivel I'd ever read, with stilted dialogue and unbelievable leaps of plot. The idea is great, the execution? Not so good.
Clearly, the book hasn't changed. But somewhere in the intervening 25-30 years, I have. And so have social mores. And on top of that, the landscape of acceptability, equality and political correctness has shifted radically, as if borne on sociopsychological tectonic plates. The end result is that Stranger has been left behind in the very early 60s and now reads like an anachronistic diatribe rather than a piece of cutting-edge science fiction.
There's a famous quote from the book (which I won't bother repeating here) on the subject of rape and my God! It leaps out at you as (now) totally incongruous and... well... just plain wrong-headed. Much of this conspired to dull the enjoyment of what I had expected to be a pleasant experience, refreshing my youthful memories of a damned good read. Instead I found whole swathes of text tedious in the extreme. Even the better parts were less than good. My self-created illusions about this author were severely dented and I regretfully concluded that I won't be able to bring myself to reread any of my (reasonably extensive) collection of Heinlein for fear of repeating this unhappy few weeks. Honestly, I couldn't wait for it to be over. What a disappointment.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Theatre night
We had another book club outing last night. Dinner at Chaophraya followed by theatre: Everyone's A Winner at the Royal Exchange.
It's so rare for us to spend any time in town - at all, let alone in the evening - that virtually every eatery or pubbery is a new experience. We'd certainly never visited Chaophraya before. The first to arrive, we busied ourselves drooling over their extensive menu and sipping on a couple of pints from the bar.
Imagine my disappointment then to learn, once everyone had arrived and we'd taken our seats upstairs (11 of us were dining) that the restaurant has a policy for "large parties" of not taking orders from the menu. Diners are expected to select from one of the five set menus, although these can be mixed. So it would be possible, for instance, for a party of ten to order every one of the set menus and then be faced with the near impossible task for each pair to chomp their way through a plate of starters and FOUR main courses.
Not to mention the fact that the cheapest set menu is twenty quid per person, whereas our preferred selections from the menu would have set us back only a little over half that amount.
Sadly, on that basis alone, it's clear where their "policy" is coming from, but it wasn't really the money that pissed me off so much. Part of it was the extreme waste of food, but most of it was my lifelong hatred of being arbitrarily told what to do. Ordering from the set menus was not going to make their life appreciably easier, was a needless imposition, prevented us from eating what we had already decided upon (*none* of the set menus included our preferred dishes), and on top of all that cost us more than we would otherwise have paid. I ended up having to bite down really hard to stop their attitude spoiling the whole evening.
The food, when it eventually arrived, was OK. I've had better. But frankly even if it had been the best Thai food the world has ever seen I would never go back, and I wouldn't recommend going there if there's more than four of you.
In contrast, the theatre was a delight. I won't spoil it for you - I realise it's unlikely any of you will get to see the show, but even so - except to say that the whole thing revolves around an urban bingo hall, the audience get to participate in the bingo, and in the second half someone really did win £200. Two hundred real pounds. How cool is that? It could have been me. Next time. Etc.
We don't go to the theatre half enough. In all the years (thirty, naturally) I've been going to the Royal Exchange I can count the bad shows I've seen on the fingers of one finger. Great entertainment, even if the second half did somewhat abandon the comedy in favour of some half-baked social commentary.
It's so rare for us to spend any time in town - at all, let alone in the evening - that virtually every eatery or pubbery is a new experience. We'd certainly never visited Chaophraya before. The first to arrive, we busied ourselves drooling over their extensive menu and sipping on a couple of pints from the bar.Imagine my disappointment then to learn, once everyone had arrived and we'd taken our seats upstairs (11 of us were dining) that the restaurant has a policy for "large parties" of not taking orders from the menu. Diners are expected to select from one of the five set menus, although these can be mixed. So it would be possible, for instance, for a party of ten to order every one of the set menus and then be faced with the near impossible task for each pair to chomp their way through a plate of starters and FOUR main courses.
Not to mention the fact that the cheapest set menu is twenty quid per person, whereas our preferred selections from the menu would have set us back only a little over half that amount.
Sadly, on that basis alone, it's clear where their "policy" is coming from, but it wasn't really the money that pissed me off so much. Part of it was the extreme waste of food, but most of it was my lifelong hatred of being arbitrarily told what to do. Ordering from the set menus was not going to make their life appreciably easier, was a needless imposition, prevented us from eating what we had already decided upon (*none* of the set menus included our preferred dishes), and on top of all that cost us more than we would otherwise have paid. I ended up having to bite down really hard to stop their attitude spoiling the whole evening.
The food, when it eventually arrived, was OK. I've had better. But frankly even if it had been the best Thai food the world has ever seen I would never go back, and I wouldn't recommend going there if there's more than four of you.
In contrast, the theatre was a delight. I won't spoil it for you - I realise it's unlikely any of you will get to see the show, but even so - except to say that the whole thing revolves around an urban bingo hall, the audience get to participate in the bingo, and in the second half someone really did win £200. Two hundred real pounds. How cool is that? It could have been me. Next time. Etc.
We don't go to the theatre half enough. In all the years (thirty, naturally) I've been going to the Royal Exchange I can count the bad shows I've seen on the fingers of one finger. Great entertainment, even if the second half did somewhat abandon the comedy in favour of some half-baked social commentary.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Where the old rub shoulders with the young
One of the side-effects of growing older having spent your entire working life with the same company, is that you're invited to a rapidly increasing series of retirement parties for friends.
Tonight saw one such event, for a guy I've known on-and-off for 30+ years, and actively worked with for about a year of that. For some unknown reason he chose what must be one of the trendiest bars in Manchester to hold it in: Dukes.
"Do you hang out here often, Iain?" I asked him, astonished.
"No, I didn't even know it existed."
Turns out he picked it on recommendation from a (much younger) colleague.
The terrace was packed when I arrived, with easily two hundred bright young things occupying every chrome table and chair, lapping up the evening sunshine along with their vodka shots, Archers, or whatever it is twenty-somethings drink these days. I found Iain inside, sat at a tall table with three others, already half-way through their first drink of the evening. I ordered a drink for myself and joined the lively conversation.
Occasionally a full-breasted, short-skirted, tanned and lovely young lady would stroll past, dressed for the catwalk and, as if all the oxygen had temporarily been sucked from the room, conversation at the table would die. Apart from the occasional sotto voce delivery of an appreciative "fucking hell" or "Jesus" from one of the others, obviously. It must be very disconcerting - not to say irritating - when you're a full-breasted, short-skirted, tanned and lovely young lady, to be stared at by a small group of grey-haired, saggy-bellied, wrinkled old men dressed in something from south Manchester's finest charity shops. High fashion we ain't.
Evidence of the credit crunch would have been hard for even Sherlock Holmes to find. As I was driving I stayed on pints of cranberry and soda (£3 a pop) and the bar remained three deep from when I arrived shortly after 6 to when we sat down for a meal around 7.30.
For yes, much to my surprise, Iain had booked a table. In the end a dozen of us stayed for dinner. Dukes isn't exactly haute cuisine, but that's not what it's about, nor is it what we were after. Just a plate of pleasant chow, a few drinks, and an evening reminiscing. Retelling the war stories of a working life in the computer industry. Remembering those ridiculously huge 8 megabyte exchangeable disks, PIDs, green screens and early mobile solutions. And of course the inevitable polite inquiries about his plans for the future. Gardening and converting all the home PCs to Linux, apparently. Mad fool. Absolutely and emphatically no intention to come back next Monday as a consultant. Which is, as it happens, quite rare. There's something about the computer industry that makes it hard for some people to let go.
Not me. When my time comes, you won't see me for dust.
Tonight saw one such event, for a guy I've known on-and-off for 30+ years, and actively worked with for about a year of that. For some unknown reason he chose what must be one of the trendiest bars in Manchester to hold it in: Dukes.
"Do you hang out here often, Iain?" I asked him, astonished."No, I didn't even know it existed."
Turns out he picked it on recommendation from a (much younger) colleague.
The terrace was packed when I arrived, with easily two hundred bright young things occupying every chrome table and chair, lapping up the evening sunshine along with their vodka shots, Archers, or whatever it is twenty-somethings drink these days. I found Iain inside, sat at a tall table with three others, already half-way through their first drink of the evening. I ordered a drink for myself and joined the lively conversation.
Occasionally a full-breasted, short-skirted, tanned and lovely young lady would stroll past, dressed for the catwalk and, as if all the oxygen had temporarily been sucked from the room, conversation at the table would die. Apart from the occasional sotto voce delivery of an appreciative "fucking hell" or "Jesus" from one of the others, obviously. It must be very disconcerting - not to say irritating - when you're a full-breasted, short-skirted, tanned and lovely young lady, to be stared at by a small group of grey-haired, saggy-bellied, wrinkled old men dressed in something from south Manchester's finest charity shops. High fashion we ain't.
Evidence of the credit crunch would have been hard for even Sherlock Holmes to find. As I was driving I stayed on pints of cranberry and soda (£3 a pop) and the bar remained three deep from when I arrived shortly after 6 to when we sat down for a meal around 7.30.
For yes, much to my surprise, Iain had booked a table. In the end a dozen of us stayed for dinner. Dukes isn't exactly haute cuisine, but that's not what it's about, nor is it what we were after. Just a plate of pleasant chow, a few drinks, and an evening reminiscing. Retelling the war stories of a working life in the computer industry. Remembering those ridiculously huge 8 megabyte exchangeable disks, PIDs, green screens and early mobile solutions. And of course the inevitable polite inquiries about his plans for the future. Gardening and converting all the home PCs to Linux, apparently. Mad fool. Absolutely and emphatically no intention to come back next Monday as a consultant. Which is, as it happens, quite rare. There's something about the computer industry that makes it hard for some people to let go.
Not me. When my time comes, you won't see me for dust.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Emeralds are a boy's best friend
I gave blood yesterday. I was hoping to pick up one of those natty slate coasters that (as I found out after my last donation) they've started handing out to anyone who gives three times in one year. Sadly, they'd run out. They said they'd arrange to have one posted to me.
But in discussions over the obligatory post-bloodletting tea and biscuits I discovered the NHSBT have introduced a higher award. Still some years away for me - I'm still aiming for my gold pin for 50 donations - but until today I'd thought that would be it. The final goal. 50 and you're out (although I would have carried on giving until I couldn't climb up onto the table any longer).
No. They have a new award. Well... I'm not sure how new it is, but I didn't know about it. The Emerald Award. For 75 donations. An engraved glass plate - apparently - and an invitation to a gala dinner with other 75-pinters.
Part of me thinks that would be very nice, thank you. Recognition for a lifetime's support of the Blood Transfusion Service (as it used to be known). Another part of me thinks, hang on. To have given 75 times you're gonna have to be quite old. Why would I want to have dinner with a load of old people with whom the only thing I have in common is that we're blood donors? What are we going to talk about? Our best bruise? Our fastest donation? How the choice of biscuits is much better now than it was in 1977? And they'd be bound to serve black pudding.
It's at least nine years away for me, but already I'm thinking I'll probably give it a miss.
But in discussions over the obligatory post-bloodletting tea and biscuits I discovered the NHSBT have introduced a higher award. Still some years away for me - I'm still aiming for my gold pin for 50 donations - but until today I'd thought that would be it. The final goal. 50 and you're out (although I would have carried on giving until I couldn't climb up onto the table any longer).
No. They have a new award. Well... I'm not sure how new it is, but I didn't know about it. The Emerald Award. For 75 donations. An engraved glass plate - apparently - and an invitation to a gala dinner with other 75-pinters.
Part of me thinks that would be very nice, thank you. Recognition for a lifetime's support of the Blood Transfusion Service (as it used to be known). Another part of me thinks, hang on. To have given 75 times you're gonna have to be quite old. Why would I want to have dinner with a load of old people with whom the only thing I have in common is that we're blood donors? What are we going to talk about? Our best bruise? Our fastest donation? How the choice of biscuits is much better now than it was in 1977? And they'd be bound to serve black pudding.
It's at least nine years away for me, but already I'm thinking I'll probably give it a miss.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Found Things
Next month we'll have been here two years. Where has the time gone? Anyhoo, for one reason or another, today was a sorting out day.
Ever noticed how, after moving house, things in boxes tend to stay in boxes? Especially things you rarely use. Or even never use. And if you never use them, why do you have them? The answer, as every hoarder knows, is "because you might need them."
So the space in the kitchen where the old boiler used to sit has been occupied, since the old boiler moved out in December 2006, by six plastic tubs; their contents largely indeterminate, except that I was vaguely aware one contained power tools and another heavy tools (chisels, lump hammers and the like). The others had "stuff" in them.
Having completed the lounge (the last job - putting the door back on - was accomplished this morning before I moved on to "sorting out") I needed somewhere to store all the decorating tools. Previously they'd lived under a sheet in one corner of the dining room, but the "new" dining room is destined to be a bit posher than the old, so that is no longer an option. They needed to share space in the kitchen and this was the driver for the sort out.
Well. How many times have I needed a 7mm drill bit since we moved in? And how many times have I shrugged, made do with the next closest in my toolbag (6.5mm) and gingerly hammered the wall plugs into the too-small hole? I lost count. Guess what I found at the bottom of one of the tubs? Correct. Doesn't look like it's even been used, but I suppose I must have used it once, at least. It's in my drill box now. Probably won't need it again :-\
Found a load of other junk too. My Sennheiser headphones - the ones I bought when I was 17 for use with my original portable stereo. I've dragged these from house to house for 35 years, my emotional connection to the memories of their use too strong to allow me to let them go. When did I last use them? I have no idea, but I certainly haven't plugged them into anything since I left the Village, and I don't remember using them even there, so my best guess is they haven't transmitted music since before 1988. About a hundred and fifty times heavier than anything on the market today, and a hundred and fifty times worse sound quality too, I shouldn't wonder. Not to mention I could probably pick up a replacement set of cans on eBay for not much more than a tenner. All of this logic still conflicted with my emotional attachment to these sad, dusty relics of my youth. But I couldn't deny that their time had come. I put them in the pile to go to the tip.
Wasn't easy though.
Amazingly the sort-out left us with three empty plastic tubs, two full of stuff for the loft and one containing current, usable tools that will remain in the kitchen until I build a tool cupboard, alongside the decorating box. End result: seven boxes (including the decorating one) condensed to two. Job done.
Ever noticed how, after moving house, things in boxes tend to stay in boxes? Especially things you rarely use. Or even never use. And if you never use them, why do you have them? The answer, as every hoarder knows, is "because you might need them."
So the space in the kitchen where the old boiler used to sit has been occupied, since the old boiler moved out in December 2006, by six plastic tubs; their contents largely indeterminate, except that I was vaguely aware one contained power tools and another heavy tools (chisels, lump hammers and the like). The others had "stuff" in them.
Having completed the lounge (the last job - putting the door back on - was accomplished this morning before I moved on to "sorting out") I needed somewhere to store all the decorating tools. Previously they'd lived under a sheet in one corner of the dining room, but the "new" dining room is destined to be a bit posher than the old, so that is no longer an option. They needed to share space in the kitchen and this was the driver for the sort out.
Well. How many times have I needed a 7mm drill bit since we moved in? And how many times have I shrugged, made do with the next closest in my toolbag (6.5mm) and gingerly hammered the wall plugs into the too-small hole? I lost count. Guess what I found at the bottom of one of the tubs? Correct. Doesn't look like it's even been used, but I suppose I must have used it once, at least. It's in my drill box now. Probably won't need it again :-\
Found a load of other junk too. My Sennheiser headphones - the ones I bought when I was 17 for use with my original portable stereo. I've dragged these from house to house for 35 years, my emotional connection to the memories of their use too strong to allow me to let them go. When did I last use them? I have no idea, but I certainly haven't plugged them into anything since I left the Village, and I don't remember using them even there, so my best guess is they haven't transmitted music since before 1988. About a hundred and fifty times heavier than anything on the market today, and a hundred and fifty times worse sound quality too, I shouldn't wonder. Not to mention I could probably pick up a replacement set of cans on eBay for not much more than a tenner. All of this logic still conflicted with my emotional attachment to these sad, dusty relics of my youth. But I couldn't deny that their time had come. I put them in the pile to go to the tip.
Wasn't easy though.
Amazingly the sort-out left us with three empty plastic tubs, two full of stuff for the loft and one containing current, usable tools that will remain in the kitchen until I build a tool cupboard, alongside the decorating box. End result: seven boxes (including the decorating one) condensed to two. Job done.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
My chav side
Here's a bit of fun, coming via Diane and Nikki. Meez.com allows you to create animated avatars like this one with a host of different shapes, sizes, hairstyles and so on. When I found the mic and the karaoke bar I couldn't resist letting my dark side out. Yes, it's true, I'll take the chance to sing whenever it's offered.There are some restrictions with these things. That, for instance, is their fattest body size. Doesn't really do my pork justice. You can't colour the beards either, so that's more like mine 30 years ago than it is today. Etc.
But what the heck. I had a laugh doing it, and if you click on the pic, you can too!
Sunday, August 03, 2008
You are being very expensive, Mem-Saab
A constant stream of weekends stretches behind me during which decorating looms large as the primary activity. So it was with great joy that we kicked the lounge project into the long grass this weekend and headed off to Nottingham for a night out with friends.
The festivities started early, with champagne and strawberries on the terrace at Ian & Gill's. My, aren't we posh? Yes, we are. Well, when you've got married after being together for 25 years (or thereabouts) and you've just returned from your honeymoon, you can be forgiven for pushing the boat out a bit. And they did. Top stuff. Champagne supplies appeared to be virtually limitless, so we sat and quaffed from around 5pm to when the taxis arrived shortly after 7. And quaffed, and quaffed, qand offed, nand squiffed, ajklfc,...
Not feeling (much) the worse for wear, we poured ourselves into two taxis and headed into town, to the Mem-Saab. Situated on Maid Marian Way, not far from the pub where we spent almost every summer evening 30 years ago (the Trip to Jerusalem), this oasis of fine Indian cuisine presents an impressive appearance both from the outside, and on first entering. A cool, dimly-lit interior with lots of marble, linen, and polished wood, we were shown expertly to our table and ordered drinks and poppadums in the traditional manner.
From then on, the evening comes back to me as a series of significant events. The arrival of the food courses, the bill, the walk to the canalside bar, me adopting a rather brash American accent whenever I spoke to any of the wait staff or bar people (don't ask me why - although I heard recently of something called Foreign Accent Syndrome and started to wonder if I am a closet sufferer), the sudden decision to leave, catching a taxi. I can't remember much about what we discussed over dinner, although I know there was a lot of laughing and joking (as always).
I remember the meal being good, but not spectacular. The menu was quite disappointingly sparse, with a lot of lamb and fish dishes (not keen on either), but I did manage to find something I liked. The reshmi kebabs were excellent - very spicy and nicely textured - but the chicken jalfrezi main course was fairly mediocre. Luckily it was tempered with a very nice peshwari nan, and of course the highpoint of the night and an unexpected bonus was the excellent rasmalai we enjoyed for dessert. Probably the nicest example of this traditional dish I've had, and I've been eating it for - guess what? - about 30 years.
Not a place I could eat at frequently - there's not enough variety on the menu - but thankfully that won't be a problem as this was probably a one-off visit. Nevertheless it was definitely worth going for the experience. My initial reaction to the bill was that it was very expensive, although afterwards when I remembered we'd polished off 6 bottles of wine between the 8 of us, I revised my opinion slightly.
All that aside the highlight of the whole day, as usual, was the company. No matter how frequently or infrequently we spend time with friends, it's always a joy. We're already planning our next get-together, sometime in October. Well, you need something to look forward to, eh? And maybe the decorating will be finished by then.
The festivities started early, with champagne and strawberries on the terrace at Ian & Gill's. My, aren't we posh? Yes, we are. Well, when you've got married after being together for 25 years (or thereabouts) and you've just returned from your honeymoon, you can be forgiven for pushing the boat out a bit. And they did. Top stuff. Champagne supplies appeared to be virtually limitless, so we sat and quaffed from around 5pm to when the taxis arrived shortly after 7. And quaffed, and quaffed, qand offed, nand squiffed, ajklfc,...
Not feeling (much) the worse for wear, we poured ourselves into two taxis and headed into town, to the Mem-Saab. Situated on Maid Marian Way, not far from the pub where we spent almost every summer evening 30 years ago (the Trip to Jerusalem), this oasis of fine Indian cuisine presents an impressive appearance both from the outside, and on first entering. A cool, dimly-lit interior with lots of marble, linen, and polished wood, we were shown expertly to our table and ordered drinks and poppadums in the traditional manner.
From then on, the evening comes back to me as a series of significant events. The arrival of the food courses, the bill, the walk to the canalside bar, me adopting a rather brash American accent whenever I spoke to any of the wait staff or bar people (don't ask me why - although I heard recently of something called Foreign Accent Syndrome and started to wonder if I am a closet sufferer), the sudden decision to leave, catching a taxi. I can't remember much about what we discussed over dinner, although I know there was a lot of laughing and joking (as always).
I remember the meal being good, but not spectacular. The menu was quite disappointingly sparse, with a lot of lamb and fish dishes (not keen on either), but I did manage to find something I liked. The reshmi kebabs were excellent - very spicy and nicely textured - but the chicken jalfrezi main course was fairly mediocre. Luckily it was tempered with a very nice peshwari nan, and of course the highpoint of the night and an unexpected bonus was the excellent rasmalai we enjoyed for dessert. Probably the nicest example of this traditional dish I've had, and I've been eating it for - guess what? - about 30 years.
Not a place I could eat at frequently - there's not enough variety on the menu - but thankfully that won't be a problem as this was probably a one-off visit. Nevertheless it was definitely worth going for the experience. My initial reaction to the bill was that it was very expensive, although afterwards when I remembered we'd polished off 6 bottles of wine between the 8 of us, I revised my opinion slightly.
All that aside the highlight of the whole day, as usual, was the company. No matter how frequently or infrequently we spend time with friends, it's always a joy. We're already planning our next get-together, sometime in October. Well, you need something to look forward to, eh? And maybe the decorating will be finished by then.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Bury Market
Nikki has a project in mind. In anticipation of the new lounge being a colder room than the old, and in an effort to keep the gas bills down in the face of rising fuel prices, she's going to crochet me a blanket to keep my old bones warm when I'm crashed out in front of the telly. The wool is available for an unbelievable price from Bury market, so we all headed off there first thing this morning to see what else is there.
Wow. I've lived in and around Manchester for 30 years and I've never been there, but it's big. A quarter of a million visitors a week and it's easy to see why. An initially confusing array of buildings and assemblies of open-air stalls - Market Hall; Market Place; Market Plaza to name but three - soon takes on a kind of weird logical structure as you wander about familiarising yourself with the place.
We stopped in a café for a breakfast toastie and a coffee (or banana milk shake in the case of the girls) before almost tripping over the right wool stall in our first five minutes. With the business of the day transacted straight away we were free to wander up and down the aisles in search of other bargains. We had an idea we may be able to find something for the new lounge, but in the end nothing was quite right. To be honest, faced with so much choice, I tend to go into a kind of sensory overload, and can't concetrate on any one thing because I'm always distracted by several other things all at once.
I did find a replacement pair of slippers though, which means my old slippers can now take the place of my painting slippers, and my painting slippers can be relegated further down the pecking order of household footwear (which might even mean them fetching up in the bin).
Two hours of dodging the pouring rain (pouring sometimes from the sky, and other times from the edges and corners of various awnings and canopies) was enough for us, and we headed home around 11am. A fascinating place though, which we'll certainly return to when the weather is more conducive to a leisurely amble.
Wow. I've lived in and around Manchester for 30 years and I've never been there, but it's big. A quarter of a million visitors a week and it's easy to see why. An initially confusing array of buildings and assemblies of open-air stalls - Market Hall; Market Place; Market Plaza to name but three - soon takes on a kind of weird logical structure as you wander about familiarising yourself with the place.
We stopped in a café for a breakfast toastie and a coffee (or banana milk shake in the case of the girls) before almost tripping over the right wool stall in our first five minutes. With the business of the day transacted straight away we were free to wander up and down the aisles in search of other bargains. We had an idea we may be able to find something for the new lounge, but in the end nothing was quite right. To be honest, faced with so much choice, I tend to go into a kind of sensory overload, and can't concetrate on any one thing because I'm always distracted by several other things all at once.
I did find a replacement pair of slippers though, which means my old slippers can now take the place of my painting slippers, and my painting slippers can be relegated further down the pecking order of household footwear (which might even mean them fetching up in the bin).
Two hours of dodging the pouring rain (pouring sometimes from the sky, and other times from the edges and corners of various awnings and canopies) was enough for us, and we headed home around 11am. A fascinating place though, which we'll certainly return to when the weather is more conducive to a leisurely amble.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Aspiring writer seeks new tale
I've been searching for a handle on my new novel. Hang on. New novel? No. On the idea I've had for my next novel. The one I'm going to write next. Yes, I've finished one already. All bar the shouting. Where shouting equals dealing with the comments of reviewers, maybe a little bit of rework and a final polish. And then more shouting at all the letters of rejection I'll undoubtedly receive from agents and/or publishers. All part of the game, I'm sure. I take a philosophical view. The writing is not about the publishing. It's about the writing. About having a tale to tell, and telling it. Whether anyone reads it is neither here nor there. That's the tale I tell myself, when I'm not telling myself one of the other tales.
So having finished one tale, I've been on a hunt for more tale. A new tale. And I think this is where writers get their reputation for being hard to live with. Because it's been occupying me. Pre-occupying me, even. When I'm cooking, I'm plotting. When I'm eating, I'm plotting. When I'm watching telly, I'm plotting. What was that you said dear? Sorry, what? Didn't quite catch that. Oh yes, pre-occupied all right. Especially when driving.
I can't quite put my finger on when I first crossed the line between having to think about driving, and arriving home having no conscious memory of the journey. It was probably thirty years ago. At least. Autopilot is one thing I do really well. I think I may also have mentioned my least favourite journey. The one where I come home from returning my daughters to their home(s). Their home that is not with me. The loneliest journey. The one that is the furthest away in time from the next time I see them. And therefore, in many ways, the most perfect journey for plotting a new tale (JB: silver linings a speciality).
I've considered several options for book #2 (as it will certainly be known for a while, before revelling in a working title and then, some way down track, being gifted with a real title. Apparently it is at least possible a publisher (at the point where the shouting ceases) will, even later, require a final change of title, but that's a subject for another day), but none of them really felt right. Yesterday, sometime during The Loneliest Journey, I hit upon something that felt right. Not only right, it gave me chills. Scarily right. Challengingly right. It will be a stretch, but like a cat, I enjoy stretching.
So having finished one tale, I've been on a hunt for more tale. A new tale. And I think this is where writers get their reputation for being hard to live with. Because it's been occupying me. Pre-occupying me, even. When I'm cooking, I'm plotting. When I'm eating, I'm plotting. When I'm watching telly, I'm plotting. What was that you said dear? Sorry, what? Didn't quite catch that. Oh yes, pre-occupied all right. Especially when driving.
I can't quite put my finger on when I first crossed the line between having to think about driving, and arriving home having no conscious memory of the journey. It was probably thirty years ago. At least. Autopilot is one thing I do really well. I think I may also have mentioned my least favourite journey. The one where I come home from returning my daughters to their home(s). Their home that is not with me. The loneliest journey. The one that is the furthest away in time from the next time I see them. And therefore, in many ways, the most perfect journey for plotting a new tale (JB: silver linings a speciality).
I've considered several options for book #2 (as it will certainly be known for a while, before revelling in a working title and then, some way down track, being gifted with a real title. Apparently it is at least possible a publisher (at the point where the shouting ceases) will, even later, require a final change of title, but that's a subject for another day), but none of them really felt right. Yesterday, sometime during The Loneliest Journey, I hit upon something that felt right. Not only right, it gave me chills. Scarily right. Challengingly right. It will be a stretch, but like a cat, I enjoy stretching.
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