With all the recent stresses and strains it was inevitable that one the many microbes that inhabit our atmosphere – a nasty flu-like one in this case – should seize on our apparent weakened state and launch a full frontal assault.
Karen and Tom are currently under siege. Boiling oil is streaming from their noses in a vain attempt to stave off the attackers.
I myself am having to engage in flashy sword-play along my air passages just to try and keep my defences un-penetrated. If they wheel out a siege engine, I tell you, I’m done for.
I’ve left Karen and Tom in bed sneezing their bogeys and ballistas over the perimeter of the bedclothes. It’s a dirty war but someone’s got to do it.
I’m at work putting together a master plan that involves vitamin C, Iron tablets and Echinacea tea. My boss has agreed to release me from my duties early at 3pm sp that I can pick up our boy, Ben (currently neutral in this conflict), from school and then head home and rejoin the fray. My boss is sympathetic but unwilling to commit any of his own men to the battle. Reinforcements will not be coming.
If the worst comes... I have a whisky warhead hidden in a secret silo.
The countdown has already begun...
Friday, January 25, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Even God Loves A Good Brunette
I interrupt my normal television programme review service to bring you a quick update on the mother-in-law situation.
She’s still in hospital and is still receiving speech therapy. Her vocal chords and tongue are still paralysed. Other than that though she’s in fine fettle.
Fine fettle enough to be extremely rude to Karen who journeyed down to visit her on Monday. The MIL wants an MP3 player so she can while away her time in hospital listening to a choice selection from her classical music collection. Fair enough. No problem. Karen did a great deal of research over the weekend to find the player that would be most ideally suited to her requirements – both in terms of technology and ergonomics (her dexterity is still not fully restored).
However the chosen unit is £50+. Not a great deal of money to the MIL (who is, shall we say, “well off”) and not a great deal of money to Karen’s other relatives (who are the same). But it is a lot of money to us – Karen is still on maternity leave and gets a bare £100 a week and my local authority wages are... well, the basis of a tragic-comedy. Anyway, the MIL suggested we pay for it and recover the money later from one of Karen’s relatives.
Sounds simple enough except – and this will sound horrible – the chances of getting the money actually reimbursed are very slim.
Why is it that people who are rolling in dough are the ones who are most lax about paying up?
Anyway I acknowledge that all this is really just a storm in a teacup in the bigger scheme of things...
...except that when Karen tried to tell her mother how poor we are at the moment her mother (and this is quite unbelievable) put her hands over ears and refused to listen!
I was furious on Karen’s behalf when she told me later.
Such childish, selfish behaviour. It’s the type of thing our boy, Ben, does when we are trying to tell him something that he just doesn’t want to acknowledge as true. It’s acceptable behaviour for a 6 year old. But unacceptable for a 68 year old?!
It basically says: I’m not interested in your problems; they’re not important and are unworthy of my consideration. If she could have spoken I’m sure she would have shouted “Blah blah blah” over the top of what Karen was saying.
For those that may read the above and merely shrug: just imagine if someone did that to you when you were trying to express a concern or voice a legitimate opinion.
Unfortunately, this dismissal of other people’s problems is a constant MIL trait, so we can’t even comfort ourselves with the thought that this is unusual, off the wall behaviour.
And all this occurred on top of the fact that Karen had a hellish journey down to see her mother in the first place: bad weather, an accident on the M40, baby Tom not well and Karen not well herself. My constant question to myself at the moment is: why on earth do we bother?
My one consolation – and maybe this exposes a central wickedness to my personality – is the thought that maybe there is some poetic justice to the MIL’s current condition. It’s deeply ironic (and rather apt) that someone who has caused so much damage, pain and misery with her voice over the years now finds herself totally unable to use it.
Folks, great news!
There IS a God.
P.S. In case you hadn’t guessed it. Karen is a brunette...
She’s still in hospital and is still receiving speech therapy. Her vocal chords and tongue are still paralysed. Other than that though she’s in fine fettle.
Fine fettle enough to be extremely rude to Karen who journeyed down to visit her on Monday. The MIL wants an MP3 player so she can while away her time in hospital listening to a choice selection from her classical music collection. Fair enough. No problem. Karen did a great deal of research over the weekend to find the player that would be most ideally suited to her requirements – both in terms of technology and ergonomics (her dexterity is still not fully restored).
However the chosen unit is £50+. Not a great deal of money to the MIL (who is, shall we say, “well off”) and not a great deal of money to Karen’s other relatives (who are the same). But it is a lot of money to us – Karen is still on maternity leave and gets a bare £100 a week and my local authority wages are... well, the basis of a tragic-comedy. Anyway, the MIL suggested we pay for it and recover the money later from one of Karen’s relatives.
Sounds simple enough except – and this will sound horrible – the chances of getting the money actually reimbursed are very slim.
Why is it that people who are rolling in dough are the ones who are most lax about paying up?
Anyway I acknowledge that all this is really just a storm in a teacup in the bigger scheme of things...
...except that when Karen tried to tell her mother how poor we are at the moment her mother (and this is quite unbelievable) put her hands over ears and refused to listen!
I was furious on Karen’s behalf when she told me later.
Such childish, selfish behaviour. It’s the type of thing our boy, Ben, does when we are trying to tell him something that he just doesn’t want to acknowledge as true. It’s acceptable behaviour for a 6 year old. But unacceptable for a 68 year old?!
It basically says: I’m not interested in your problems; they’re not important and are unworthy of my consideration. If she could have spoken I’m sure she would have shouted “Blah blah blah” over the top of what Karen was saying.
For those that may read the above and merely shrug: just imagine if someone did that to you when you were trying to express a concern or voice a legitimate opinion.
Unfortunately, this dismissal of other people’s problems is a constant MIL trait, so we can’t even comfort ourselves with the thought that this is unusual, off the wall behaviour.
And all this occurred on top of the fact that Karen had a hellish journey down to see her mother in the first place: bad weather, an accident on the M40, baby Tom not well and Karen not well herself. My constant question to myself at the moment is: why on earth do we bother?
My one consolation – and maybe this exposes a central wickedness to my personality – is the thought that maybe there is some poetic justice to the MIL’s current condition. It’s deeply ironic (and rather apt) that someone who has caused so much damage, pain and misery with her voice over the years now finds herself totally unable to use it.
Folks, great news!
There IS a God.
P.S. In case you hadn’t guessed it. Karen is a brunette...
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Sunday Bodice
The Beeb’s recent costume dramas – Cranford and Lark Rise To Candleford – have gently melded into one quietly glorious bosomy soap that appears to be set in some hazy non-specific Victorian period where smallpox, rickets and plaguey prostitution are virtually unheard of.
At least they don’t appear to have touched the lives of the cloth-capped and lace-collared villagers who play out their small, Hardy-esque existences in the wonderfully constructed BBC sets purely for our televisual entertainment... and never for our ill humour.
If the villagers had television sets I guarantee they’d all be tuned into Songs Of Praise.
And yet, for all there is a distinct lack of engorged bodices being pantingly ripped open Andrew Davies style, the writers have still managed to craft dramas that are both engaging and absorbing.
And feature Julia Sawalha.
As I’ve mentioned before, Julia – much favoured British actress of this ‘ere blog – seems to have cornered the market for chaste, wryly laced up dramas where the bodice’s are not so much ripped open as securely fastened for most of the time with the slightly pouty suggestion that they might be loosened a little bit later but only when the cameras are switched off or you’ve switched to another TV channel...
Cue raised eyebrow, a quirky smile and a slight flash of wrist and that’s about as risqué as Julia gets...
And I’m loving it.
In Lark Rise To Candleford the sexuality is repressed and understated. Its mouth has been washed out with lye soap and stuffed into clothes so starchy the collars could support the Severn Bridge without buckling. Looks and smiles are exchanged in substitution for bodily fluids. A blush and a stammer are acts of wanton desire and impropriety. The sex lies in what isn’t being said between the parties.
Not everybody’s cup of tea I grant you but much as I’d like to see Julia jiggling herself out of the enviable confines of her corset I also recognize that I’d be disappointed in her if she did. Does this make me a hypocrite of some kind? Am I impaled on the horn of a dilemma so old, boring and completely trad that feminists themselves no longer acknowledge it with anything more than a slight sigh and flinty eyes rolled skyward?
The old angel / whore dichotomy?
Who knows?
All I know is that Julia looks damned fine in a corset and damned fine out of one.
As dichotomies go, it’s one (two?) I can quite happily live with for a few Sunday’s more.
Lark rise indeed.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Jacking Off
Straight away we were presented with a rather well mannered, well spoken, red blowfish driving a snazzy sports car around the windy streets of Cardiff. He didn’t exceed the speed limit, used the brake in plenty of time and seemed intent on following the Highway Code. He was even urbane enough to let an old lady cross the road in front of him. All this before he shot some poor innocent home owner in the gut and taunted the Torchwood crew members for their namby-pamby prevarication. The Torchwood team admittedly looked at a loss as to how to react without their AWOL leader, Captain Jack Sparrow, sorry, Captain Jack Harkness around to tell them what to do... But all was not lost. Suddenly Jack reappeared and shot the blowfish in the head in a scene reminiscent of The Fifth Element. “So, does anybody else want to negotiate?”
Welcome to series 2 of Torchwood.
A rather uncomplicated plot then unfolded involving Captain John, one of Jack’s old flames, played by whatsisface who played Spike from Buffy looking for some radio-active canisters inexplicably secreted around various Cardiff locations... a plot that was rather silly and shallow but was nonetheless rather entertaining. It served no other purpose than to re-introduce or, perhaps, try to reinvent the Torchwood regulars... attempts are being made I believe to render them “more likeable”. It’s early days yet to say if that is working or not but the major players are all interestingly interconnected in a bubbling web of sexual tension, lust, sarcasm and camaraderie that is certainly full of potential and could bode well for future episodes.
Basically Torchwood is Doctor Who with lashings of sex and attitude. The only members of the team who seem to buck this trend are Ianto Jones and Toshiko Sato... the former is far too wet and limp to be a believable love interest for Captain Jack H and Toshiko is well, Velma from Scooby-Doo.
However, I like Toshiko and am hoping the writers will develop her character further in this second outing of the show and give it a bit more of an edge. The potential is certainly there given her brief lesbian liaison in Series 1...
And then there’s Gwen. It’s taken me a long time to make my mind up about Gwen. It’s the annoying voice and the gap-tooth. Is she a fox or isn’t she? She’s got va-va-voom in spades but there’s something of the fishwife about her too. Or should I say “tidy wife”? The will-they-won’t-they tension between her and Jack is more annoying than an entertaining tease. I wish they’d just get on with it and move on. It’s hardly of the same calibre as Mulder and Scully. It doesn’t warrant this long, contrived abstemious delay. Get ‘em out, whop ‘em about and then show us some more aliens.
That would be a show.
But much as I enjoy this tour of sexed up sci-fi, shouldn’t there be more to Torchwood than just adult content? Shouldn’t there be more to it than all this inter-species spooning and inter-office bed-hopping? Doesn’t there need to be?
Good sci-fi needs to press a few intellectual buttons among the hi-tech barrage of flashy effects and glistening cleavage. Otherwise it runs the risk of being all gimmick and no content. And that is bad.
Torchwood has potential. It has legs. But it needs to think about the direction it’s walking towards. Sex and violence – shallow hooks as they are – are admittedly nearly always behind a great story. But there needs to be depth too. There needs to be philosophy and a message. There needs to be content.
After all, isn’t great sex supposed to originate in the mind?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tic Tac Toe
I have managed to acquire yet another noble injury (some of you may recall my previous dip into the murky world of foot injury at the end of 2006).
Skipping, as is my wont, round the house yesterday afternoon with nought on my feet but a good pair of woollen socks my foot erroneously came into contact with the corner of a book shelf.
One humungous snap crackle and pop later... and suddenly I had a beautifully purpled little toe that had ballooned to the size of a New World red grape.
Folks, it’s going to be one helluva vintage.
Though doubting the efficacy of the family doctor Karen nonetheless packed me off to the surgery this morning and he more or less fulfilled my every expectation.
Yes it’s probably broken / fractured but there is little that can be done. It needs to be strapped to the next toe and caressed with ice. It was also recommended that I swallow whatever pain relief product I desired and, most important of all, keep the foot elevated and rested as much as possible.
Fat chance.
I’ve already spent the first 90 minutes at work this morning chasing carpenters, electricians and painters around the building.
A nice warm Shiraz anyone?
Skipping, as is my wont, round the house yesterday afternoon with nought on my feet but a good pair of woollen socks my foot erroneously came into contact with the corner of a book shelf.
One humungous snap crackle and pop later... and suddenly I had a beautifully purpled little toe that had ballooned to the size of a New World red grape.
Folks, it’s going to be one helluva vintage.
Though doubting the efficacy of the family doctor Karen nonetheless packed me off to the surgery this morning and he more or less fulfilled my every expectation.
Yes it’s probably broken / fractured but there is little that can be done. It needs to be strapped to the next toe and caressed with ice. It was also recommended that I swallow whatever pain relief product I desired and, most important of all, keep the foot elevated and rested as much as possible.
Fat chance.
I’ve already spent the first 90 minutes at work this morning chasing carpenters, electricians and painters around the building.
A nice warm Shiraz anyone?
Monday, January 14, 2008
Clink
Last night’s documentary saw Louis spending time within the formidable walls of San Quentin jail and getting to know some of the many in-mates. Although Louis’ approach with people seems to conjure up its own all inclusive comfort zone his interviews with the prisoners were nevertheless frequently on-the-edge-of-the-seat viewing. Both the living conditions of the in-mates and their candidness about their reasons for being incarcerated were sharply discomforting to say the least. But more than that: their very humanity – their very normalcy – was unsettling. Their honesty and good humoured acceptance of their fate (at least to the cameras) was even more so. It felt incongruous. I guess deep down we want them to be monsters. We want them to be visibly marked and set apart from the rest of us. To show evidence of a corrupted gene pool, some sign that they are, against the odds, a slightly different species.
We certainly don’t want to recognize certain of our own traits in a person who is serving 551 years for house robbery and torture... This particular lifer termed his crimes as “home invasion”. A far gentler epithet yet with far more disturbing and unsettling connotations... Louis questioned him closely about his criminal activities. It was interesting to watch Louis’ urbanity and almost effeminate politeness peeling away the steely body armour of machismo and de-sensitivity. I guess it worked because there was an uneasy respect maintained by and between both parties. And more importantly Louis didn’t let any of his reactions betray any kind of judgment about what he was hearing. No mean feat when the lifer casually described torturing his victims to reveal the whereabouts of their valuables, half drowning people in their own hot-tubs and using a pistol to abuse his victims sexually... this from a man who then calmly accepted he would spend the rest of his natural life in prison without a trace of anger or frustration twitching at the edge of his benign smile.
Eerie.
But I guess at the heart of the documentary was the simple fact that no matter what circumstance you throw people into they will “make do”. They will seek out and pursue some sort of life. They will make the best of it. They will take their comforts where they find them. Hence, married ex-Nazis forming intimate relationships with Jewish homosexuals, long haired rock star wannabes becoming the lovers of pre-op transsexuals... Although Louis could see the ironies his gentle illuminations were blanked by all the prisoners involved. It was weird to see such an optimistic openness and also such a fearful, self-denying closedness operating in tandem in their minds.
It would be too easy to dismiss life in prison as merely an alternate reality to life outside it. Certainly life in prison is extreme and people in extremis react in extreme ways... but I don’t think life in prison is that far removed from ours own. In a lot of respects it’s almost the same – just with less baggage; with more stripped down, more rarefied choices. In terms of the need for intimacy and relationships, the need of hierarchies, rules and rites of passage life remains the same. Yes it’s harsh. But isn’t life in the outside world too? A lot of the comforts are obviously filtered out. But a lot of the heavy responsibilities and burdens are gone too.
As Mr Home Invasion pointed out: he doesn’t have to worry about getting a job. He doesn’t have to worry about keeping a roof over his head. He’s going to be “taken care of” until the day he dies.
Hell, what are we all waiting for? Let’s sign up to the Hotel California!
Until you see the cells where these men spend every day, every week barring 2 hours in the recreation yard. They can’t have been no more than 4 feet across. You could almost smell the constant pall of sweat and testosterone. The noise was constant – shouts, catcalls, whoops, nasty laughter. It sounded like a madhouse. The food was basic and could hardly be described as a comfort. There is the constant threat of being beaten, stabbed, or raped. To avoid these scenarios there is the constant “invitation” to join any number of gangs who’ll offer to protect you against such ends provided you do a little work for them in return... beating, stabbing or raping people who have happened to find themselves on their hit-lists... Dog eat dog and dog returning to its vomit ad infinitum.
If prison isn’t an alternate reality but merely mirrors the society that has a need for the prison what does that say about our world? Do we measure the progress of our civilization by the best it produces or the worst?
Louis didn’t have the answers. At the end of the day that isn’t his shtick. He asked his personal questions, remained affable in the face of constant, potential danger and then walked out of San Quentin jail when his stint was done with a considerably lighter tread than when he went in. And I for one was glad to be leaving with him.
Suddenly I was glad that I have a job to be worried about. That I have to constantly fight to keep a roof over my head. That there isn’t an institution taking care of me until the day I die – just me, myself and mine.
True freedom comes by accepting the weightiest responsibilities that life throws at you... not by shirking them and taking the easy or the fast way out...
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
How To Suck Eggs
Things with Karen’s mum are looking better this week. The word processor we got to her on Friday has proved a real boon and has improved her communication with the world around her a hundredfold.
Unfortunately it’s also improved her ability to cheese off the world around her with long, roving lists of unreasonable demands... including wanting her own duvet and bed-sheets brought into the hospital from home (and then laundered), a mini TV, a radio and other bits of hardware plus her Black & Decker Workmate.
Ok. I made up the last one but you get the picture.
The TV and radio I can understand but bringing in your own bed-sheets to a hospital is ridiculous. The hospital is clean and (unusual for a British hospital) the ward is infection free. To bring in foreign sheets is a real risk and I doubt the hospital will be offering a home laundry service! And Karen simply can’t be trailing dirty and freshly laundered duvets back and forth to Slough all the time.
Karen got home yesterday looking like she’d run a marathon, climbed a mountain and then done a full day’s work broking a Middle Eastern peace deal on top of it. To top it all Tom’s feeds had got so messed up he woke several times in the night rather than just the normal once. The knock-on effect is that Karen is like a zombie this morning.
However, there is a positive. The hospital have started speech therapy and are hoping to get her mum’s vocal chords and tongue working again over the next 5 weeks. Other relations have now all been contacted so hopefully other visitors will now start calling in to see her thus alleviating some of the pressure on us...
Lastly, the consultant, after listening to or rather reading another long barrage of demands, said something to Karen’s mum that was very pertinent. He told her that deep down she needed to accept where she was with the illness – physically, emotionally and environmentally – and to try to derive some peace from that acceptance.
I suspect, however, that is a life lesson she really needed to have learnt many years ago. Sadly I’m not sure she’ll be able to manage it now... she’s simply too old and much too stuck in her ways.
Unfortunately it’s also improved her ability to cheese off the world around her with long, roving lists of unreasonable demands... including wanting her own duvet and bed-sheets brought into the hospital from home (and then laundered), a mini TV, a radio and other bits of hardware plus her Black & Decker Workmate.
Ok. I made up the last one but you get the picture.
The TV and radio I can understand but bringing in your own bed-sheets to a hospital is ridiculous. The hospital is clean and (unusual for a British hospital) the ward is infection free. To bring in foreign sheets is a real risk and I doubt the hospital will be offering a home laundry service! And Karen simply can’t be trailing dirty and freshly laundered duvets back and forth to Slough all the time.
Karen got home yesterday looking like she’d run a marathon, climbed a mountain and then done a full day’s work broking a Middle Eastern peace deal on top of it. To top it all Tom’s feeds had got so messed up he woke several times in the night rather than just the normal once. The knock-on effect is that Karen is like a zombie this morning.
However, there is a positive. The hospital have started speech therapy and are hoping to get her mum’s vocal chords and tongue working again over the next 5 weeks. Other relations have now all been contacted so hopefully other visitors will now start calling in to see her thus alleviating some of the pressure on us...
Lastly, the consultant, after listening to or rather reading another long barrage of demands, said something to Karen’s mum that was very pertinent. He told her that deep down she needed to accept where she was with the illness – physically, emotionally and environmentally – and to try to derive some peace from that acceptance.
I suspect, however, that is a life lesson she really needed to have learnt many years ago. Sadly I’m not sure she’ll be able to manage it now... she’s simply too old and much too stuck in her ways.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?
Karen and I are exhausted. We had to be realistic and give up any thought of visiting Karen’s mum over the weekend or else risk Karen’s health as well. As it was Tom had a bad day on Sunday – possibly a cold of some sort – and wouldn’t have been up to travelling.
Whether Karen’s mum will be understanding about this remains to be seen. I can’t go into too much detail for reasons of family confidentiality but let’s just say she’s a very difficult woman.
I leave it up to the reader to fill in the blanks.
On a brighter side, although Karen’s mum is still unable to talk/eat she has retained the use of her limbs and mental faculties. Karen and I managed to furnish her with a word processor on Friday which frees her from having to point to letters on a sheet of paper in order to communicate with the hospital staff or indeed anyone. I dare say the poor nurses are already ploughing through great epistles and imperial requests of legal complexity as they go about their day to day chores on the ward...
Karen is planning to visit on Tuesday and Fridays – although more frequent visits would be preferable to try and do anymore with a 3 month old baby is just asking for trouble: it’s a 4 hour round car journey there and back. I’m already paranoid about Karen undertaking such regular journeys on her own with Tom as it is and, to be honest, neither the weather nor other drivers improved my confidence during the trips we made on Thursday and Friday last week. But what else can we do? Even if I could get the time off work to go with them we still have to consider Ben – he starts back at school tomorrow. It’s a very messy situation.
We’ll do what we can, when we can. But I mean to see to it that we also take care of ourselves too.
At the end of the day, as cruel and cold as this may sound, my first priority is Karen and the children. For me they come first and everybody else comes second. And that unfortunately includes the ill and the invalided...
Whether Karen’s mum will be understanding about this remains to be seen. I can’t go into too much detail for reasons of family confidentiality but let’s just say she’s a very difficult woman.
I leave it up to the reader to fill in the blanks.
On a brighter side, although Karen’s mum is still unable to talk/eat she has retained the use of her limbs and mental faculties. Karen and I managed to furnish her with a word processor on Friday which frees her from having to point to letters on a sheet of paper in order to communicate with the hospital staff or indeed anyone. I dare say the poor nurses are already ploughing through great epistles and imperial requests of legal complexity as they go about their day to day chores on the ward...
Karen is planning to visit on Tuesday and Fridays – although more frequent visits would be preferable to try and do anymore with a 3 month old baby is just asking for trouble: it’s a 4 hour round car journey there and back. I’m already paranoid about Karen undertaking such regular journeys on her own with Tom as it is and, to be honest, neither the weather nor other drivers improved my confidence during the trips we made on Thursday and Friday last week. But what else can we do? Even if I could get the time off work to go with them we still have to consider Ben – he starts back at school tomorrow. It’s a very messy situation.
We’ll do what we can, when we can. But I mean to see to it that we also take care of ourselves too.
At the end of the day, as cruel and cold as this may sound, my first priority is Karen and the children. For me they come first and everybody else comes second. And that unfortunately includes the ill and the invalided...
Friday, January 04, 2008
Come Friendly Bombs...
As some of you will know from the comments on the previous post Karen's mum suffered a stroke on New Year's Day. By an amazing coincidence her granny also had a heart attack on the same day. Both are recovering in hospital.
Without going into too much detail Karen's mum suffered a stroke to the brain-stem region of her nervous system/brain - mentally she's fine but at the moment is unable to eat, swallow or talk... so communication is carried out by the aid of an A4 sheet of paper with the alphabet printed onto it. To say it's very frustrating for all concerned is an understatement.
Karen and I are making regular journey's down to Slough to visit her in hospital... with a 6 year old and a 3 month old baby in tow this is a massive undertaking to organize so my blogging might be intermittent for a week or two - but I will keep you all posted.
Anyway, this has been my first experience of Slough and aside from jokes about The Office I can see little that is noteworthy in the wide, compressed and desolate thoroughfares of Slough. Sir John Betjemen was right - what a thoroughly drab, down-at-heel, concrete pancake of a place!
The highlight of the journey was spotting the Lego offices. The lucky buggers have all the latest Lego models lining their office windows. Freebies I bet. Lucky gits. I would give anything to work there...
...if it wasn't in Slough!
(It isn't fit for humans now...) too bloody right!
Without going into too much detail Karen's mum suffered a stroke to the brain-stem region of her nervous system/brain - mentally she's fine but at the moment is unable to eat, swallow or talk... so communication is carried out by the aid of an A4 sheet of paper with the alphabet printed onto it. To say it's very frustrating for all concerned is an understatement.
Karen and I are making regular journey's down to Slough to visit her in hospital... with a 6 year old and a 3 month old baby in tow this is a massive undertaking to organize so my blogging might be intermittent for a week or two - but I will keep you all posted.
Anyway, this has been my first experience of Slough and aside from jokes about The Office I can see little that is noteworthy in the wide, compressed and desolate thoroughfares of Slough. Sir John Betjemen was right - what a thoroughly drab, down-at-heel, concrete pancake of a place!
The highlight of the journey was spotting the Lego offices. The lucky buggers have all the latest Lego models lining their office windows. Freebies I bet. Lucky gits. I would give anything to work there...
...if it wasn't in Slough!
(It isn't fit for humans now...) too bloody right!
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Square One
The smell of stale disinfectant in the foyer, the glum faces of everybody I meet, the mouldy hum of my office computer all tell me that Christmas is well and truly over. I’m back at work. Back earning the crust that allows me to maintain my precarious chocolate and Lego lifestyle. Back up to my hips in leaky pipes, malfunctioning machinery and air conditioning that patently cannot or will not air condition.
And am I glad to be here? Am I f***.
I’m quite shocked at how easily I dropped all thought of work over the last 10 days. It was like it never existed. I let go of all thought of university too, my web design business, even my novel... and just wallowed in relaxation and pleasure. So easy.
And so difficult to pick it all up again this morning. Demotivated. Not a good way to start the New Year but, in a way, really quite traditional.
And I suppose it could be worse. Work has its down points certainly but it does have a few pluses too. Mainly that it allows me the time and (just) enough energy to do other creative things – like my novel and university for example; the things that keep me relatively sane when the conservators are sobbing on my shoulder about a painting that has been doused in rain water due to a leaky roof...
Normally this compromise is enough. Normally this molecularly precise balance between the good things in my life and the crud is enough to keep me on an even keel. Enough to keep me content and satisfied and functioning.
But after a long break where the crud has largely been expunged it’s hard to accept it back into my life again now that the holiday period has drawn to a close.
Why should I compromise? Why should I accept any of life’s drudgery and trash?
Because it pays the bills. It pays the bills. It pays the bills.
This is the New Year song that kick-starts every new year for every single one of us I’m sure.
And as for resolutions...
Well, I’m not a believer in compiling a foot long list of things that I know I will never accomplish.
Last year I seem to remember I kept things simple: start a novel.
I did and am now 96,000 words through it. Mission accomplished.
This year my resolution will be to finish the novel.
Mission accepted.
And in the background, the bills will all, every single one of them, get paid...
And am I glad to be here? Am I f***.
I’m quite shocked at how easily I dropped all thought of work over the last 10 days. It was like it never existed. I let go of all thought of university too, my web design business, even my novel... and just wallowed in relaxation and pleasure. So easy.
And so difficult to pick it all up again this morning. Demotivated. Not a good way to start the New Year but, in a way, really quite traditional.
And I suppose it could be worse. Work has its down points certainly but it does have a few pluses too. Mainly that it allows me the time and (just) enough energy to do other creative things – like my novel and university for example; the things that keep me relatively sane when the conservators are sobbing on my shoulder about a painting that has been doused in rain water due to a leaky roof...
Normally this compromise is enough. Normally this molecularly precise balance between the good things in my life and the crud is enough to keep me on an even keel. Enough to keep me content and satisfied and functioning.
But after a long break where the crud has largely been expunged it’s hard to accept it back into my life again now that the holiday period has drawn to a close.
Why should I compromise? Why should I accept any of life’s drudgery and trash?
Because it pays the bills. It pays the bills. It pays the bills.
This is the New Year song that kick-starts every new year for every single one of us I’m sure.
And as for resolutions...
Well, I’m not a believer in compiling a foot long list of things that I know I will never accomplish.
Last year I seem to remember I kept things simple: start a novel.
I did and am now 96,000 words through it. Mission accomplished.
This year my resolution will be to finish the novel.
Mission accepted.
And in the background, the bills will all, every single one of them, get paid...
Monday, December 31, 2007
Happy New Year
...And to share with you all the recipe for the cake above which has become a traditional Christmas standby for my family. It's a gorgeously rich, three-tier chocolate fudge cake and will satisfy the cravings of even the most desperate chocolate addict. Best served with cream this cake will allow you all to experience the most superlative of Alan Partridge moments... Enjoy!
3 Tier Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
275g plain flour
45ml cocoa powder
6.25ml baking powder
2.5ml bicarbonate of soda
a large pinch of salt
125g plain chocolate
150g softened butter
225g light brown soft sugar
2 eggs, beaten
150ml natural yoghurt
2.5ml vanilla essence
Icing:
450g icing sugar
125g cocoa powder
125g butter
90ml milk
Grease 3 x 18inch sandwich tins and line with greaseproof paper.
Sift the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, bicarbonate and salt together.
Melt the chocolate and leave to cool slightly.
Cream the butter and brown sugar together until pale and fluffy. Gradually beat in the eggs, then fold in the chocolate, the sifted ingredients, yoghurt and vanilla essence. Turn the mixture into the tins and level the surfaces.
Bake in the oven at 190 degrees C/mark 5 for 25-30 mins or until risen and firm to the touch. Turn out on a wire rack and leave to cool.
To make the icing: sift the icing sugar and cocoa powder into a heavy based saucepan. Add the butter and the milk and heat gently until the butter has melted. Beat until the icing is smooth. Remove from the heat.
Use some of the icing to sandwich the three cakes together. Cover the sides and top of the cake with the remaining icing. Leave to set.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Darlin' you give love a bad name...
Shock ending to the BBC's Robin Hood last night.
Dirty Git of Gisbourne killed Maidenly Marian! And after I'd spent hours on-line accumulating loads of pictures of the gorgeous Lucy Griffiths purely to illustrate my throbbing reviews of the show!
The dirty rotter!
Mind you, he'd been pushed to the limit poor lad. Marian, I must admit, had become something of a prick-tease over the recent weeks:
First she promised to marry Robin. Then she pretended to give Gisbourne the green light, abusing his leathery northern affections to wheedle out various advantages for Robin and his mucky men. Then she regularly snuck out from the castle to feed the poor, right the occasional wrong and spoon Robin like a good 'un. Then Gisbourne caught her, covered up her illicit activities to save her from the wrath of the Sheriff and out of the goodness of his own heart revealed that he was embroiled in a plot (with the Sheriff) to kill good King Richard. Marian naturally begged Guy to to do the decent thing - i.e. not kill good King Richard - and promised that if he thus came good she would reward him by doing the indecent thing and... er... let him come good in another way...
And then the naughty girl marries Robin Hood on the spur of the moment whilst tied to a wooden stake out in the middle of the Arabian desert. Make up your bloody mind girl!
And then she makes the mistake of rubbing it into Gisbourne's face in the last few minutes of the episode. Doh! That's just asking for trouble, that is.
The inevitable happened. The poor man snapped. You could see it in his black leather trench coat. It flapped slightly more stiffly than usual and then he shoved his dirty great sword right up and through Marian's rather saucily curved belly.
I'm sure I don't have to belabour the link between swords and the male reproductive organ...
Anyway, that's twice Gisbourne has stabbed Marian now. Feeling a mite frustrated are we, Guy?
As for Marian, she must be wondering what the hell she did wrong. I mean she does everything to get laid and instead gets laid low with a ruddy steel blade. Forever. One last snog with Robin and she pops her Laura Ashley clogs to flit up to the great Sherwood Forest in the sky.
Gone forever.
The best thing in the entire show written out.
My motivation to watch the show has lessened considerably. And to make it even worse they even married Djaq off to Will Scarlett and the pair decided to settle down to a life of domestic bliss (?) in the Holy Land.
All the eye candy for the boys wiped out in one fell swoop.
Are the writer's insane?
Ho hum. I guess Lucy Griffiths wanted to move onto bigger, more serious, more historically accurate things... and I for one don't blame her. I wish her well and would like to add that she can wear any of her incongruous, anachronistic costumes round my way any time...
I promise to be very careful where I stash my sword.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Unwrapped
I also have to say that, despite my initial smugness at avoiding the High Street crowds this year by shopping entirely on-line, the negative of this has been loads and loads of extra cardboard packaging, polystyrene and padding hanging about the house which has only added to our Christmas carbon footprint.
Put it this way: I nearly entitled this post "Return Of The Sasquatch".
Refuse gripes aside I must admit Christmas was highly enjoyable - it being Tom's first only added to the specialness of it all. Not that Tom was particularly impressed - or even interested - in any of the presents we'd bought for him, preferring instead the occasional bottle of milk...
However, for the rest of us, there were some cool presents flying around this year that put smiles on all our faces. Among the pile of goodies I lavished on Karen was the Bladerunner 5 disc boxed set, a copy of Newman & Baddiel's History Today, an ocean of DVDS and books and some richly gorgeous jewellery. Ben had a Transformer voice mask (oh how we regret buying that...), a Lego remote control car and his own MP3 player.
Myself? I found myself presented with an ION USB turntable so that I can transfer my immense vinyl record collection to MP3 format, a Lego AT-AT Walker (Star Wars fans will understand the coolness of this) that actually walks (!) and some fab DVDS - Harry Potter & The Order Of The Phoenix, Rome Season 2 and 300 to name but a few. In fact coupled with the stash of DVDs I bought Karen we've now got so many movies to watch we could actually cancel our subscription to cable TV and still have stuff to watch right up to mid April.
Hmm. You know, that's not a bad idea... especially given how dire Christmas telly was this year. Doctor Who was a major disappointment. So much so I can't motivate myself to even write about it. Ballet Shoes was enjoyable and nice to see Emma Watson on TV spreading her acting wings. And Extras last night was very enjoyable. I actually found myself getting quite teary eyed towards the end. I guess I've still got too much Christmas sentimentality flowing around my blood stream.
Talking of which... I got some whisky for Christmas too and it's now baying for my company. Cheers one and all!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Breaking The Law! Breaking The Law!
Apparently it is officially illegal in England (and possibly the whole of the UK) to celebrate Christmas. A law was set down during the time of Oliver Cromwell declaring that the celebration of Christmas was to be outlawed and it has never ever been repealed. When Charles II, all round funkster, hip-happening-guy and disco king, ascended the throne everybody just thought buggery to Ollie and started celebrating Christmas like there was no tomorrow (i.e. no Boxing Day) and completely forgot about undoing Ollie Crommie’s silly little law.
It still stands.
So. We are all officially breaking the law.
Hmm.
Suddenly the fun element of Christmas has increased a hundred-fold...!
Merry Christmas and merry rebellion one and all!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
School Play
There were so many lenses and LEDs flying about the place that Steven Spielburg would have creamed his little furry boxers.
We took Tom along with us though he took little interest in the performance, preferring to sleep snuggled up in his car seat on the floor at our feet. Call it charisma, call it charm, call it innate acting ability but Tom’s afternoon nap commanded a fair bit of the audience’s attention... at least in the part where we were sitting.
The school play however was squeakily superb. Lots of cute lines delivered with volume and enthusiasm (but no feeling or understanding) and I’m proud to say that Ben’s delivery was the loudest of all. He was playing a transformer toy newly delivered by the tiniest Father Christmas I’ve ever seen and though he had but one line he gave it his all. Full lung capacity.
I’m not joking - I saw the first two rows of the audience visibly recoil and the stage shudder slightly as the air above it was warped by the sound waves. The headmaster was seen to exit the hall with blood pouring from his ears. Even Tom stirred a little in his sleep.
That’s my boy.
A star is born. The roof had been raised (literally – three cracked rafters and 17 missing slates, last seen flying towards Birmingham on a supersonic jet stream).
Mark my words; it’ll be RADA when he’s older.
Either that or a job as a town crier.
Monday, December 17, 2007
The Heat Is Off
As I commence my last week at work before a much needed Christmas break the building naturally goes into complete maintenance meltdown.
No heating.
No humidity control (essential for the safe storage of art objects).
No external emergency lighting.
Broken hand driers in the public toilets (this one makes Joe Public kill).
Dead rats in the basement.
Faulty doors.
Roof leaks.
And I’ve just eaten my last chocolate on the office communal advent calendar (I am officially panicking).
Any hope I had of a nice easy week – a nice slow, downhill cruise toward festive holidaydom – has gone completely out the window. Along with the last of the building’s residual heat.
And naturally all the contractors and engineers who normally bail us out of these sorts of problems are reluctant to do so this close to Christmas because they too are wanting to have a nice easy, downhill cruise toward their Christmas breaks and don’t want to be immersed up their necks in major (probably irresolvable) works that will keep them away from their last minute Christmas shopping and their early finish on Friday prior to hitting the pubs for a session of festive quaffing.
Gits.
To quote the Pogues...
Merry Christmas my arse.
No heating.
No humidity control (essential for the safe storage of art objects).
No external emergency lighting.
Broken hand driers in the public toilets (this one makes Joe Public kill).
Dead rats in the basement.
Faulty doors.
Roof leaks.
And I’ve just eaten my last chocolate on the office communal advent calendar (I am officially panicking).
Any hope I had of a nice easy week – a nice slow, downhill cruise toward festive holidaydom – has gone completely out the window. Along with the last of the building’s residual heat.
And naturally all the contractors and engineers who normally bail us out of these sorts of problems are reluctant to do so this close to Christmas because they too are wanting to have a nice easy, downhill cruise toward their Christmas breaks and don’t want to be immersed up their necks in major (probably irresolvable) works that will keep them away from their last minute Christmas shopping and their early finish on Friday prior to hitting the pubs for a session of festive quaffing.
Gits.
To quote the Pogues...
Merry Christmas my arse.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Christmas Tag
Per.pri has tagged me for Christmas and so it is with festive joy that I respond and also tag a few of my other blog buddies in return to keep the tag going. Tris, Ally, Amanda, Laura and OC – consider yourselves tagged for Christmas; I look forward to reading your answers.
"When people say 'Christmas' you immediately think..."
Nativity and the school Christmas play. For some reason I have very strong memories of being at school and enjoying the anticipation of Christmas… the hours spent in the playground looking up at the cold grey skies and hoping that I’ll be getting the present that I’ve most set my heart upon (which tended to be Lego when I was a boy and still is Lego now if I’m honest). It also makes me remember the excitement of spending Christmas Day and Boxing Day with all the family at my grandparent’s house and the constant buzz of visitors and neighbours popping in. It also, rather annoyingly, makes me think of Slade. And Noel Edmunds. Urgh.
"Favourite Christmas memory..."
My favourite Christmas memory is wanting a Lego spaceship one year. It was way too much money for my parents to afford so we did a deal whereby they’d give me twenty pounds for it as my Christmas present and then I could put whatever other Christmas money I received towards buying it afterwards. I have to say that the thought of just getting money for Christmas was hard to get excited about and I recall writing off Christmas that year with a sad shrug. When it came time to receive the money I was told to close my eyes and hold out my hand. Sure enough I felt the feather touch of paper being placed on my palm but when I looked it was a fake £20 note as drawn by my sister. Ha ha – good joke. I was told to close my eyes again. This time the Lego set itself was placed in my hands. My face must have been a picture. Suddenly Christmas was back on again. Absolute result. Best Christmas ever.
"Favourite Christmas song/carol..."
This is easy: In The Bleak Mid Winter in honour of my gran who always cried when she heard this. And oddly Silent Night which always made my granddad cry. I never knew why it made my gran so tearful but I did learn why Silent Night upset my granddad so much. During WWII he took part in the North Atlantic convoys. One night one of the ships was hit by a U Boat and a lot of men were thrown into the water. Unfortunately due to the U Boats there was a black-out so all the sailors knew that there could be no lights on and no stopping to rescue anyone… the sailors in the water knew they were going to die and all sang Silent Night as their comrades sailed by.
"Favourite Christmas movie..."
Hmm. Quite a few. Traditionally Mary Poppins or Half A Sixpence come onto the TV at some point and I’m quite a sucker for them. Since the three Lord Of The Rings films were released during this time of year though they now have a Christmas feel to them and indeed Karen and I have just spent the last few weekends watching the extended version of each to get ourselves into the festive mood. Harry Potter is also a Christmas favourite.
"Favourite Christmas character..."
Difficult. I never went overboard on the Elves or the reindeers. However, I’m quite partial to the Christmas Carol story so I suppose Scrooge would be a good one. I have a soft spot for redemption stories.
"Favourite Christmas ornament/object..."
I quite like Crhistmas snow globes and have a musical one that features a long limbed Santa – he looks like a character from a Tim Burton animation.
"Plans for this Christmas..."
Shut the door, turn up the heat, and just enjoy being with Karen, Ben and Tom. We’ll get up when we’re ready. Spend the entire morning opening presents and then eat a luxurious dinner. The whole day will be one of chilled excitement – if that’s not too contradictory.
"Is Christmas your favourite holiday?"
I’d be lying if I said no. Especially now that Karen and I can enjoy it through our kid’s eyes. But I’m also partial to the summer holidays because I love the sun and love travelling to new places.
"When people say 'Christmas' you immediately think..."
Nativity and the school Christmas play. For some reason I have very strong memories of being at school and enjoying the anticipation of Christmas… the hours spent in the playground looking up at the cold grey skies and hoping that I’ll be getting the present that I’ve most set my heart upon (which tended to be Lego when I was a boy and still is Lego now if I’m honest). It also makes me remember the excitement of spending Christmas Day and Boxing Day with all the family at my grandparent’s house and the constant buzz of visitors and neighbours popping in. It also, rather annoyingly, makes me think of Slade. And Noel Edmunds. Urgh.
"Favourite Christmas memory..."
My favourite Christmas memory is wanting a Lego spaceship one year. It was way too much money for my parents to afford so we did a deal whereby they’d give me twenty pounds for it as my Christmas present and then I could put whatever other Christmas money I received towards buying it afterwards. I have to say that the thought of just getting money for Christmas was hard to get excited about and I recall writing off Christmas that year with a sad shrug. When it came time to receive the money I was told to close my eyes and hold out my hand. Sure enough I felt the feather touch of paper being placed on my palm but when I looked it was a fake £20 note as drawn by my sister. Ha ha – good joke. I was told to close my eyes again. This time the Lego set itself was placed in my hands. My face must have been a picture. Suddenly Christmas was back on again. Absolute result. Best Christmas ever.
"Favourite Christmas song/carol..."
This is easy: In The Bleak Mid Winter in honour of my gran who always cried when she heard this. And oddly Silent Night which always made my granddad cry. I never knew why it made my gran so tearful but I did learn why Silent Night upset my granddad so much. During WWII he took part in the North Atlantic convoys. One night one of the ships was hit by a U Boat and a lot of men were thrown into the water. Unfortunately due to the U Boats there was a black-out so all the sailors knew that there could be no lights on and no stopping to rescue anyone… the sailors in the water knew they were going to die and all sang Silent Night as their comrades sailed by.
"Favourite Christmas movie..."
Hmm. Quite a few. Traditionally Mary Poppins or Half A Sixpence come onto the TV at some point and I’m quite a sucker for them. Since the three Lord Of The Rings films were released during this time of year though they now have a Christmas feel to them and indeed Karen and I have just spent the last few weekends watching the extended version of each to get ourselves into the festive mood. Harry Potter is also a Christmas favourite.
"Favourite Christmas character..."
Difficult. I never went overboard on the Elves or the reindeers. However, I’m quite partial to the Christmas Carol story so I suppose Scrooge would be a good one. I have a soft spot for redemption stories.
"Favourite Christmas ornament/object..."
I quite like Crhistmas snow globes and have a musical one that features a long limbed Santa – he looks like a character from a Tim Burton animation.
"Plans for this Christmas..."
Shut the door, turn up the heat, and just enjoy being with Karen, Ben and Tom. We’ll get up when we’re ready. Spend the entire morning opening presents and then eat a luxurious dinner. The whole day will be one of chilled excitement – if that’s not too contradictory.
"Is Christmas your favourite holiday?"
I’d be lying if I said no. Especially now that Karen and I can enjoy it through our kid’s eyes. But I’m also partial to the summer holidays because I love the sun and love travelling to new places.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Generations
Last week Karen and I were finally able to take Tom up to meet his great granddad. As some of you will know my granddad has been recovering from a recent spell of C Diff which had delayed the meeting for a good few weeks until everyone was sure my granddad was fully recovered.
Last Wednesday the two generations finally met. It was very emotional and my granddad had a good cry as he held Tom in his arms. Due to Macular Degeneration my granddad’s eyesight is virtually non existent but although he was unable to see Tom clearly he could at least hold him and we in turn got plenty of photographs of the momentous occasion.
My granddad now feels more at peace and quietly told me that now he’s held his great grandson he’s quite happy to “toddle off” and join my grandmother in the afterlife. There’s not a lot one can say to that – he’s been deeply unhappy since she died – but I did say I hoped he’d stick around for a little while longer. Maybe until Tom’s eighteenth birthday party so he can buy Tom his first drink.
At 87 that’s highly unlikely but you never know. Some people respond well to a bit of gentle prodding...
Last Wednesday the two generations finally met. It was very emotional and my granddad had a good cry as he held Tom in his arms. Due to Macular Degeneration my granddad’s eyesight is virtually non existent but although he was unable to see Tom clearly he could at least hold him and we in turn got plenty of photographs of the momentous occasion.
My granddad now feels more at peace and quietly told me that now he’s held his great grandson he’s quite happy to “toddle off” and join my grandmother in the afterlife. There’s not a lot one can say to that – he’s been deeply unhappy since she died – but I did say I hoped he’d stick around for a little while longer. Maybe until Tom’s eighteenth birthday party so he can buy Tom his first drink.
At 87 that’s highly unlikely but you never know. Some people respond well to a bit of gentle prodding...
Monday, December 10, 2007
Morning Wood
The spare room is over flowing with yet to be wrapped goodies for my loved ones. Karen and I are already compiling our Christmas food shopping list. Suddenly I’m able to stomach every cheesy film that the TV throws at me (I’m even enjoying the Christmas idents on all the TV channels).
And my budget is as blown as Hugh Grant on an L.A. side street.
I’m sure I’ll be annoyed with my spendthriftery come the New Year but for now I’m well pleased with what I’ve bought. There’s nothing worse than being lavished with gifts yourself on Christmas morning and then grimacing as you hand over a meagre pile of newspaper wrapped gift-ettes in return. Sure the January bills will be depressing but I can take consolation in the fact that Karen and the boys will be over the moon with what I’ve got them.
I’m sure such inner warmth will also help insulate me from the cold chill winds of February as I bed down for the night in front of Woolworth’s shop window...
And as for Roy Wood’s desire that it be Christmas every day... well. Nice idea Roy but, really, no. I honestly couldn’t afford it.
I’m already considering approaching Richard Branson for financial help as it is...
I wonder if it would help if I changed my name to Northern Rock?
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Dropping The Baby
Not a nice experience over the weekend: 5am Saturday morning and so tired that one handle of Tom’s Moses basket slipped completely out of my hand before I could stop it...
The result was that Tom was ejected to the floor in a manner that he really didn’t like at all and Karen and I had our hearts in our mouths for a good hour afterwards. Thankfully we were very lucky. We tend to carry the basket low to the floor anyway so as it was Tom didn’t suffer any kind of drop – he basically was just rolled sideways out of the basket and onto his back on the carpet.
He certainly cried about it but it was mostly shock and surprise and was soon smiling, cooing and feeding again as normal.
I, however, felt awful – really shitty – and just had to hold Tom close to me for a while to make sure he was ok, followed by Karen doing the same. Instinctive reaction I guess.
We both know that such accidents are actually quite commonplace – all of my friends with babies have experienced such incidents at one time or another – but it’s unpalatable when it happens to you.
The only good thing about it is that it’s made us be extra careful when manoeuvring Tom around in his basket since then... especially in the small hours of the morning.
On a lighter note Tom is displaying a definite sense of humour – loads of laughs and bubbly giggles – and a definite interest in the world around him. He also likes having his face stroked.
Just like his old man!
The result was that Tom was ejected to the floor in a manner that he really didn’t like at all and Karen and I had our hearts in our mouths for a good hour afterwards. Thankfully we were very lucky. We tend to carry the basket low to the floor anyway so as it was Tom didn’t suffer any kind of drop – he basically was just rolled sideways out of the basket and onto his back on the carpet.
He certainly cried about it but it was mostly shock and surprise and was soon smiling, cooing and feeding again as normal.
I, however, felt awful – really shitty – and just had to hold Tom close to me for a while to make sure he was ok, followed by Karen doing the same. Instinctive reaction I guess.
We both know that such accidents are actually quite commonplace – all of my friends with babies have experienced such incidents at one time or another – but it’s unpalatable when it happens to you.
The only good thing about it is that it’s made us be extra careful when manoeuvring Tom around in his basket since then... especially in the small hours of the morning.
On a lighter note Tom is displaying a definite sense of humour – loads of laughs and bubbly giggles – and a definite interest in the world around him. He also likes having his face stroked.
Just like his old man!
Sunday, December 02, 2007
True Romance
His carefully prepared speech whooshed and veritably twanged with romance.
He basically compared Marian to his Saracen bow. Doh! Why didn’t I think of that when I popped the question to my wife three years ago?
Apparently when Robin first held his bow he just knew, right, that it felt RIGHT. And Marian was exactly the same.
Yes. I can appreciate the analogy. She has curves in all the right places. It takes patience and strength to pull her properly – and if you do it incorrectly you’re in danger of losing one of your most essential digits. She must be brought to the right level of heightened tension before she can achieve the ultimate release. And I dare say she’ll hum rather tunefully when Robin fires off his heavy tipped long range arrows.
Unfortunately Robin will have to wait a while to consummate the partnership as, though Marian has said yes, it’s under the proviso that he foils a plot to kill the King, defeats the Sheriff and brings good King Richard back home safely to give her away.
Typical toff bird. Can’t be satisfied with a nice encrusted ring hoiked off the end of a Bishop’s finger, oh no. She has to set the bar so high Robin may as well shoot at the moon. The poor boy’s forest green togs must be turning blue with frustration.
No wonder he keeps fingering his quiver.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Ebay Is Evil
I’m supposed to be shopping on-line for Christmas presents for my nearest and dearest so why is it I’ve just blown a good £100 on Ebay buying tat for myself?
I do the same thing every year and then (a) feel guilty at the amount of money I’ve spent on myself – which isn’t to say that I haven’t lavished far more of my hard earned moolah on my loved ones than on greedy old, little old me – and then (b) spend January feeling glum, broke and abstemious in an attempt to restore the balance.
As far as I’m concerned me and Ebay are lethal.
It all starts off innocently enough. Ooh, I think, I’ll just have a little punt on this item here and bingo I bid a couple of quid. Suddenly that most gossamer of connections between me and “the dream item” becomes intractable and concrete in my head. The item is MINE. MINE I tell you. How dare someone gazump me with a higher bid! I’ll just venture a few more pounds...
But £5 is absolutely my ceiling. No question of going any higher.
Damn. Outbid.
Ok. Ok. £10 is my absolute ceiling.
Poo. Right. £15...
Etc, etc.
By the time I’ve finished I’m foaming at the mouth but victorious and have blown £40 on something that I’m not sure is really essential in the first place.
And I do the same thing every bloody year!
No wonder I normally avoid Ebay like the plague.
Bah humbug.
Anybody care to purchase a genuine Royal Doulton Toby Jug? Only two careful owners...
I do the same thing every year and then (a) feel guilty at the amount of money I’ve spent on myself – which isn’t to say that I haven’t lavished far more of my hard earned moolah on my loved ones than on greedy old, little old me – and then (b) spend January feeling glum, broke and abstemious in an attempt to restore the balance.
As far as I’m concerned me and Ebay are lethal.
It all starts off innocently enough. Ooh, I think, I’ll just have a little punt on this item here and bingo I bid a couple of quid. Suddenly that most gossamer of connections between me and “the dream item” becomes intractable and concrete in my head. The item is MINE. MINE I tell you. How dare someone gazump me with a higher bid! I’ll just venture a few more pounds...
But £5 is absolutely my ceiling. No question of going any higher.
Damn. Outbid.
Ok. Ok. £10 is my absolute ceiling.
Poo. Right. £15...
Etc, etc.
By the time I’ve finished I’m foaming at the mouth but victorious and have blown £40 on something that I’m not sure is really essential in the first place.
And I do the same thing every bloody year!
No wonder I normally avoid Ebay like the plague.
Bah humbug.
Anybody care to purchase a genuine Royal Doulton Toby Jug? Only two careful owners...
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Jewel
Good on you, people.
Ever eager to capitalize on whatever topic of interest floats my reader’s boats I thought I might compose a small paean to Julia as I’ve been a huge fan of hers since her Press Gang days.
Press Gang, for those of you who don’t know, was mislabelled a kid’s programme back in the late eighties / nineties and was broadcast on ITV during their after school tea-time slot and was probably the finest scripted programme on television at the time. It was where Doctor Who / Jekyll writer Steven Moffat first cut his television writer’s teeth and certainly the scripts abound with enthusiasm, energy and movement. Which is not to say they ever descend into cheap candyfloss frippery and “zany” kid-world fantasy.
The scripts were cutting, sharp, breath-takingly funny and sometimes surprisingly harrowing in the choice of subjects covered. It was the one kid’s programme that refused to patronize its viewers and as a consequence is still head and shoulders above much of the TV guff that is thrown at children even today.
Julia played the formidable Lynda Day and for her first big TV role put in a performance so confident and self-assured it had Jennifer Saunders and Andrew Davies, to name but two, knocking her door down to offer her parts in projects they themselves were working on. I’m glossing over a huge swathe of biographical detail here but you get the picture. I believe the expression is: a star was born.
Since then Julia has appeared in dozens of period dramas – a period drama is now no longer believable unless Julia appears in it – Jonathan Creek, Faith In The Future and provided voice overs for plasticine chickens in Nick Park’s Chicken Run... and loads more besides.
You’ll notice I am staunchly refusing to make jokes about stuffing birds, or asking if anyone would care for a leg or a breast. I am above such things.
Anyway, despite a career spanning a good 20 years Julia has always retained a freshness and vitality that positively shines out of her whenever she appears on TV. She’s a class actress and it’s a real delight to see her in Cranford (and back being a brunette – I never cared for the blonde look she adopted in Jonathan Creek) though as TimeWarden pointed out in his comments to the previous post, she is now alas “looking older”... but is that necessarily a bad thing? She looks good, she looks natural and she is (according to the Radio Times) no longer living in the smoke and druggery of London but is immersing herself in the wilds of Somerset – immersing herself in a greener and healthier lifestyle, growing veggies and taking an English degree.
Exactly like me in fact. Except I’m not growing veggies, or living in Somerset, am not female and am not a class actress. And I can’t fill out a corset half as well as she can.
But I am a brunette. Totally natural, you know.
Enough! God bless you Julia! You’re great, you are.
Right. Gushing over. What can I moan and snipe miserably about now...?
Friday, November 23, 2007
Sleb
But I did howl with laughter as ex Eastender’s chump Marc Bannerman was escorted off camp after his ignoble eviction from the show (for flirting embarrassingly with Cerys Matthews despite already having a girlfriend in tow – tut tut – the public really do not like that).
“I’m in love with two people,” he simpered.
What? Himself and his own reflection?
Twat.
Baby Grow
Tom in now a little over 6 weeks old – it’s hard to believe! In some ways the time has flown by and in others it feels like Tom has always been with us. That last is a really nice feeling. He was weighed again on Tuesday and is now a hefty 10lb 2oz. He’s putting on the beef nicely and is turning into a lovely chubby little baby.
He’s also started smiling properly too – smiling in recognition of Karen and myself and in response to happy tones of voice. All signs that he’s developing as he should.
My only regret at the moment is that we’ve still not been able to take him to visit my granddad. Shortly before Tom was born my granddad was admitted into hospital with an infection which turned out to be C. Diff. He ended up being kept in for 4 weeks and Karen and I were advised by the doctors to stay well away to prevent any chance of the infection spreading to Tom. It can be fatal in adults let alone in new born babies.
He’s been home now for 2 weeks and frustratingly the official medical advice is still to keep Tom away – my granddad is still complaining of feeling ill and has stomach problems. It’s quite heartbreaking to keep him and Tom apart but Karen and I daren’t risk doing anything else.
I spoke to my doctor about it yesterday and she at least said it would be safe for me to visit him provided we kept physical contact at a minimum so all being well I’m going to nip out to see him during my lunchbreak today. But as for Tom she thought he’d probably be safe but it was best not to risk it. What my granddad needs to do is inform his own doctor of his ongoing problems and get himself tested.
Persuading him to do that is going to be easier said that done, however, as he’s terrified that they’ll take him back into hospital. And I really sympathise with that but I guess the crunch is if he wants to see Tom then he needs to ensure that he’s totally C. Diff free.
I just hope I can get that across to him without hurting his feelings...
He’s also started smiling properly too – smiling in recognition of Karen and myself and in response to happy tones of voice. All signs that he’s developing as he should.
My only regret at the moment is that we’ve still not been able to take him to visit my granddad. Shortly before Tom was born my granddad was admitted into hospital with an infection which turned out to be C. Diff. He ended up being kept in for 4 weeks and Karen and I were advised by the doctors to stay well away to prevent any chance of the infection spreading to Tom. It can be fatal in adults let alone in new born babies.
He’s been home now for 2 weeks and frustratingly the official medical advice is still to keep Tom away – my granddad is still complaining of feeling ill and has stomach problems. It’s quite heartbreaking to keep him and Tom apart but Karen and I daren’t risk doing anything else.
I spoke to my doctor about it yesterday and she at least said it would be safe for me to visit him provided we kept physical contact at a minimum so all being well I’m going to nip out to see him during my lunchbreak today. But as for Tom she thought he’d probably be safe but it was best not to risk it. What my granddad needs to do is inform his own doctor of his ongoing problems and get himself tested.
Persuading him to do that is going to be easier said that done, however, as he’s terrified that they’ll take him back into hospital. And I really sympathise with that but I guess the crunch is if he wants to see Tom then he needs to ensure that he’s totally C. Diff free.
I just hope I can get that across to him without hurting his feelings...
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thursday’s Weather
I’ve had the glums for last few days – a combination of work dross, lack of sleep, a bad back and the interminably grey skies that have sat over the entire country like a giant pie crust.
What kind of filling are we, I wonder? Steak and kidney? Chicken and mushroom? Beef and onion?
I have no idea and as you can imagine pondering such questions has done little to improve my mood.
However, I can’t deny that there is something comforting about the featureless grey skies that have lidded my world for the last three days. Maybe I’m only saying that because I’m English and we English are secretly proud when our weather proves to be even more mundane and dreary than our European cousins think it.
For some reason it takes me back to my junior school days... huddling in the playground wearing a home knitted bobble hat and those annoying mittens tied together by a giant piece of string, watching the world go by over the other side of the school fence, thinking how lucky all the grown ups were to be able to go about their lives without having to be stuck at school all day...
I seem to recall that for a short period in 1980 there was a huge thunderstorm nearly every Thursday afternoon. Forked lightning and everything. It sticks in my mind only because the headmaster at the time – the evil Mr Enoch – informed us that Thursday was named after Thor, the Norse god of Thunder (hence Thor’s Day) and so the thunderstorms were all rather apt.
Sigh. I’m so glad I came out of school with something embedded in my skull (other than a thrown chalk rubber).
And now I sit at work, watching the world go by outside my window and think how lucky all the kids are to be attending school rather than sitting here behind my desk grubbing at interminable paperwork and trying to diffuse the latest plumbing disaster to hit the public toilets...
Is that amused hammering I can hear in the distance...?
What kind of filling are we, I wonder? Steak and kidney? Chicken and mushroom? Beef and onion?
I have no idea and as you can imagine pondering such questions has done little to improve my mood.
However, I can’t deny that there is something comforting about the featureless grey skies that have lidded my world for the last three days. Maybe I’m only saying that because I’m English and we English are secretly proud when our weather proves to be even more mundane and dreary than our European cousins think it.
For some reason it takes me back to my junior school days... huddling in the playground wearing a home knitted bobble hat and those annoying mittens tied together by a giant piece of string, watching the world go by over the other side of the school fence, thinking how lucky all the grown ups were to be able to go about their lives without having to be stuck at school all day...
I seem to recall that for a short period in 1980 there was a huge thunderstorm nearly every Thursday afternoon. Forked lightning and everything. It sticks in my mind only because the headmaster at the time – the evil Mr Enoch – informed us that Thursday was named after Thor, the Norse god of Thunder (hence Thor’s Day) and so the thunderstorms were all rather apt.
Sigh. I’m so glad I came out of school with something embedded in my skull (other than a thrown chalk rubber).
And now I sit at work, watching the world go by outside my window and think how lucky all the kids are to be attending school rather than sitting here behind my desk grubbing at interminable paperwork and trying to diffuse the latest plumbing disaster to hit the public toilets...
Is that amused hammering I can hear in the distance...?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Toenails
Well, folks, call it luck, call it a fluke, call it psychically synchronized schedule programming but I’ve scored a double.
Last night saw Tony Slattery also attempting a TV comeback in the BBC’s Robin Hood.
Tres bizarre.
Have I got the televisual Midas touch? Have I got the power of the Mysterons over the casting department at the BBC?
Well, hey, let’s put it to the test shall we? If there’s anybody you’d like to see on TV – or to be precise in Robin Hood – then leave a comment and let me know and I’ll see what I can do…
Personally I’m still working on having Lucy Griffiths appear in nothing but a Cornish fishing net but I’ll be happy to make room for other requests too.
As for Tony… well it was both a pleasure and a tragedy to see him back on TV. The poor man looked dreadful. Disturbingly over-weight – though he was never a svelte ballet dancer – and eyes sunk further than the Titanic. Karen assures me it was just heavy eye make-up but personally I don’t think the Robin Hood make-up department are that good.
It’s plain he’s been ill and that’s sad to see but let’s hope that this outing is the start of a major health and career recovery. Though being shot in the man-boob by Robin Hood can’t have been good for his cholesterol.
Yes, there was death and carnage a-plenty in last night’s episode. Tony’s Canon of Birkley was punctured by Robin but only after he’d skewered Marian’s father, Edward, on the end of his jewelled dagger. Ooh the cad.
Personally I think this was a good move on the part of the writers (and it’s not often I agree with their plot decisions) as it frees Marian up to join Robin in the forest and pushes their burgeoning romance a little further down the road to soft pornography. Did I say soft pornography? I meant to say family centred fulfilment. Ahem.
For the Robin Hood nerds among you, you’ll no doubt have noticed that last night’s episode doffed it’s cap to not one but two episodes of it’s forerunner Robin Of Sherwood. The story of a young man coming to rescue his love from the evil clutches of the Sheriff was redolent of the "Alan-A-Dale" story in the first series of Robin Of Sherwood and the scene where Edward sneaks into the Sheriff’s bed chamber to steal the keys to ye olde safe was a salute to "Seven Poor Knights From Acre". It’s good to see the writer’s acknowledging Richard Carpenter’s far superior series…
Lastly folks, my favourite anachronisms from last night’s episode:
1) John of York’s protestations that he only had 10 shillings to his name. Shillings? Shillings? Surely the coin of choice in the 1100’s was the mark?
2) Robin and his merry men all wearing cowboy hats and duster coats as their latest disguise. “I say Gisborne, have you seen Robin Hood creeping about the castle?” “No Sheriff, but I thought I saw Clint Eastwood and Clyde the Monkey poking about your oubliette…”
Yes…
Much really needs to get rid of those ginger sideburns…
Thursday, November 15, 2007
On The Buses
Anyway, the background (for those of you that are interested) is that the local bus company, Stagecoach, have launched a brand spanking new bus service this week. All posh leather seats, fleur-de-lys décor and gold trim. And hardly any space for parents with prams or pushchairs – a subject, as you know, which is rather close to my heart at the moment.
The end result was that Karen, Ben and Tom were refused entry to three buses on the trot one afternoon this week because the one and only space on each bus (which is technically set aside for wheelchair users rather than prams) was already occupied by a mum with a pushchair. There was nowhere for Tom’s pram to go so it was a case of “sorry luv, you’ll just have to wait for next one...” By the time they eventually got home they were all tired, freezing cold and very very upset. A 20 minute journey had taken the best part of an hour.
Not good enough! What’s the use of Italian leather seats a-plenty if you’re not allowed onto the bus to use the damn things? Right, thought I: no-one treats my wife and kids like that...
And so you can read the gory details below. The letter was sent to The Courier and to Stagecoach themselves:
Re: Your new Goldline Bus service
Whilst I am very impressed with the aesthetics of your new Goldline bus service as unveiled this week – the Italian leather seats, the plush navy and gold interiors – there has been a huge oversight on the part of the bus designers.
If you are a young mum with baby in a pushchair or a pram your chances of boarding a Goldline bus are severely diminished because of the lack of provision for such devices within the bus itself.
My wife has been refused entry to your Goldline buses on three consecutive days this week because the “space for wheelchairs” was already occupied by a traveller with a pram. On the second day that this happened she was refused entry to three buses in a row. This meant my wife – recovering from a caesarean, our 6 year old boy and our 4 week old baby were left waiting in the freezing cold for over 40 minutes despite three buses having called in at the bus stop during this period. By the time they were allowed to board a bus night had fallen and the baby was due a feed. Both he, my boy and my wife were understandably very distressed.
To be fair I’d like to state that I have no complaint against the bus drivers at all. They were all sympathetic but unable to do anything about the situation. In fact one commented that “this had been happening all day”.
Having used the G1 service myself I couldn’t help but notice that the only space for pushchairs is actually designated as being for wheelchair users only. It seems no provision has been made for mums with young children and babies at all. I rang your Leamington office this morning and asked what would happen if someone with a pram was occupying the space when a wheelchair user wished to board the bus. Reassuringly I was told that Stagecoach would not ask ticket holders to leave a bus once they had paid for a place and the wheelchair user would have to wait for the next available bus as my wife had done.
In this age of anti disability discrimination I can’t see such a response being sanguinely accepted by any wheelchair user. And given the great pains your bus designers have gone to in order to make buses more accessible to the disabled such a notion rather contradicts all your efforts to make buses accessible for all.
Are wheelchair users and parents with newborns to fight it out at the bus stops with the victor claiming the one and only bus space allocated to them? This is shoddy, second class treatment of both parents and the physically disabled. It just isn’t good enough.
I appreciate that a solution might be difficult to achieve but nevertheless something needs to be done. There are clearly more mums with young children in the Leamington and Warwick area than there are G1 buses... this problem is clearly not going to go away and needs to be addressed ASAP.
Yours sincerely...
In the words of Blakey from On The Buses: I ‘ate you, Stagecoach, I ‘ate you! Aw-haw-haw-haaaw!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Yet Another Novel Update
After much discussion and speculation on the state of my novel in the previous post’s comments I hereby present to you, most fastidious reader, a crisp and newly composed excerpt...
The Book Of Ouroboros: Excerpt 2.doc
I’m now 84,000 words into the story and my initial estimate of 120,000 words to complete it now seem hopelessly optimistic. However, the plot is unfolding nicely and I’m happy with the overall progress... so I’m just going to run with the ball and see where it leads me.
Hope you all enjoy...
The Book Of Ouroboros: Excerpt 2.doc
I’m now 84,000 words into the story and my initial estimate of 120,000 words to complete it now seem hopelessly optimistic. However, the plot is unfolding nicely and I’m happy with the overall progress... so I’m just going to run with the ball and see where it leads me.
Hope you all enjoy...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
No Bean Monday
Do you ever have one of those days when nothing major goes wrong, nothing especially disastrous occurs but nevertheless the day is a mega crap one?
I had one yesterday.
I didn’t get half an hour to myself at work – there was always someone around wanting something or needing my attention. Nothing particularly difficult or traumatic but I just didn’t need or want any of it.
I also found it difficult to be creative despite feeling in a creative mood. It took me nearly 90 minutes to “get into” my novel and then I only produced a measly 600 words. OK. It’s not going to be the end the world but it’s frustrating.
And then there was lunchtime.
Lunchtime summed up the entire day. I decided to treat myself by going to Mr Spud, the local purveyor of that fine English traditional meal, the hot potato. A nice hot spud with a chilli con carne filling was just what I needed to cheer me up and break the malaise of misery that had laid its broad hands upon my shoulders.
Only when I get to be served I get the dregs from the chilli pot. Instead of starting a new pot the seller merely tipped up the sparse remains of the old and slopped it all over my spud. The result was I was the only spud purchaser that day whose chilli contained not one single kidney bean.
And I love kidney beans. For me they are the highlights of a chilli.
Some days, it seems, it’s plainly not worth the effort of getting out of bed...
I had one yesterday.
I didn’t get half an hour to myself at work – there was always someone around wanting something or needing my attention. Nothing particularly difficult or traumatic but I just didn’t need or want any of it.
I also found it difficult to be creative despite feeling in a creative mood. It took me nearly 90 minutes to “get into” my novel and then I only produced a measly 600 words. OK. It’s not going to be the end the world but it’s frustrating.
And then there was lunchtime.
Lunchtime summed up the entire day. I decided to treat myself by going to Mr Spud, the local purveyor of that fine English traditional meal, the hot potato. A nice hot spud with a chilli con carne filling was just what I needed to cheer me up and break the malaise of misery that had laid its broad hands upon my shoulders.
Only when I get to be served I get the dregs from the chilli pot. Instead of starting a new pot the seller merely tipped up the sparse remains of the old and slopped it all over my spud. The result was I was the only spud purchaser that day whose chilli contained not one single kidney bean.
And I love kidney beans. For me they are the highlights of a chilli.
Some days, it seems, it’s plainly not worth the effort of getting out of bed...
Monday, November 12, 2007
For Once A Good Idea
I’ve just received the following email:
Number 10 Downing Street has approved a petition that was launched requesting a new public holiday falling on the Monday after Remembrance Sunday in November each year. To be known as the National Remembrance Holiday, its purpose is threefold:
1) To emphasise the remembrance of those servicemen and women who have given, and continue to give, their lives for Britain.
2) To remind people of the importance of protecting our Nation and what it stands for.
3) To break the 3 month period between the August Public Holiday and Christmas when there are currently no long weekends, especially as the UK has fewer public holidays than most European countries.
If you are in agreement, please sign up to the petition - it only takes a few moments - and it would be great if you were minded to forward the link to other people as well.
The petition is available on-line at: http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/remembermonday/
Seems like a jolly good idea to me...
Number 10 Downing Street has approved a petition that was launched requesting a new public holiday falling on the Monday after Remembrance Sunday in November each year. To be known as the National Remembrance Holiday, its purpose is threefold:
1) To emphasise the remembrance of those servicemen and women who have given, and continue to give, their lives for Britain.
2) To remind people of the importance of protecting our Nation and what it stands for.
3) To break the 3 month period between the August Public Holiday and Christmas when there are currently no long weekends, especially as the UK has fewer public holidays than most European countries.
If you are in agreement, please sign up to the petition - it only takes a few moments - and it would be great if you were minded to forward the link to other people as well.
The petition is available on-line at: http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/remembermonday/
Seems like a jolly good idea to me...
Friday, November 09, 2007
Armistice
It seems that an Armistice Day parade in Castle Bromwich has been cancelled as the police will be needed elsewhere to prevent two rival groups of football fans knocking seven bells out of each other; a rifle regiment in Chepstow has been told to parade without their rifles as the council leaders there fear such brazen displays of weaponry will encourage gun crime (like it needs anymore encouragement with the amount of gun based dramas on our TV screens) and apparently collection boxes in Kidderminster have had to be fitted with tamper alarms as so many of them are being broken into and the contents nicked.
What a wonderful world.
Whilst I realize that one day WWI and WWII will pass almost blandly into the musty annals of history along with the likes of the Peninsula and Boer War, at present it’s important to note that for some the events they signify still exist in living memory and we all should make the effort to remember and acknowledge the huge loss of life that was incurred. Our current world and our very freedoms (such as they are) were formed out of the smoking and bloody aftermaths of these events and it’s both callous and ungrateful to ignore this fact.
Now I realize I’m probably being over sensitive as I’m lucky enough to have a granddad who is still alive and who still retains vivid memories of being in the navy during the Second World War and who came out of the conflict with a host of medals, stories and most of his mates dead... but even without that living spur I’d hope I’d have the decency and respect to recognize how important it is to mark the 11th November.
It’s a question of dignity.
For us as well as for those who have gone before...
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Colic
I’m pleased to report that baby Tom continues to thrive – his veritable life of Riley only spoilt by the advent of colic whose wearing effects we are all resigned to enduring for the next 3 months or so. After this point the health visitor assures us that the colic should disappear and we might be lucky enough to have a small period of peace and baby prosperity before the teething cycle begins...
Oh joy.
To be fair – aside from the one hugely troublesome feed when the colic appears to be at its worst (which seems to hit Tom in the early evening on a daily basis) – the lad is doing well. He’s a real guzzler and is hitting his ideal birth weight target regularly. 9lb something when he was last weighed on Tuesday. I know I should have the exact amount indelibly pressed into the soft putty of my mind but I’m a bloke and we don’t record such things in this way... if at all.
Karen and I are shattered. Whoever said looking after a baby was bloody hard work was under-exaggerating. Having had the day off on Monday to give Karen a break I’m not sure which is more tiring: staying at home looking after Tom all day or going to work and then coming home to help out with the evening feeds.
I confess I’m a wuss but am I enjoying it? Weirdly – yes. Even during the darkest hours of baby-care fatigue the thought is always in my mind to make the most of it as Tom is growing so quickly that all this will soon be mere memory. He’s gone from being almost lost in the bottom of his Moses basket to nearly three-quarters filling it already.
He’s getting quite chunky which is very satisfying to see. A “swollen angel”, in fact, to quote David Sylvian...
With a hunger cry that can drown out any other earthly noise in a 12 mile radius.
Town Cryer or opera singer may both be options for him later in life...
Me, I’m looking into somnambulism...
Oh joy.
To be fair – aside from the one hugely troublesome feed when the colic appears to be at its worst (which seems to hit Tom in the early evening on a daily basis) – the lad is doing well. He’s a real guzzler and is hitting his ideal birth weight target regularly. 9lb something when he was last weighed on Tuesday. I know I should have the exact amount indelibly pressed into the soft putty of my mind but I’m a bloke and we don’t record such things in this way... if at all.
Karen and I are shattered. Whoever said looking after a baby was bloody hard work was under-exaggerating. Having had the day off on Monday to give Karen a break I’m not sure which is more tiring: staying at home looking after Tom all day or going to work and then coming home to help out with the evening feeds.
I confess I’m a wuss but am I enjoying it? Weirdly – yes. Even during the darkest hours of baby-care fatigue the thought is always in my mind to make the most of it as Tom is growing so quickly that all this will soon be mere memory. He’s gone from being almost lost in the bottom of his Moses basket to nearly three-quarters filling it already.
He’s getting quite chunky which is very satisfying to see. A “swollen angel”, in fact, to quote David Sylvian...
With a hunger cry that can drown out any other earthly noise in a 12 mile radius.
Town Cryer or opera singer may both be options for him later in life...
Me, I’m looking into somnambulism...
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Burn Your Money
Call me a misery guts but I hate bonfire night and would quite happily see the sale of fireworks nationally banned except for professionally organized displays.
As a nation we quite rightly worry about our kids carrying knives and guns but then are quite happy to let them purchase shedloads of gunpowder and explosives every year. Are we insane?
Yes, I’m sure most kids are sensible and trustworthy and mature enough to handle the responsibility of dealing with live explosives… but unfortunately there are always too many who patently aren’t. I’ve personally seen fireworks being thrown, had fireworks launched at me and know of people who’ve had lit fireworks stuffed through their letterboxes.
Every year – EVERY YEAR – people are injured by fireworks; usually children. It is never ever worth it.
And that’s before you tot up the financial costs involved. Fireworks cost a staggering fortune. Who has money to (literally) burn in this way? Plainly loads of us do. I had a friend who each year would spend over £200 on fireworks. I’d roll my eyes and make disparaging comments but at the end of the day he was right: it was his money to do with as he liked. My yearly offer to withdraw £200 from his bank account and burn it for him was always met with a stony silence. Can’t think why – I’d have saved him an entire evening of standing around in the freezing cold with a load of pewling, complaining infants. Cos at the end of the day, you see, he was doing all this for his kids.
Rubbish. What kid demands his parent forks out £200 on fireworks? The kind of kid that needs a huge kick up the backside and a reality check…
In my opinion, bonfire night has got out of hand. It’s big, big money and people feel pressurized to partake and to do it “even bigger than they did it last year”.
But look at the cost – and I’m not just talking about finances: polluted air for days, littered streets, terrified animals (my Nan had to practically anaesthetize her pet dog for the entire fortnight around bonfire night) and otherwise perfectly healthy people having to spend time in casualty with third degree burns or worse.
It just isn’t worth it.
Restricting the sale of fireworks to professional displays would mean a reduction in air pollution, costs that are spread between everyone who goes to watch such events (which would make the financial burden on everyone more manageable), the detonation of fireworks restricted to maybe one or two nights of the year instead of spread over the entire effing month and hopefully a large reduction in the number of fireworks related injuries.
Everybody’s happy.
Except of course for the people who make a fortune each year selling millions of pounds worth of fireworks to the easily manipulated…
But who gives a big sparkly shite about them? As far as I’m concerned they can all light their blue touch-papers and swivel…
As a nation we quite rightly worry about our kids carrying knives and guns but then are quite happy to let them purchase shedloads of gunpowder and explosives every year. Are we insane?
Yes, I’m sure most kids are sensible and trustworthy and mature enough to handle the responsibility of dealing with live explosives… but unfortunately there are always too many who patently aren’t. I’ve personally seen fireworks being thrown, had fireworks launched at me and know of people who’ve had lit fireworks stuffed through their letterboxes.
Every year – EVERY YEAR – people are injured by fireworks; usually children. It is never ever worth it.
And that’s before you tot up the financial costs involved. Fireworks cost a staggering fortune. Who has money to (literally) burn in this way? Plainly loads of us do. I had a friend who each year would spend over £200 on fireworks. I’d roll my eyes and make disparaging comments but at the end of the day he was right: it was his money to do with as he liked. My yearly offer to withdraw £200 from his bank account and burn it for him was always met with a stony silence. Can’t think why – I’d have saved him an entire evening of standing around in the freezing cold with a load of pewling, complaining infants. Cos at the end of the day, you see, he was doing all this for his kids.
Rubbish. What kid demands his parent forks out £200 on fireworks? The kind of kid that needs a huge kick up the backside and a reality check…
In my opinion, bonfire night has got out of hand. It’s big, big money and people feel pressurized to partake and to do it “even bigger than they did it last year”.
But look at the cost – and I’m not just talking about finances: polluted air for days, littered streets, terrified animals (my Nan had to practically anaesthetize her pet dog for the entire fortnight around bonfire night) and otherwise perfectly healthy people having to spend time in casualty with third degree burns or worse.
It just isn’t worth it.
Restricting the sale of fireworks to professional displays would mean a reduction in air pollution, costs that are spread between everyone who goes to watch such events (which would make the financial burden on everyone more manageable), the detonation of fireworks restricted to maybe one or two nights of the year instead of spread over the entire effing month and hopefully a large reduction in the number of fireworks related injuries.
Everybody’s happy.
Except of course for the people who make a fortune each year selling millions of pounds worth of fireworks to the easily manipulated…
But who gives a big sparkly shite about them? As far as I’m concerned they can all light their blue touch-papers and swivel…
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Only ‘Cos It’s Josie
See, I do try to be considerate.
But, you see, Josie Lawrence happened to be in last night’s episode and I’m a big Josie fan. As you know, just last week I’d been lamenting upon her disappearance from our TV screens and then lo and behold she pops up bold as brass in Robin Hood… it was simply too good an opportunity to miss so, dear long suffering reader, I do apologize... but I will try and keep it short.
Josie played a foul-mouthed wise woman / witch who wore a headscarf thing that made her look like a cross between a clichéd gypsy fortuneteller and Captain Jack Sparrow. She also played her part with a northern accent – my accent spotting skills aren’t so good that I can pinpoint it exactly but it was definitely from oop North, by ‘eck – which is fine but just looked and sounded completely incongruous because I’m so aware that Josie is a West Midland’s girl in real life. But, to be fair to the show, I dare say a Brummie accent would have stuck out like a sore thumb… and that just wouldn’t have done for a show that takes such painstaking efforts to achieve unimpeachable period accuracy.
Cough cough.
Despite the cossie Josie was fine and gave a solid, earthy performance and had all the best lines. Calling Keith Allen’s sheriff a “snot ‘ead” was particularly memorable. I really must read the Magna Carta more closely if such robust terminology was in common usage at the time.
She also got to sit on the wrong end of a ducking stool. Unfortunately any side-thoughts that I may have entertained about ye olde wet T-shirt contests were thoroughly smothered by a drab grey smock which looked like it had been made from sackcloth and doused in concrete. Ah well. I always knew that Josie wasn’t that type of girl… but she did get to suck upon Robin’s lengthy hose so it wasn’t all doom and gloom.
Yes – wilely Robin kept Josie alive by the use of a length of meaty hose and a magnificent pair of billows. What a thoroughly resourceful chap he is.
Meanwhile Marian was wandering around Nottingham in a rather fetching off the shoulder number and not batting an eyelid when the Sheriff referred to a physician as “a quack”. A term that I believe did not come into common usage until the period of the black death and came from the weird face masks that doctor’s wore in the hope of avoiding infection.
But who cares about such things? Marian looked wunderbar. Josie sounded like she’d stepped out of The Phoenix Club and Robin finally discovered that he had a nasty spy in his gang.
Alas poor Alan-a-Dale.
He’d been singing like a canary to the wrong side. Ye olde stool pigeon. What a turkey. Tut tut.
But the big question is this:
Could this discovery lead to an occurrence of that rare thing in this show… genuine bloody drama?
Clue: no.
But here's a gratuitous picture of Lucy Griffiths as Maid Marian to take your mind off it...
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Grindstone Cowboy
Well, the grindstone is busy turning and my nose is back pressed up against it. It’s so good to be back at work.
Not.
Actually, I’m being very fair. It really isn’t too bad and I suppose in some ways it’s been nice to touch base with the real world once again (touch base? I had, I admit, a sudden impulse to type “touch cloth” there). And my return to work was less of a tribulation than I’d expected.
Everybody wanted to hear all about Tom and my new experiences of fatherhood and it was nice to relive the last two or three weeks conversationally amid the shadow of the mountain of detritus that covered my work desk. An internal lifeline keeping my head steady against the influx of the terminally tedious.
Now, four days into the working week, the mountain has been levelled and I’m re-acclimatized once more to the endless drone of the local authority work regime.
Leaky roofs... Blocked toilets... Customer complaints.
I’m ensconced upon my white charger and comin’ to get yer.
Yee-ha.
Not.
Actually, I’m being very fair. It really isn’t too bad and I suppose in some ways it’s been nice to touch base with the real world once again (touch base? I had, I admit, a sudden impulse to type “touch cloth” there). And my return to work was less of a tribulation than I’d expected.
Everybody wanted to hear all about Tom and my new experiences of fatherhood and it was nice to relive the last two or three weeks conversationally amid the shadow of the mountain of detritus that covered my work desk. An internal lifeline keeping my head steady against the influx of the terminally tedious.
Now, four days into the working week, the mountain has been levelled and I’m re-acclimatized once more to the endless drone of the local authority work regime.
Leaky roofs... Blocked toilets... Customer complaints.
I’m ensconced upon my white charger and comin’ to get yer.
Yee-ha.
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