A Long Time Gone

Once again, I return to your screens. Yes, it’s been five weeks since I last wrote and five weeks since more of you read & liked what I wrote than ever before. You would think this level of unsolicited testimonial would have dragged me back sooner. Normally, it would, but these past few weeks have been filled with nothing but hell, torment, financial stress, jury service and, after a gap of about 9 years, overtime.

Come with me, if you will, as I share my April 2011 with you.

Let’s get the worst out of the way first.

How Stupid Do You Think We Are?

As I told you all last time, I don’t often resort to anger in my blogs. It doesn’t really make for an entertaining read and I usually walk away from the keyboard angrier than when I sat down. Nonetheless, when you are sitting in front of your TV and see an advert from those nice people at Kelloggs proclaiming that our long wait is over and we can now get our hungry mits on mini Shredded Wheat with jam in the middle, you do wonder where it will all end. Many years ago, I ate a Pop Tart and such was the sugar and chemical rush, I believed myself a member of Kool and the Gang for over an hour. Only the intervention of a close relative stopped me from actually “Getting Down On It” in a place where neighbours could see.

People my age don’t need so much sugar and kids probably don’t either. My dad didn’t even approve of Sugar Puffs. Mini Shredded Wheats with Jam in would probably drive him to complete distraction. He never really got over the fact that you could buy bread sauce in a packet.

Next time I am shovelling  un-sugared Bran Flakes in to my diabetic, overweight body, I will think of those doing the same with jam filled nonsense and thank god that I have an angry fire in my soul that pointlessly rallies against this sort of thing in a blog that about 20 people read. Most of me will  be jealous as hell but just to be on the safe side, I think I’ll stick to my fibre and roughage for now.

Service

Those of you have undertaken Jury Service will appreciate how vague I have to be in describing my three days of civil responsibility. To be honest, it was a bit of a bore and not at all like you see on that universal standard for us all, Television. The first Monday dawned. I rose, completely overdressed and after a bowl of jam filled mini Shredded Wheat, I stuffed almost of all the required paperwork into my coat pocket. There would be more than adequate financial compensation for my trouble, but this would not extend to paying for parking in a busy city all day. A bus it was then. The bus stop is only 5 minutes from my front door, so with about 20 minutes to spare and a growing sense of terror at the unexpected fortnight ahead, I set off.  4 minutes later and I found myself standing at a bus stop with several people who, on a good day, aspire to be the dregs of society. I say “standing with”, but I was actually standing far enough away to give the impression that I might just be looking for my lost pocket watch in the gutter. The game was up of course when the bus arrived, but by then they were trying to shepherd their horrible offspring onto the bus and had no time for the smart bloke who looked shocked at the fact that 20p wouldn’t get you into town these days.

The 48C

Where I got on the bus is fairly near the start of the route, so it was just me and my bus stop companions for a few stops. Gradually, the bus filled with more of them and finally, about half a mile from town, I was forced to share my seat with someone who, until now, I have struggled to share Plymouth with. Their concept of “half the seat” needed some examination, as did their standards of both personal hygiene and inhibition. “Get away from me you greasy-haired witch”, screamed the voice in my head but better sense prevailed and I busied myself with staring out of the window and trying to ignore the toothless hag’s reflection, gormlessly doing the same.

You could say that I am picking on an easy target and falling back on that age-old British habit of pointing fingers at those who are slightly different. You would probably be true but I do wonder why the people I point at seem to be showing off about it. Part of me begs them to stop talking their nonsense or, better still, stop talking completely.  When will they understand that we don’t care about their conversation and actually find it quite annoying to have to listen. Before you all let me know, I do realise that they won’t.

By the time we reached town, the bus was full, loud, hot and stupid. There were 4 O Levels on that bus and they were all mine.

I exited on Royal Parade, far too quickly than politeness would suggest and only slowed down to walking pace about 50 yards down the pavement.

I don’t like buses.

In common with most ex-pupils of my school, I am ridiculously early for everything but,   thanks to non-nonsensical bus timetables, it would be at least 10 minutes before I was ridiculously early. I could actually see the court building, so I had no fear of being late. Only a coffee could fill the void. Now, some of you may work in a big city and will appreciate the temptations that surround you. In addition to refunding my bus fare, I was to be paid £5.71 subsistence allowance per day. It wasn’t even 9am and I had already spent £2.50 on a small latte and a paper. This was going to be an expensive fortnight.

With 10 minutes to spare, I found myself and several others outside the side entrance to the court building. After establishing that we were all there for the same reason, much very British small talk took place and time passed very nicely. 9.20am came and went, but nobody had let us in. With the world-weariness of someone who had done the same thing very other Monday, a young man leaned out of the window and told us in no uncertain terms that we should be at THE OTHER side entrance. Sure enough there was another one and after a thorough security check, we found ourselves in the Jury reception room with about 40 other upstanding members of the community. I had left the most important documents at home but it didn’t seem to matter. What did bother me was how many people had a big pile of books and/or a laptop. It never occurred to me that such things would be allowed. On re-reading the leaflet, the instructions could be so interpreted but not by me unfortunately. After a quick introductory video and a talk by the chief usher, we waited to be called. With only a small pile of old magazines and a muted TV showing Sky News, the time crawled by. Seriously. I had read 3 copies of Private Eye, had a good stare at everyone else, written their life stories in my head, thought of at least 12 things to blog about (soon forgotten) and even had a quiet doze, only to look at the clock and see I had only been in there 35 minutes. If there is one thing sure to make time drag, it’s the idea that someone will need you at any moment. Finally, at about noon, 20 good people were taken away and not long after, all but 12 returned. They were told to come back tomorrow and we were told not to come in tomorrow and just to call in at 6pm to enquire about Wednesday.

At 6pm on Tuesday night, the answer phone message told us to come in on Wednesday. At about 10am on Wednesday, we went down to the court and I was selected to the jury.

Lunchtime

We broke for lunch at about 12.50 and after using almost all of my subsistence allowance on a sandwich and a coffee, I went outside to sit with the good people of Plymouth. Unfortunately, I was to be disappointed as the good people were all somewhere else. The courtyard outside The Civic Centre was bathed in sunlight (unlike in the photo) and full of people. I finished my sandwich and coffee in about 5 minutes and then wondered to myself what I would do for the next hour or so.

Then I smelt a pasty. Then I saw the bakery on Royal Parade. Then I went and bought one. Along with a diet coke and a donut, I had now spent almost £8.00 that I couldn’t claim back. This was going to be an expensive fortnight.

I ate the second course of my lunch on a bench overlooking the pond you can see in the photo. I was on the bench in the bottom right hand corner. For reasons best known to himself, a bloke was playing (I am sure that’s not the right word) with a remote controlled tug boat in the pond and nudging an un-powered model oil tanker around. It was fascinating to watch and very impressive.

42 minutes to go…

I went for a walk up to The Hoe and by the time I got back to the court, I only had to 17 minutes to spare. I think Plymouth city centre is in some sort of time warp.

Court business sped past and we were released at about 5pm.

That was it. The end of my Jury service. Part of me was a bit sad but, financially, I was probably better off getting back to work the next day and returning to the normal swing of things. I could have not been so lucky and ended up with a case that dragged on for weeks, I suppose, but I had seen enough of civil responsibility in 2011.

Kerbing My Enthusiasm

Regular readers will be more than familiar with my Rover 214. Sunday last, things took a turn for the worse. It seemed so simple. Take mum to breakfast at Royal William Yard and then tidy up the garden, do some ironing, tidy out my bedroom cupboards and generally do Sunday things.

An Unrelated Photo

On the way to Royal William Yard, I drove into a traffic island. Over a week later, I have no idea why or how it happened. Perhaps something caught my eye. It doesn’t really matter any more because it happened. The impact wasn’t that terrible – just a hard thud as the driver side wheel hit, followed by another as the back wheel hit in roughly the same place. The car bounced quite high but I wasn’t hurt and neither was mum. We scraped to a halt a bit further up the road. On first inspection, it looked like I had two burst tyres and nothing much more. The RAC arrived and he seemed to agree. He took both wheels off and we drove in his van to Kwikfit, a short distance away. We jumped the queue, as only an RAC man can, and £132 poorer, we drove back to the car. After both wheels were re-attached, it was quite obvious that the bottom of the car was completely f**ked. I could moan at the RAC bloke but the truth is, I should have spotted it too.

To cut an already long story short, on the advice of my local garage, I scrapped the car the next day and got £90 for it. The keen mathematicians amongst you will already be writing in red and you’d be right. To be honest, I have been using that red pen since I bought the car in July 2007. Tax, insurance and petrol aside, I have spent about £2000 repairing it and I would certainly have gone throwing similar amounts at it had this not happened.

After a week of taxis, buses, dodgy car dealers and endless on-line searching, I now have a Vauxhall Vectra. It seems fine but time will tell. The Rover cost me about the same and lasted 4 years. Hopefully, this one will do the same and cost a little less. In the meantime, I have to get used to new controls, a new seat and a car that feels like it weighs twice as much as the last one. Oh yeah, and it’s a 1.6 so the tax is bloody expensive too.

In a fitting, and appropriate smack with the 2011 reality hammer, I was none-too-pleased to be charged £25 by Halifax Car Insurance for changing the car on my insurance policy. This growing trend of charging “admin” fees is getting to be a real pain. It’s not the first time in recent years this has happened. They would no doubt blame the current economic climate but I would suggest that in the current economic climate, they should be grateful for the £330 I chuck their way each year. In amongst that exorbitant fee, I assumed there was already a considerable amount of “admin” fee.

Total, Complete Bastards

Over month ago, I was having a good day. It was a Friday, it was sunny and I was off to spend the morning with a good chum. She was on the way back the doctors when I arrived and I thought it would be a good idea to park outside her house and then walk to meet her just up the road. As it was hot, I threw my coat in the back of the car, tucked my wallet into my left trouser pocket and my phone into the right one. At some point in the next 10 minutes, my phone fell out of the pocket. Whether this was on the pavement or during my quick visit to the corner shop, I don’t know. For all I know, someone could have nicked it from my pocket in the shop.

Over the next hour, I retraced my steps time and time again. I went into the shop and asked and I even took everything out of the car. Nothing. The phone was gone. As it was locked, anyone finding it would have no idea who I was, but part of me hoped they would hand it into the shop or the police.

Work time came and thanks to Google Latitude, I was able to ask one of my four closest colleagues where my phone’s GPS indicated it was. For those of you who don’t know what Google Latitude is, it allows me to let chosen people see where I am on a Google Map. It sounds intrusive and stalkey but actually its just a bit geeky and harmless. In this case, I hoped it to be bloody useful. Curiously, my friend Tiger’s phone showed it to be about 2 miles away and after a quick refresh of the data, it showed up in Victoria Park, about 2 miles further on. After a moments consideration, it was obvious that the bastard who had picked it up had just driven past where I work.

I could have gone to Victoria Park but even if there was only one person there, I am not the sort of person to accuse a stranger.

It was all moot by now as I had informed Vodafone of it’s theft and by the time we went upstairs to being the working day, my HTC Legend was a useless brick and of no use to anyone, bastard or not. Could they have cracked my password in the hour or so I looked for it? I doubt it. The SD Card was encrypted too. At most, I lost a few photos and about a year’s worth of text messages (I hate to delete).

Unfortunately, the month that followed was anything but smooth sailing.

The Police were fine. They freely admitted there was little they could do and that it was unlikely that I would get my phone back. Depressing, but at least they were honest. They supplied me with the required crime reference number and even asked if I had been traumatised by the event. I was a little, but I doubt any offered counselling would have helped much. I suspect I would have had to pay for it anyway.

The phone was insured by those nice people at Barclays. It doesn’t cost me anything as it’s included in my account fee. As the same £16 a month also covers my RAC membership (9 call-outs this year and counting) I have nothing to grumble about. Vodafone sent me a new SIMM immediately and all seemed to be well. Unfortunately, Vodafone haven’t responded to a single one of the many emails I have sent them in the last month. Not one. The call centre is a little better but, as always, the language barrier complicates things terribly. The SIMM card came in an envelope addressed to me but the despatch note mentioned some bloke in Bristol. “Thanks Ok”, said the call centre chappie, “all SIMM cards are blank. We can activate it to your number when you have your new phone.” Naively, I took this at face value. After four requests that Vodafone supply a written proof of purchase on letter-headed paper, nothing was forthcoming. Finally, and in desperation, I convinced Barclays to accept the one and only email Vodafone had sent me as proof. 1 day later, I had a nice new Blackberry Torch 9800.  Once again, in the spirit of the current economic climate, I had to pay an “excess fee” of £25. Excess of what? God knows.

Following another call to Vodafone to activate the SIMM, the phone stopped working. Just after buying the new car, my first trip took me to The Vodafone Shop in town and 3 minutes later, it was all fixed. A new car and a new phone inside an hour. It only took a month.

Being without a phone AND a car at the same time was a bit like I imagine life in 1950′s Cuba. You wander about, completely unable to contact the outside world. Quite why this feeling is so terrible, I still haven’t worked out, but it is. Before the car was

Cuba, 1950

wrecked, I used to drive home terrified – what if I break down? I even had to resort to reading a book at break time in work and walking around as everyone else had either popped out for a fag or was hunched over their little 3″ display checking out Facebook or Twitter. I felt left out and I felt like everyone was talking about cool things behind my back. How the hell did this happen? What turned me into some sort of paranoid nut-job wandering around the earth, fearing everyone and everything around me like a Russian dissident?

Looking for a second hand car is complicated ever-so-slightly too by not having access to the Internet on the move and not being able to ring the number of anything you find on-line. The realisation that you are in the middle of an nondescript housing estate with no way of contacting anyone you know and/or love or need is scary as hell. Also, things are a REALLY long way away. Bus Stops, shops and eateries that you speed by in the motor are REALLY, REALLY far away when you have to walk.

Tech-up luddites. I have seen life in 2011 without a car and a mobile phone. It ain’t pretty. It ain’t even life. Pathetic it might be, but progress doesn’t wait for you and the longer you stay away, the worse it seems. If you haven’t done anything about it by now, it may actually be too late. I have a revolver you can borrow and I know where there are some woods.

So how was your April?

Twitter

Sometimes, the torment in which I writhe in an effort to get round to writing words here would astonish you. I do everything short of losing sleep, I really do. This guilt is very counterproductive and actually makes me feel worse. Then, all of a sudden I find myself sipping a strong, black Americano in the comfort of a Plymouth eatery. Mild boredom has set in between coffee arrival and food arrival, and as is my usual habit, I tap the screen of my awful HTC Legend (more on that later) and see what the world is up to. If you’ve been outside at any moment in the last 3 years, you may have noticed other people doing this. I used a bus recently and whilst my life dribbled away “waiting” for it to arrive, 8 out of the 9 people at the bus stop were tapping away on their phone. It’s not unusual and despite what some would have you believe, it does not represent the end of the world, any more than colour television did when it arrived.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Oh christ, another bloody tweeterer…”

I wasn’t sure I had heard it properly at first, but even before I could look up properly…

“Why don’t they just f**king talk to somebody real?”

In a perfect world, I would let rip with an incisive reposte that would leave the intolerant nutsack quivering in their Reeboks. Alas, a whole day later, I still haven’t thought of anything suitable (although I am starting to think “f**k off nutsack” has a certain ring to it) and in any case, he was a bigger than me and had he given chase, would probably have caught up with me in good time. Even allowing for the fact that his knuckles dragging on the ground would give me a sporting chance of reaching the Rover 214, my key fob is unreliable at best and I think it was Oscar Wilde who said, “it is better to shut the f**k up than to bleed to death on the bonnet of your car with the last syllable of a cutting witticism on your lips.”

So, with my cheeks blushing in self-rightious anger, I ignored him. I wasn’t even on Twitter and was in fact trying to get the generously offered Free Wi-Fi to work. Had I achieved this, I would indeed have gone on Twitter but until Free Wi-Fi becomes even semi-usuable in this great land of ours, I am slightly hesitant to waste too much of my mobile data allowance.

Anyone wondering where I am going with this?

Well…Twitter. I love Twitter. I know loads of people who love Twitter as well. If you don’t like Twitter, shut the hell up and leave us alone. I completely fail to see how someone tapping their phone in virtual silence is any sort of inconvenience, annoyance or threat to you. There is more sense, intelligence, wit, empathy, tolerance and inight expressed online than you will ever know or experience.

Let’s analyse the specific comments of the dribbling, imbecile who had the good fortune to sit near me yesterday morning.”

“Why don’t they just f**king talk to somebody real?”

Twitter, my bird of choice.

This concept has always bothered me a little. If someone is not in the room with you, are they somehow not real? As I have said, the problem they seem to have with you, is that they are not talking to them. Really? Why would I talk to them? They don’t even believe that themselves, so what is the real problem? Is it really just that something is going on they don’t understand? Perhaps. Is it because they consider it impoliite? Hardly. A few minutes later, his companion’s own phone rang and she answered it and spoke at the sort of volume that would suggest she didn’t give a flying hoot about anyone else nearby.

In the end, I gave up. I could say that I wasn’t bothered about what he thought, but the paragraphs above would suggest otherwise. It did bother me but only in the way that most intolerance does. Those who know me will know that I am an not-uncritical evangelist for The Internet and the technology that surrounds it. I have long held that the best way to combat such intolerance is to ignore it and wait for it to disappear. This sometimes takes ages but it does happen. Forty years ago, people complained that colour television was too distracting and heralded the end of civilised society, when it was nothing more than a natural progression. I am not saying that everyone should shape up and start Twittering, Facebooking or Beebooing, just that they should do what every educated person should do about the world around them. Stay informed and decide for yourself, don’t just decide because The Daily Mail says you should.

In a detail that sounds almost perfect, said imbecile had in fact been reading The Daily Mail and it lay next to his plate, clumsily folded and ragged as only a free paper can be after 20 people have flicked through it. After they left, I took it and mainly because it was the only paper nearby, I began to read. It was only slightly more acidic and vile than when my last barber shop haircut had forced me to attempt a similarly ill-advised read. I only managed to get some way through a slightly cruel and amazingly ill-informed piece about Jonathan Ross and his “weird” family before my food arrived. I located the online version this morning before writing this and read it in it’s entirety. Please feel free to do so too.

Click here to read it.

I am assuming that the Ross family had nothing to do with the piece but I do hope it finds a permanent home on their fridge door.

Amongst the “evidence” of the family weirdness are the following…

1. Ross installed internet connections in every room of the house.

I think this is called Wi-Fi and I have a similarly elaborate setup in my own house, as I believe does about 54% of UK homes. The article makes more sport of their lavish expenditure, including (believe it or not!) a “home” cinema. Big deal. If we all could, we all would. The same applies to remote-controlled toilet seats. Go on..admit it…

2. The Ross family communicates via Twitter.

The clear implication here is that they don’t communicate in any other way. They don’t say it but it’s blindingly obvious that we are suppose to infer it. The simple fact is that they all use Twitter and follow each other on Twitter. This is far more astonishing in a positive sense than those who don’t Tweet will know. I know of one family who do this and it’s nothing sort of charming. An example is given where one his daughter asks her dad to bring her a glass of water via Twitter rather than go down an get it herself. I think this is what is known as “funny” and nothing else. I have followed Mr & Mrs Ross on Twitter from the beginning and their communications show nothing more than a happy bunch of people who have committed the cardinal public sin of being happy, loving each other and staying married for an awfully long time.

Incidentally, I regularly tweet with people at work who are only sat a few feet from me. This almost always makes them smile, as do their replies. I occasionally look out of the window to see if the sky has fallen in or if the moon has turned to blood. So far, nothing to worry about.

Oh and before I forget, Twitter has a website but it is not A website. I just wanted to clear that up.

Android & Apple

My Phone - I hate it.

I am kind of hoping that the mighty Google spider doesn’t index this next bit and that hordes of nerdly open-source enthusiasts don’t fill my comment box in the same way the Doctor Who crowd did a few months back, when I dared to express an opinion.

Anyway, I have an HTC Legend and I hate it. I hate it because I hate Android. There, I said it.

“Why don’t you have an iPhone then?”, I hear 3 of you cry.

“Because I can’t afford one”.

This simple statement also answers the questions “why don’t you have an iPad”, “why don’t you have a Porsche” and many other similar enquiries.

Cost is pretty much it. I love my iPod and I would love an iPhone and an iPad but they are too expensive for me.

My HTC is my first monthly contract phone and it costs me £21 a month. Last time I checked, an iPhone would cost me about £60. So there we are. I could handle criticism of an iPhone on the basis of cost but on little other. They are beautiful and iPads are even more so. They just are.

I am not completely blind to the iPhone problems either. The “leather case” problem earlier in the lift of the iPhone 4 was laughable but it’s easily solved by doing something that every sensible person does anyway.

I love the argument “I would never buy an iPhone” or “I have never touched an iPhone”. An interesting perspective, if nothing else. Incidentally, I realise that my iPod is not an iPhone but it’s pretty close and I have used an iPhone. I know of what I speak – a little anyway.

My HTC phone crashes a lot. It gradually slows down until the only solution is to switch if off and on again. Memory is a constant concern and I find it amazing that so many people recommend a “task killer” to kill apps that haven’t closed properly.  These work a lot of the time but it would be nice if they weren’t needed in the first place. It’s not even that I play with a lot of features on my phone. On a daily basis, I check my Email, use Facebook & Twitter and look at a few websites in break time. Not exactly a heavy user but such activity regularly brings my phone to it’s knees. Not good at all. I have never had trouble getting a signal but sometimes the button just locks up. This happens both at the beginning and end of the call, often leaving you to wonder whether you have hung up at all.

The same apps are infinitely better on the iPhone/iPod than they are on Android. Facebook and Twitter are prime examples. The printed word hardly does this argument justice but there is really no competition. The official Twitter app on Android is so awful that most people don’t use it – me included. Incidentally, I would love to uninstall the Android Facebook app but you can’t. Uninstallation of apps actually requires a third-party app to be anything like usable. Guess what you do on the iPhone? You press the icon for a few seconds, tap the x in the top left corner and it’s gone. Better still, do it on iTunes when you get home.

Android itself. It’s open source and anyone can write an app and start selling it, unlike that evil overlord Apple who must approve every app before it’s allowed to be sold. Thank god they do. Have you seen the crap in the Android App Market? The Apple App Store is not perfect but jesus christ. Incidentally, some of the most popular apps in the Android store are complete launcher replacements. Hardly a ringing endorsement. If you want copyright-infringing sound boards, there’s only one place to go. Incidentally, there is a growing feeling online that the sheer number of different Android phones and configurations thereof will significantly hamper app development.

So I have an HTC but I hate it. In 8 months, I will upgrade and hopefully have an iPhone and this burning anger inside me will subside.

Libraries

That's not me, I'd never get up there.

The imminent plans to close many local libraries is a tragic reflection of the times in which we live. Either that or it’s something that was bound to happen sooner or later. When did you last go to the library? I can’t remember exactly but it must be something like 20 years or in other words, something like the time the Internet arrived in my house.  I took my mum to one on a semi-regular basis a few years ago but then she got hooked on audiobooks and that was that. This Christmas, she got a Kindle and I fear she has borrowed her last book.

I am not naive enought to suggest that the Internet has removed any need for libraries, just that it has removed it for a huge chunk of society. I suspect in a few years time, a Kindle or something similar will cost about £20, most books will be cheaply downloadable and we will look back wondering what all the fuss was about, much the same way that most people remember the board game, the fax machine, common decency, respect for elders and cartoons before the news in the evening.

Literature hasn’t died, knowledge hasn’t died and I am pretty sure Amazon would attest to the fact that books haven’t died. If you can listen to Stephen Fry read Harry Potter, one of his own books or actually anything at all out loud and still say that books are dead then you are a dullard.

The end of a lot of libraries can be sad and yet still be inevitable at the same time. I just think that, although inevitable, it’s just not time yet.

The Bleak Midwinter

Sliding, Scraping & Staying Home

It’s a funny thing, winter. Certainly in Plymouth it is anyway. It happens about once every five years and just like it did last January, it completely screws things up for a week or so. The snow falls unexpectedly to a depth of about an inch and no-one knows what the hell to do. You switch on local TV news to see kids sliding down the merest hint of a hill on a dustbin lid, a poor driver trying and failing to drive his car up an icy incline and worst of all, a local reporter has been driven to the middle of nowhere to show us the scarf he got for Christmas and to indicate with a sweep of his arm what chaos awaits you outside.

Commuter Chaos!

Important-looking officials impart the most pointless instruction in the world “stay at home unless your journey is absolutely necessary” and everyone ignores them for fear of having no milk in their tea, no fag in their mouth and possibly the kids at home all day. Seriously, how would you classify a journey as “not absolutely necessary”? Certainly, no employer is going to let you off a days work because someone on the radio told you stay at home. What usually happens is that you chip your car out of the frost and drive gingerly away. You sit forward enough for your nose to touch the windscreen and you grip the steering wheel in the hope that the harder you do so, the more grip the tyres are going to have on the road. It doesn’t help of course. You are almost certain to start sliding sideways the moment you touch the brakes and if there’s one thing worse than a high speed accident, its an incredibly slow one that you can do nothing about. Nevertheless, your employer still expects you get there and its once you are there that your problems really begin. If it has stopped actually snowing by the time you get to work, it will start again not long after you arrive. You and your employer will then do little work anyway and instead stare at the window and the slow-falling flakes of chaos. You will be hoping to be sent home soon and they are hoping that it will stop and that they won’t have to send you home soon, whilst simultaneously hoping they CAN send you home thus enabling them to go home as well. Ahh, the stress of management…

At some point, you are allowed home and more horror awaits. Annoying people in 4X4 monstrosities seize the moment to smug you to death. Most of the year we scorn their selfish choice of oil burning machine, but for today at least they can be comfortable and safe. Their unnecessary blight on the ecological landscape still bruises the planet for 350 days of the year but for now they can be warmed by their own superiority and our palpable jealousy. If you look closely, they have probably given a lift to a few non-drivers and saved them from slipping and sliding their way home in the bitter cold. They will no doubt find time to stare at you as they drive away, their judgemental, bobble-hatted gaze futher burning into your angered heart.

By now, you may be wondering why I am talking about this on Halloween. Well, it was a bit frosty on Monday morning and I was caught unawares. The car warmed up eventually and the windows cleared, thanks mostly to the drippy remnants of last year’s de-icer and the edge of my bank card. On the way home, I bought two cans of de-icer and once home, I topped up the anti-freeze.

The next day, the temperature soared by about 5 degrees and nothing but warm morning drizzle has greeted me since.

You are welcome. I like to think of the first moments of Winter panic as a kind of public service.

TV

Upside-down Eyes!!

A recent phenomenon is the autumn TV surge. In recent years, SKY has started showing US TV series only a few days after they broadcast in the States. Due to my hours of work (evenings), I have to SKY+ all of these programs and watch them later. For some reason, I end up saving these for the weekends and starting on Saturday night, I have to methodically watch each of the 11 programmes. I make it sound like torture, when it is actually the opposite, but there is something about seeing all those recorded programmes lined up that fills me with dread. It happens every week and then, around May, the series all finish and there’s nothing on. I could quite easily leave all these programmes and watch them at anytime. The SKY+ box kindly stacks them all up in little folders but I MUST watch them and watch them NOW.

I haven’t even mentioned the programmes that actually go out live on Saturday night, namely Strictly Come Dancing and The X Factor. I usually watch these on Monday morning and fast-forward through them – especially Cher and her upside-down eyes, funny mouth and hugely annoying leg twitch.

Radio

I have no desire to return to the angry young blogger that I became in the first part of the year but I must allow myself a little bit of release now and again. All this week and for a lot of the preceeding few months, the broadcasters on Radio 2 have been endlessly plugging this year’s “Electric Proms”.

Electric Proms

Quite what separates this annual event from every other live performance they broadcast, I am not quite sure, but this hasn’t stopped them elevating it to the status of an indisputable religious miracle. This is annoying enough but not the whole story. What really gets my goat is the way they talk about it like we could all go if we wanted to. Let me explain. Only 7 million of of us live in London. Let’s be generous and say that maybe 10 million people live close enough to go without too much inconvenience. The remaining 50 million are a bit stuck, even if they wanted to go. This doesn’t seem to stop our favourite radio station pretending that this wonderous event is for all of us. They do the same with productions in the West End. Its “our theatre” and “the nation’s theatre”. No it isn’t. Shut up. It’s for people who live in London and not for those who live 100s of miles away.

As a side gripe, it also seems that it is for BBC staff too. A quick glance at Twitter or a quick listen to the station’s output the next day made it clear that an event so exclusive that tickets were given away in a telephone lottery, was attended by any DJ who wanted to go and quite a few hangers on as well. Not good at all.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am still proud of the BBC. I listen to Radio 2 and Radio 4 every single day and they are both wonderful. I just wish they would stop talking about Neil Diamond, Robert Plant (all hail) and Elton John like they represent the second coming. They are good musicians, all very good at their “jobs” but that’s about it. Get a grip people.

School

I didn’t have much to blog about this week regarding school or writing. It did occur to me that, in two weeks time, I will be back in Dover for Old Boys Weekend and it’s the first such visit that has taken place during a blogging phase. I can’t let this pass without doing something appropriate so I am going to do some sort of blog from there. I am not sure exactly what to do but I’ll think of something. I do have a dictaphone and I do know people who like to talk a lot so that might be one directon to go in. My travelling companions probably just swallowed something hard and jagged but I promise they are safe.

I am going to take some more photos certainly and I have compiled a list of things to check up on. I have been writing about things that took place 30 years ago and 400 miles away for ages. It will be cool to actually check the memories out.

L8r

I thought I’d better explain what I am doing at the moment. I found a backup of all of my blog going back to 2004 and have decided to import most of it into here. This is a good thing, mainly because I thought that most of this was gone forever (even the best backup policy doesn’t always work). This is the reason the blog appears to be filling up backwards. I am reading each entry before it is (re)posted just in case it’s not suitable for a modern audience. This could be for any or all of the following reasons.

1. In the days when I first blogged, only my school friends read my blog and I occasionally moaned about work. Reading these entries makes me sound a little churlish and I regret it.

2. Some of it is just dull. Really dull.

3. Some of it is really short. I don’t know what I was thinking posting 1 paragraph. It wasn’t interesting and hardly worth a visit.

I have not edited them in hindsight. What I thought at the time remains unchanged.

I have also made a good start on the book nonsense and can’t wait to tell you all about it. My mum also found something in an antique fair at the weekend which is something of a good omen. I’ll share that too.

So here I am, despite photographic evidence to the contrary, happy again. Here for a while now and who knows how long it will remain. I still have two little holes left by friends who left work two weeks ago now, both on the same day. I am still in touch with both and from one I will soon inherit a small kitten in about a month’s time. The other is happy in her new job but a long way away and most importantly of all, not drinking coffee with me or putting the world to rights on a regular basis.

Work is good at the moment. I am still busy and the madness that is Christmas is not far away. I am still mostly spreadsheeting but tomorrow I am making an alarming departure and helping present an idea using Powerpoint.

“Get on with it Neil. They don’t care about this stuff.”

“Ok. I just like writing this stuff down. It feels good.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Yes.”

“Well…get on with it.”

“Ahem…”

Long gaps aside, do any other bloggers reading this have a blog spot? I do. It’s just past the second speed bump on Weston Park Road as you approach from the Hyde Park end. At this precise point, usually around 10.10pm each evening I have a thought. More often than not it begins with, “I should blog again soon really” and then continues with a really great idea or three for things to write about. By this time on Sunday night, I have usually forgotten all but one of them and this week I only remembered to tell you about my blogspot.

So, in predictably circular fashion, here we are again. Sunday night. Alan Titchmarsh is on the wireless, a cat is asleep on the bed, a mug of cold Early Grey is at my side and my pudgy, oddly childlike fingers hover poised over my Dell keyboard.

So here we go…

I Made A Word

I have made-up a word. I probably did it ages ago but I have only become overly concious of it in recent weeks. I don’t know if it’s borne out of shyness, embarrassment, britishness or just an overt manifestation of my tendency to mumble. Nevertheless, I made up a word. I realise it would be best if you could actually hear me say it but unless you approach me from the far end of a corridor at work and play a sort of eye-meeting chicken challenge with me, you are unlikely to be lucky in this respect.

So, it kind of goes…”Alrighellok”.

Let’s break it down.

a) Alrigh.. this me starting to say “alright”. I have been down these south western parts so long, I can’t remember if this is a common salutation elsewhere but here it is used all the time. Usually as a question.

b) Hell.. this is when my non-Devon upbringing kicks in and a small but nevertheless still pompous part of me reminds me to talk properly and say “hello” but it never quite makes it out because…

c) By this time, the person walking towards me has already said “Alright?” and I have to squeeze out an “ok”, pinching off the loaf of this excrutiating but all too recently common occurance.

Altogether now…”Alrighellok

I am feeling the need again.

I am also feeling so damn sad and fidgety and a little sleeeeeeeepy.

I don’t know why am so sleepy. I had almost 4 hours sleep last night.

Doesn’t that sound all rock’n'roll, youthful and annoyingly boastful in that way that makes you want to slap anyone under the age of 25 and pity anyone over 26?

I guess it does but for the full tale I must take you back to about 2.15am this morning.

[At this point, I must own up and admit that this is now Sunday as I practically fell asleep at the keyboard whilst writing the bit above this. So, where was I....]

It was dark, warm and Plymouth Hoe was as quiet as the moon. Three friends were sitting in a burgundy Rover 214SE in the only filled parking space on the seafront. It seemed like a mad and crazy idea – let’s go and eat our chips up on the Hoe said I as we stood crammed in a steamy chip shop 10 minutes earlier. It’s the kind of improvisational and impetuous thing I do about once every three years so no-one should have really been surprised. Indeed they weren’t. Instead they were a bit pissed. Just a bit.

Before the chips…1.28am

“What do you want to do?

We can do anything you want to do.” said Neil.

“I want chips.” said Julie.

“Yeah. Let’s have chips.” said Claire.

“Where are we going to get chips at this time of the morning?” said Neil.

“How about we try that chip shop over there?” said Claire.

“I like saying chips. I have been saying stupid things all day haven’t I?” said Julie

“Yes you have” said Neil

“Hangbags” said Julie and then she giggled. A lot.

There I was, sober as a judge having spent the last few hours knocking back Diet Coke with lots of ice, a piece or lime or lemon (for some reason, I couldn’t have both) and a slightly camp straw. Despite this, Julie saying “Hangbags” was still the funniest thing I had heard since about 11am that morning when she first said it.

Claire laughed more out of politeness than anything else. She was also a bit pissed, which helped.

A little before this, about midnight…

Blush was starting to empty and in a moment Hayley and the other more adventurous folk were off to C103 to jump up and down to loud stuff. I was completely unprepared for her leaving so soon and all of a sudden. All day I had been busy buying her presents, wrapping her presents and writing in her card(s) and getting other people to write in her cards. Now there she was. I hugged her for about 15 seconds and then couldn’t think of anything to say. And then I thought of something to say but my voice had vanished. And then she had gone.

Shit. I want to try that again…

5 minutes earlier…

“I think I might go with Hayley.” said Julie.

“Ok.” said Neil

“You don’t approve”, said Julie.

“Don’t be silly. It’s just that you said to me about 4 hours ago. Don’t let me go clubbing. There won’t be anyone still awake at home to you in and besides, your handbag is in my car boot.”, said Neil.

“Ok. I won’t go we will stay here”, said Julie.

“Sure?”, said Neil

“Yes, I’ll stay here then.”, said Julie.

“Ok”, said Neil.

Much earlier…about 10:30pm

I had never been to Blush before except to drop someone off there after work. Coincidentally and for no other reason, it was the previously, aforementioned Claire. That was for Paul’s leaving do. He was there too. On Friday I mean. Obviously he was at his own leaving do. I have just realised that I told him that I wouldn’t be going to his leaving do because I don’t like going out after work. Still, he appeared pleased to see me on Friday and was obviously too tanked up to be concerned by the finer degrees of irony and transparent deception. Rest assured Paul, I no longer go out after work.

So there I was at Blush. Today, Hayley was leaving the MDEC where I we both work. Where we all work actually. By the time we had finished that work thing we do it was 9.50pm and by the time the ladies had changed into their sparkly tops and impractical footwear it was substantially later. Glittering and smelling nice, they emerged from the ladies loo where the air was now a deadly mix of 10% breathable air and 90% chemically achieved pleasant smelliness. Those who didn’t drink then drove those who intended to.

Fortune smiled at me as I drove into the last available parking space outside Blush and then it pissed in my drink as I realised that (after spending £2.20 on a parking ticket) all the spaces on the other side of the road were free.

Everyone who was everyone was there, including to almost everyone’s surprise, “me”. I have never felt more like someone’s grandad in my life. “Jesus, Neil’s here…” and other such exclamtions filled the air. I really must go out after work more often, if only to shift the attention to others. I just hope I don’t run into Papworth too often or my tissue-thin cover story is completely blown.

Highlight of the evening was me being snapped by Smiles-On-The-Tiles. Well, it was for me anyway. That’s Chris Vogler with me. He is tall but not as tall as it appears. Unless I am shorter than I thought and people have been lying to me.

See more pics of me and my mates at smileonthetiles.com

Almost there…9pm

Have you ever watched a really sad film and tried so hard not to cry that you get a headache and/or a pain in your throat. Try feeling like for 8 hours. The only thing that stopped me from disappearing into a quiet corner and actually crying was my little friend who was trying even harder. Actually, she failed 3 or 4 times but no one laughs at women who do it do they?

The traditional “someone is leaving” time of 9pm arrived and Mr Petrie did a very nice speech that at least one of us took the piss out of. The truth is, I couldn’t have done it and very few others would have got through it.

By now, those of you who don’t know Hayley will be suspecting what a nice person she is, how much everyone loved her and how much everyone is going to miss her. Now, write down how much you think you suspect on a piece of paper. Rip into very small pieces and then rip each very small piece into even smaller pieces and then go and find a very big bit of paper. Get some sellotape and stick it to many, many, many other bigger pieces of paper. Then, if you write really, really small you might be able to fit the amount on. You will probably have to write on the back too.

I took her card around probably 100 people and not one of them had to pause to think of what to write.

Earlier…2.02pm at work…

We arrived at work fashionably (almost) late and laden down with bags. This followed the mother of all pre-work present-buying crusades with Julie and Naomi. I am sorry if the following bit makes my male readers feel the need to sit down in a darkened room but in the space of two and bit hours, I went to a jewellers, a strange hippy-type, new age shop which sold crystal jewellery that kept dragons at bay, Tescos, a teddy bear factory, an off-licence, a balloon shop for whom the idea of someone leaving work appeared to be an unknown and ridiculous concept and most scarily of all for me…Hotel Chocolat…

There being just enough time, I squeezed in a very bad (for me) but very nice tasting bacon buttie and a huge coffee on the Hoe (more of that later or sooner depending on which order you read this and which order your brain processes reverse sequential timeframes).

All I wanted to do, as my car finally got to work was go to sleep.

Friday 29th August 10.30am…

“Everyone remember where we parked, because I never do.” said Neil.

Disbelievingly, Naomi and Julie laughed…Julie not quite so hard as Naomi, who was embarking on her first trip to the shops with Neil.

I hate the Mall. I even hate that it insists on calling itself a Mall. It’s huge and loud and I hate it. I once bought a tie there and was asked if I wanted a clip-on one. You get my point.

Still, there is a Starbucks. But where isn’t there?

So it’s 10.35am, I am parked, I have good company and only a few hours to buy nice things for a female.

Outside Dingles is a little stall where a wild-eyed man is offering anyone a free stress test.

“Excuse me…”

“F**k off. What do you know about stress”…

Not 200 yards later, an idiot in a stained and dirty blue t-shirt wants to talk to us…yes US..about breast cancer. Considering how much we had to do, I think he got off lightly with our stony, silent reply.

“Ooooh look. Handbags…Shoes….”

7.30am…

Shit. Hayley is leaving today.

All of a sudden it was a bank holiday Monday (yes, foreign friends, I know the name doesn’t make sense) and here I am with a head full of words and nonsense. Time to verbally vomit over your shiny new shoes.

Usually, a reappearance like this is driven by an amazing happenstance in a normally dull week but to be honest (love that phrase), I just felt like it. I spent the last month or so doing a little naval gazing and pondering. Nothing earth shattering has emerged from the meditation and self-indulgence but I still live in hope. I am not sleeping very well at the moment but I have no idea why. Work is busy but no more so than at any time over the last year or so, so I am pretty sure it ain’t that.

Am I on the verge of a mid-life crisis? Those of you who see a lot of me might wonder if I am already having it and lately, I can see what  you mean. I have no great secret personal life hidden from all of you. What you see me doing is pretty much what there is.

Ardent Slimming World junkies such as myself don’t get Bank Holiday’s off, so today I was there bright and early. Very early as it happens. Not as much traffic on the roads at 9am as usual you see. Had I half a ounce of common sense, I would have realised this and hence avoided the need to run round the house like my trousers were on fire 30 seconds after the alarm went off this morning. It was worth the trip though, I lost 3½ pounds which is very cool. Slightly less cool when you discover that I put 3 on last week. If only I could determine what I did this week that I didn’t do last week and vice-versa. Sadly, if it were that simple, I could make a fortune and I would be already wearing the 34 inch waist jeans hanging like a mocking denim bat in my wardrobe. There are now 5 of us from work at my group which adds to the fun. Laughing at other people might be wrong but its a great way to start the week. Before you go and call me (us) cruel, rest assured that sometimes it goes both ways. This week, I was first in line when we “went round the room to see how everyone got on”. The nice consultant lady tells everyone how well we did (they never say how much we put on) and we have to talk about our week. Normally the words come easily and I have taken to using 3 or 4 stock speeches that seem to keep everyone happy. This week, I was caught off-guard and wittered on like an idiot long past the point of polite embarrassment. The usual round of applause that follows each speech re-defined the term “smattering”.

So it wasn’t my weight…

The diabetes is ok. I have one of my 6 monthly M.O.T. checkups any week now. I feel ok. I always know when things are going a bit wonky because I either feel really tired, need to drink or need to pee. None of these really happens at all at the moment. I have virtually no thirst reflex anymore. Drinking fluids of any sort is either a habit (coffee at work) or something I have to remember to do. I know my inner bits need fluid, so I am not letting myself get into stupid bad habits, it’s just not a situation I ever expected to find myself in. During the time before I was diagnosed, I was drinking about 5 litres of water/squash/coke every day and peeing out about the same amount. How I ever got anything done is anyone’s guess.

So not that then…

My friend Hayley is leaving work this week. This sucks big time but for me not her. It is totally the right thing for her to do but it doesn’t make the fact that she won’t be at work anymore any less sucky. For the last 4 or 5 years ago she has been one of only a very few people I can trust with anything and one of only two who took the time to see how I was every day. We nearly always had lunch together, she mostly laughed at my purile yet sophisticated humour and without her I would have never gone to Slimming World. She was and is also blonde, pretty and in her early 20′s which never does my ego any harm. I may be her friend but I am also male and 40. It would be poetic, poignant and full of pathos to end with the phrase “I wish I had told her all that to her face” but I will have to disappoint you all. I think I tell her about once a month. The last time, she told me to stop being an arse. I will probably tell her again on Friday night whilst drunk and leaning on the bar in C103.

C103 is a night club. The first time in 20 years that I have ever been in one.

There will probably be photos. Photos I will apologise for in advance.

All of a sudden it was a bank holiday Monday (yes, foreign friends, I know the name doesn’t make sense) and here I am with a head full of words and nonsense. Time to verbally vomit over your shiny new shoes.

Usually, a reappearance like this is driven by an amazing happenstance in a normally dull week but to be honest (love that phrase), I just felt like it. I spent the last month or so doing a little naval gazing and pondering. Nothing earth shattering has emerged from the meditation and self-indulgence but I still live in hope. I am not sleeping very well at the moment but I have no idea why. Work is busy but no more so than at any time over the last year or so, so I am pretty sure it ain’t that.

Am I on the verge of a mid-life crisis? Those of you who see a lot of me might wonder if I am already having it and lately, I can see what  you mean. I have no great secret personal life hidden from all of you. What you see me doing is pretty much what there is.

Ardent Slimming World junkies such as myself don’t get Bank Holiday’s off, so today I was there bright and early. Very early as it happens. Not as much traffic on the roads at 9am as usual you see. Had I half a ounce of common sense, I would have realised this and hence avoided the need to run round the house like my trousers were on fire 30 seconds after the alarm went off this morning. It was worth the trip though, I lost 3½ pounds which is very cool. Slightly less cool when you discover that I put 3 on last week. If only I could determine what I did this week that I didn’t do last week and vice-versa. Sadly, if it were that simple, I could make a fortune and I would be already wearing the 34 inch waist jeans hanging like a mocking denim bat in my wardrobe. There are now 5 of us from work at my group which adds to the fun. Laughing at other people might be wrong but its a great way to start the week. Before you go and call me (us) cruel, rest assured that sometimes it goes both ways. This week, I was first in line when we “went round the room to see how everyone got on”. The nice consultant lady tells everyone how well we did (they never say how much we put on) and we have to talk about our week. Normally the words come easily and I have taken to using 3 or 4 stock speeches that seem to keep everyone happy. This week, I was caught off-guard and wittered on like an idiot long past the point of polite embarrassment. The usual round of applause that follows each speech re-defined the term “smattering”.

So it wasn’t my weight…

The diabetes is ok. I have one of my 6 monthly M.O.T. checkups any week now. I feel ok. I always know when things are going a bit wonky because I either feel really tired, need to drink or need to pee. None of these really happens at all at the moment. I have virtually no thirst reflex anymore. Drinking fluids of any sort is either a habit (coffee at work) or something I have to remember to do. I know my inner bits need fluid, so I am not letting myself get into stupid bad habits, it’s just not a situation I ever expected to find myself in. During the time before I was diagnosed, I was drinking about 5 litres of water/squash/coke every day and peeing out about the same amount. How I ever got anything done is anyone’s guess.

So not that then…

My friend Hayley is leaving work this week. This sucks big time but for me not her. It is totally the right thing for her to do but it doesn’t make the fact that she won’t be at work anymore any less sucky. For the last 4 or 5 years ago she has been one of only a very few people I can trust with anything and one of only two who took the time to see how I was every day. We nearly always had lunch together, she mostly laughed at my purile yet sophisticated humour and without her I would have never gone to Slimming World. She was and is also blonde, pretty and in her early 20′s which never does my ego any harm. I may be her friend but I am also male and 40. It would be poetic, poignant and full of pathos to end with the phrase “I wish I had told her all that to her face” but I will have to disappoint you all. I think I tell her about once a month. The last time, she told me to stop being an arse. I will probably tell her again on Friday night whilst drunk and leaning on the bar in C103.

C103 is a night club. The first time in 20 years that I have ever been in one.

There will probably be photos. Photos I will apologise for in advance.

As has been the case for many years now, it started well but not too early. Breakfast being the cursory affair it is sometimes, involved an apple, a yoghurt and a cuppa. I sometimes don’t bother with official breakfast these days as I have determined that my 2pm-10pm work shift actually shifts my whole day and I had drifted the habit of a four-meal day, breakfast at 8, lunch at 11, work lunch at 5 and snack time when I get in at 10. However you look at it, not good. For a Slimming World devotee like myself, the road to ruin.

So, brunch at 10 usually replaces both breakfast and lunch. All this detail serves no purpose. Sorry. I have probably mentioned it before anyway. It’s just that the weight-loss has slowed and I need to add variety to my eating day and resist the urge not to eat. Yes, it’s true. In the space of a year or so, I have gone from eating anything and all the time to not wanting to eat most of the time. This has the effect of making you even more hungry and less fussy when you do eat.

Anyway, it’s Friday morning. It’s the end of my last week of being “released” at work. This basically means I don’t have to do the usual job of keying and instead have to work on other things. This for me, inevitably means spreadsheets, spreadsheets and the odd spreadsheet. I don’t really mind this but it’s quite a shock to suddenly find yourself involved in something involving a little pressure. I usually a terrible one for procrastination but not this time. Every moment of the past 5 or 6 weeks has been full of typing and numbers. On Friday, it all got out of hand and just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Mr Migraine came to call.

But, I am getting ahead of myself.

This Friday started nicely with coffee on the Hoe with some chums. Ok, so I could have had decaffeinated but the Latte would probably have suffered. I could have probably gone without the butterscotch syrup too.

After a pleasant hour, it was off to work. Here’s where it started to go wrong. For some reason, I decided it was a good idea to grab a coffee in the canteen on the way. More caffeine. An hour later and I could actually feel my heart thumping. What an idiot. No worries though, plenty of relaxing Excel work ahead to take the edge off.

Unfortunately, at this point the true scale of the amount of work I had still to do dawned on me. Time to fess up and ask for some help. A few minutes and an understanding manager later, my chum Scott (fellow Excel nerd) was despatched and also released from his duties to help. So pleased with this was I that I made a stupid error and erased the previous 3 days work. Irrecoverably. Well, almost. I had a backup at home.

There was literally no choice other than to drive home and get it.

At 5.30pm. In a city.

At 10pm, the journey home is a care-free, speedy 15 minute drive. At 5.30pm, it is a frustrating 30 minute crawl through traffic hell. At one point, I was going downhill behind a 7-seater people-carrier doing 20mph. When they eventually reached the top of the valley, they actually slowed down to 10mph to crawl past a speed camera and then they forgot to speed up again.

At home, the file-copying took 10mins and I was soon heading back to work…and the migraine from hell decided to accompany me.

At work, I took pills but it didn’t help. My new assistant helped in a big way and in the space of an hour, solved about 5 problems that had been bothering me all week. I rewarded him by being grumpy and cross most of the time.

By 9.30pm, the pills had worked and it was time to go home.

xxx

As a little follow-up to last weeks teary ode, the little man came home yesterday and once more sleeps on the landing. Ok, a little sentimental perhaps but at least I know where he is. I won’t be scattering his dusty remains, mainly due to the fact that the box won’t open and as it doesn’t look too ghoulish and coffin-like, on the landing bookshelf he will stay. At least I will be able to say “Good Morning” and “Good Night” the same way I always did.

I promise I will stop this now.

Bizzy

It’s been a funny old few weeks at work. There I was, adjusting my spreadsheets to work with the new proposed shift plan on July 7th when I offer (foolishly some might say) to help out more closely with the organisation of said shift plan. Now, I am deeply involved and whilst the relief that it is almost done is wonderful, the knowledge that I have seemingly upset more than a few people with my supposed choices is a little unsettling. Truth be told, I haven’t had any say whatsoever in who goes where and even my radical ideas in other areas will have to be approved by authority and committee before they are ever put into action. To be honest, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be very cool for hundreds of people to work according to plans I had forged. Now, I am not so sure. After all, what if it’s a disaster? Gulp.

Still, once more the opportunity has forced me to learn some new very cool Excel stuff.

I am really reaching now aren’t I?

Wrong

I often ponder on the brilliance of my sardonic wit and the endless quest to comment on the absurdity and oddness of the world around me. Wouldn’t it be so much better to be positive and talk about nice things and not point the finger of criticism at the funny, the odd, the absurd, the ugly or the chav? It would be, but I can’t help but think that nobody would be interested in reading it. I feel very lucky to have been blessed with the gift to see the failings and misfortunes of others.

Ok, I will stop this too now.

You have to understand some of my life to see where I am going with this. I don’t go out much you see. Not in a sad, hermit-like way, it’s just that I don’t “go out” drinking, clubbing or partying. When I do venture out of the door, it’s either to work (still loving it) or shopping or visiting or whatever. So. Quite a lot then. What’s my problem? Well, to be honest, when I started this paragraph, I felt the need to clarify but now I wish I hadn’t bothered.

So there I was, buying the hernia-threatening pile of plastic, cardboard, paper and CD’s that once called itself a newspaper. I’ll be honest, it’s not a shop I normally patronise. The owners are quite nice but it usually boasts a crowd of Burberry inside and out that would make most of us steer clear. No well-known, corporate identity hangs over the door and there is the usual smell – almost out-of-date milk, cheap chocolate and disinfectant. Behind the counter is someone and on my side of the counter (sometimes on a stool) is their mate, talking to them.

In the corner is a cash machine that will dispense £10 for a modest fee of £2.85 and all around is the world of convenient, own-brand merchandise, most of which I have sworn never to eat again. As always, it seems rude to interupt the bloke behing the counter and his chatty mate but you have to pay don’t you? Handing over a £10, I smile and look around the counter area, only to notice a  scribbled piece of A4 sellotaped to the side of the glass “shoplifter sweetie barrier”. In large letters across the top are the words “LASANGYER RECEPEE”. Underneath, presumably was a recipe for lasagne but I couldn’t say for sure. As I have done many times before, the author of this gastronomic guideline had underestimated how much room the recipe would take up and as such, had to write progressively smaller and smaller until they reached the bottom of the page. By the time they hit the bottom, they just had room for a tempting instruction “tastes fabb and is reely cheep”.

Where would a nice person do when presented with this? Who cares.

What the f**k kind of world do I live in?

I don’t know where to begin.

Appalling spelling aside, what thinking process puts something like that on display?

Who is it for?

What do you do if it takes your fancy? Take out your PDA and copy it down? What of the queue behind you? If money is your god, why not just buy the 89p frozen one in the fridge behind you?

Was the voice in my head shouting “run..drop the paper, forget the change and run” wrong to do so?

Stop the train, I want to get off. I don’t care if there is no station. I want to get off now.