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Thursday 30 December 2010
New Year's Eve
I was getting all sorts of unwanted interest in my whereabouts for tomorrow night. I couldn't understand why people kept asking me what I was doing and where I was going to be. I actually laughed when it dawned on me what the date was.
I'm not a party person and I have never been too worried about being around people for seeing in the New Year. It's just another day and I find it puzzling that people feel an overwhelming need to be with others around that time.
I know that Christmas and the New Year (just the day, not the whole year) are traditionally known for being stressful or depressing for some people, and reflecting on things and people that have been left behind is only natural. But it's not essential for me to be distracted by balloons and fireworks. I'm fine. It's sweet that family and friends were worried about me though.
Whoever you are and whatever you get up to, I hope that you have a fun night and a great New Year.
I'm not a party person and I have never been too worried about being around people for seeing in the New Year. It's just another day and I find it puzzling that people feel an overwhelming need to be with others around that time.
I know that Christmas and the New Year (just the day, not the whole year) are traditionally known for being stressful or depressing for some people, and reflecting on things and people that have been left behind is only natural. But it's not essential for me to be distracted by balloons and fireworks. I'm fine. It's sweet that family and friends were worried about me though.
Whoever you are and whatever you get up to, I hope that you have a fun night and a great New Year.
Last Night's Dream
I was dumped by Alanis Morissette last night.
In my dream.
It was a huge surprise and came quite out of the blue. I didn't even know we were dating.
I came home to find her in bed, our bed, with our roommate, Kyle.
We had a huge row and she accused me of ignoring her and not putting enough into our relationship. To be fair, if I'd known we were dating (or even living together (with Kyle) ), I would have put more energy into the two of us.
She said she still loved me, she couldn't really see what the big deal was, and she was just using Kyle for sex (which I thought was pretty harsh considering Kyle was stood right there) because I was never around (which is unfair because I'd never even been in the apartment before tonight's dream, let alone dated Alanis).
I told her that I still loved her, but I wasn't looking for that kind of a relationship. I believe in being faithful to your partner, and I'll be friends with her, but I won't let her treat me like a door mat.
In the middle of my speech, she dumped me. She said "Well, in that case, I don't think we have a future and I'd like you to leave."
I was still rambling on about faithfulness when I realised that I should have dumped her first. I was talking for too long. It felt awkward to be dumped by someone that you have just caught cheating on you (with Kyle).
I was also confused as to who owned the apartment. If it was mine, I wasn't leaving.
She said my attitude was childish.
So I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down to the lobby of the hotel (that we were apparently living in?).
I stood on the table of a restaurant that we were now in (?) and asked all of the people in there whether they thought that I was being treated fairly and whether Alanis should be allowed to dump me. Alanis just stood there, hanging her head in shame. In SHAME!
While I was in the middle of feeling morally superior, the train conductor tugged on my trouser leg and told me that we had arrived at the right station.
I got down from the table, picked up my knife and fork and got off the train. A woman came up to me and said "We've made contact with Heather. We've found her."
"That's great" I said. "Did she have the drill with her?"
And then I woke up.
Feeling really sad about the whole Alanis break-up thing. Isn't it weird how dreams can conjure up very real emotions and feelings.
In my dream.
It was a huge surprise and came quite out of the blue. I didn't even know we were dating.
I came home to find her in bed, our bed, with our roommate, Kyle.
We had a huge row and she accused me of ignoring her and not putting enough into our relationship. To be fair, if I'd known we were dating (or even living together (with Kyle) ), I would have put more energy into the two of us.
She said she still loved me, she couldn't really see what the big deal was, and she was just using Kyle for sex (which I thought was pretty harsh considering Kyle was stood right there) because I was never around (which is unfair because I'd never even been in the apartment before tonight's dream, let alone dated Alanis).
I told her that I still loved her, but I wasn't looking for that kind of a relationship. I believe in being faithful to your partner, and I'll be friends with her, but I won't let her treat me like a door mat.
In the middle of my speech, she dumped me. She said "Well, in that case, I don't think we have a future and I'd like you to leave."
I was still rambling on about faithfulness when I realised that I should have dumped her first. I was talking for too long. It felt awkward to be dumped by someone that you have just caught cheating on you (with Kyle).
I was also confused as to who owned the apartment. If it was mine, I wasn't leaving.
She said my attitude was childish.
So I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down to the lobby of the hotel (that we were apparently living in?).
I stood on the table of a restaurant that we were now in (?) and asked all of the people in there whether they thought that I was being treated fairly and whether Alanis should be allowed to dump me. Alanis just stood there, hanging her head in shame. In SHAME!
While I was in the middle of feeling morally superior, the train conductor tugged on my trouser leg and told me that we had arrived at the right station.
I got down from the table, picked up my knife and fork and got off the train. A woman came up to me and said "We've made contact with Heather. We've found her."
"That's great" I said. "Did she have the drill with her?"
And then I woke up.
Feeling really sad about the whole Alanis break-up thing. Isn't it weird how dreams can conjure up very real emotions and feelings.
Chogolate
I had some Fair Trade, Organic, Pure, 99% Ecuadorian Chocolate last night. Only one piece.
It was like I'd drunk a pint of Espresso.
I could actually see through reality.
I'm not always a big supporter if the Fair Trade concept. It always depends on the price and the quality, but sometimes, just sometimes, if an armed mob can steal me some slightly cheaper chocolate, I'm ok with that.
It was like I'd drunk a pint of Espresso.
I could actually see through reality.
I'm not always a big supporter if the Fair Trade concept. It always depends on the price and the quality, but sometimes, just sometimes, if an armed mob can steal me some slightly cheaper chocolate, I'm ok with that.
Winter feeding
I have been religiously putting food out for the wild birds all through the last week of heavy snow.
For eight days, my tree has been infested with little feathered dinosaurs. You couldn't move for them.
Now, first day of the thaw...........VOOOM! They're gone. I have been left for dead. I feel so used.
PLUS I've been pooped on twice in the past week. No, not in my garden, that would make sense, just walking through town. It doesn't help when people tell you that it's supposed to be lucky.
For eight days, my tree has been infested with little feathered dinosaurs. You couldn't move for them.
Now, first day of the thaw...........VOOOM! They're gone. I have been left for dead. I feel so used.
PLUS I've been pooped on twice in the past week. No, not in my garden, that would make sense, just walking through town. It doesn't help when people tell you that it's supposed to be lucky.
Monday 27 December 2010
Hair Today, No Her Tomorrow by Brian Patten
‘I've been upstairs', she said.
‘Oh yes?’ I said.
‘I found a hair,’ she said.
‘A hair?’ I said.
‘In the bed,’ she said.
‘From a head?’ I said.
‘It’s not mine,’ she said.
‘Was it black?’ I said.
‘It was,’ she said.
‘I’ll explain,’ I said.
‘You swine,’ she said.
‘Not quite,’ I said.
‘I’m going,’ she said.
‘Please don’t,’ I said.
‘I hate you!’ she said.
‘You do?’ I said.
‘Of course!’ she said.
‘But why?’ I said.
‘That black hair,’ she said.
‘A pity,’ I said.
‘Oh yes?’ I said.
‘I found a hair,’ she said.
‘A hair?’ I said.
‘In the bed,’ she said.
‘From a head?’ I said.
‘It’s not mine,’ she said.
‘Was it black?’ I said.
‘It was,’ she said.
‘I’ll explain,’ I said.
‘You swine,’ she said.
‘Not quite,’ I said.
‘I’m going,’ she said.
‘Please don’t,’ I said.
‘I hate you!’ she said.
‘You do?’ I said.
‘Of course!’ she said.
‘But why?’ I said.
‘That black hair,’ she said.
‘A pity,’ I said.
‘Time for truth,’ she said.
‘For confessions?’ I said.
‘Me too,’ she said.
‘You what?’ I said.
‘Someone else,’ she said.
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘So there!’ she said.
‘Ah well,’ I said.
‘Guess who?’ she said.
‘Don’t say,’ I said.
‘I will,’ she said.
‘You would,’ I said.
‘Your friend,’ she said.
‘Oh damn,’ I said.
‘And his friend,’ she said.
‘Him too?’ I said.
‘And the rest,’ she said.
‘Good God!’ I said.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
‘What’s what?’ I said.
‘That noise?’ she said.
‘Upstairs?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘The new cat,’ I said.
‘A cat?’ she said.
‘It’s black,’ I said.
‘Black?’ she said.
‘Long-haired,’ I said.
‘Oh no,’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ I said.
‘Oh shit!’ she said.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
‘I lied,’ she said.
‘You lied?’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘About my friend?’ I said.
‘Y-ess,’ she said.
‘And the others?’ I said.
‘Ugh,’ she said.
‘How odd,’ I said.
‘I’m forgiven?’ she said.
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘I’ll stay?’ she said.
‘Please don’t,’ I said.
‘But why?’ she said.
‘I lied,’ I said.
‘About what?’ she said.
‘The new cat,’ I said.
‘It’s white,’ I said.
Out for a walk.
How can people that do such interesting things, be so dull?
I went for a Boxing Day walk up the nearby Welcombe Hills. Partly to get away from the festive TV movies and partly to make the most of the last of the snow.
Traditionally, Welcombe is like a Mecca for children (and adults) when it snows, as it is the best spot in Stratford for sledging. It has three really good hills and several beginner hills.
I got there a tad late, and the Sun had already begun to vanish, but there were a lot of people still around. I ended up walking behind a group of four walkers (two couples), and couldn't help but hear what they were saying. It went something like this;
Man #1 "You're right. It'd be great for it. Shame we didn't pack them."
Man #2 "Of course you need a really good wax though."
Man #1 "Oh yeah. Definitely."
Man #2 "Steve had a really good wax when we stayed with him. I mean it was a primo wax. I mean this was a great wax. The best I've seen. He had a special ironing board that he always keeps out so he can wax them when he needs to. Plus he has all his different ones with different waxes, so he's ready to go."
Man #1 "Yeah, well it's great if you can devote the time to it and take it seriously. Did you ski much while you were there? "
Man #2 "No. He was really busy, and we just wanted to chill out. We're hoping to go away properly in July. Make up for not doing anything special this Christmas."
Man #1 Yeah. Cool.
At this point, I decided to stop and re-tie my shoelaces. For about ten minutes. They were a lovely bunch of people and I have nothing against them, but I just feel a little awkward when I am walking at the same pace others and I can hear every word that they are saying.
As it turns out, they decided to stop for ten minutes too, further up the hill, so I soon caught them back up. This is the conversation when I rejoined them;
Man #1 "I've done it from 14,000 ft."
Man #2 "I've done 15,000."
Man #1 "Can you tell the difference?"
Man #2 "You bet. 15,000 is a world away from 14,000."
Man #1 "So you've jumped 15 and 14?"
Man #2 "Yeah. I think so? Honey! Have we jumped 14,000?"
Woman #2 "Yes..........We both have."
Man #2 "And 15? We've done 15 right?"
Woman #2 "I think so?"
At this point, I threw myself into a snowbank and stayed there until they had gone.
I don't know what it was? Maybe it was their tone of voice or something? But they were just making me fall asleep out there. I mean they were talking about skiing and skydiving, two very exciting pursuits. But just making it sound incredibly boring.
Sigh. I know. I'm getting older and grumpier.
I went for a Boxing Day walk up the nearby Welcombe Hills. Partly to get away from the festive TV movies and partly to make the most of the last of the snow.
Traditionally, Welcombe is like a Mecca for children (and adults) when it snows, as it is the best spot in Stratford for sledging. It has three really good hills and several beginner hills.
I got there a tad late, and the Sun had already begun to vanish, but there were a lot of people still around. I ended up walking behind a group of four walkers (two couples), and couldn't help but hear what they were saying. It went something like this;
Man #1 "You're right. It'd be great for it. Shame we didn't pack them."
Man #2 "Of course you need a really good wax though."
Man #1 "Oh yeah. Definitely."
Man #2 "Steve had a really good wax when we stayed with him. I mean it was a primo wax. I mean this was a great wax. The best I've seen. He had a special ironing board that he always keeps out so he can wax them when he needs to. Plus he has all his different ones with different waxes, so he's ready to go."
Man #1 "Yeah, well it's great if you can devote the time to it and take it seriously. Did you ski much while you were there? "
Man #2 "No. He was really busy, and we just wanted to chill out. We're hoping to go away properly in July. Make up for not doing anything special this Christmas."
Man #1 Yeah. Cool.
At this point, I decided to stop and re-tie my shoelaces. For about ten minutes. They were a lovely bunch of people and I have nothing against them, but I just feel a little awkward when I am walking at the same pace others and I can hear every word that they are saying.
As it turns out, they decided to stop for ten minutes too, further up the hill, so I soon caught them back up. This is the conversation when I rejoined them;
Man #1 "I've done it from 14,000 ft."
Man #2 "I've done 15,000."
Man #1 "Can you tell the difference?"
Man #2 "You bet. 15,000 is a world away from 14,000."
Man #1 "So you've jumped 15 and 14?"
Man #2 "Yeah. I think so? Honey! Have we jumped 14,000?"
Woman #2 "Yes..........We both have."
Man #2 "And 15? We've done 15 right?"
Woman #2 "I think so?"
At this point, I threw myself into a snowbank and stayed there until they had gone.
I don't know what it was? Maybe it was their tone of voice or something? But they were just making me fall asleep out there. I mean they were talking about skiing and skydiving, two very exciting pursuits. But just making it sound incredibly boring.
Sigh. I know. I'm getting older and grumpier.
Saturday 25 December 2010
Thursday 23 December 2010
Medium Rare
I've been catching quite a few episodes of the TV show, Medium, recently.
It stars Patricia Arquette as a medium/psychic who works with a district attorney's office, in the pursuit of justice. Like Batman, but far less believable.
Anyway, she can speak with the dead, sees spirits, and has visions and dreams that help her to solve all manor of grisly murders.
In tonight's episode, her husband was cooking burgers on a barbecue.
I have to wonder, how is she not plagued by the tormented souls of murdered cows every time she has a burger?
How can she walk down the deli aisle of the supermarket without it resembling an ethereal Noah's Ark?
It stars Patricia Arquette as a medium/psychic who works with a district attorney's office, in the pursuit of justice. Like Batman, but far less believable.
Anyway, she can speak with the dead, sees spirits, and has visions and dreams that help her to solve all manor of grisly murders.
In tonight's episode, her husband was cooking burgers on a barbecue.
I have to wonder, how is she not plagued by the tormented souls of murdered cows every time she has a burger?
How can she walk down the deli aisle of the supermarket without it resembling an ethereal Noah's Ark?
With pigs tugging on her sleave and asking her to solve the mystery of how they ended up in sandwiches.
And why no ghosts of dinosaurs?
Last Night's Dream
This is a sketch of the subject of last night's dream.
I like logically analyzing dreams.
Dreams are awesome. I love how the walls are always bendy and boundaries flexible.
No, I haven't seen Inception.
Oh, and I don't need to think too hard to work out what this dream was about. A woman calling to me from the top floor of a house, with a boarded up window and no handle on the door.
I think I've got this one.
I like logically analyzing dreams.
Dreams are awesome. I love how the walls are always bendy and boundaries flexible.
No, I haven't seen Inception.
Oh, and I don't need to think too hard to work out what this dream was about. A woman calling to me from the top floor of a house, with a boarded up window and no handle on the door.
I think I've got this one.
Tuesday 21 December 2010
Nativity
I have been in several Nativity plays in my young life.
I have worn many tea towels. Some clean, some very, very dirty. You had to bring in a tea towel from home, so you always knew that the kids with wealthy parents would be bringing in pristine white tea towels from only the very finest of department stores.
My parents would give me a market job tea towel that looked like it was a leftover bandage from the Falklands war.
Seriously. It would be stained, burned, torn. My Shepherd would end up looking like Rambo with that tied around his head. MY head.
And I was always a Shepherd. Always. It was as certain as the stars in the sky.
Same as when we were playing football; no need to tell me what to do lads, I'm in defence. The more macho kids were always strikers. We'd have a game of seven-aside and I'd be on a team made up of six strikers and me in defence. Oh, and one of the strikers would also be the goalkeeper (as I couldn't be trusted with that).
But I digress,
The year that this picture was taken, and published, I would have been six years old.
I remember the day that I found out I was going to be Shepherd #3, I was picked up from school and went to my Gran's that afternoon. I was sulking and upset, and I told my Gran that "I had a stupid part. I'm a Shepherd."
I then had to sit there for what seemed like an eternity while my Gran lectured me on how Shepherds are very important. As it happens, and little did I know, my family comes from a long line of Shepherds (and Gravediggers in their part time).
She then went and got Grandad and said something like "Tell Jamie why Shepherds are important."
Poor Grandad just explained to me that Shepherds stop the wolves from killing the sheep (the lying ba....), and that the Queen owns all of the sheep, so the Shepherds have to take good care of them (the dirty, lying, or possibly deluded? ba.....).
It didn't help. I was having none of it.
In the run-up to the play, we had rehearsals. I didn't even get a line. Shepherd #1 got to say something like "Look! A star! It's a sign! Let us follow it"
My sarcasm had yet to develop at this stage.
We had been making props all week. I had in fact made one of the boxes that the Three Wise Better Acting Roles would carry. Well, a teacher made them, but we got to finish them. I think I did the Frankenstein one? All I remember was that we got to use this AMAZING gold sticky card. It was brilliant. I wanted it. I needed it. I think I got more in my bag than on the actual box. For years after, I was finding these weird offcuts around my house where I had hidden this valuable gold card.
During the first rehearsal, we the Shepherds got to take our first look at our sheep.
There were three of them. Handy. To be honest, it was more like two and a half. While two of them were very passable as plush sheep, the final one; the last one out of the box, was an absolute horror. And you could see that the teacher knew it too, because she tried to hide it behind the other two.
If this was a sheep. It was an aborted, mutant sheep. Possible spawned by Satan. It was the stuff of nightmares. It was hideous. It was like a bear had got it on with a penguin. It looked like it had been born to a sheep mother who then immediately rejected it for the far cuter afterbirth, and it was then trampled by the rest of the herd before ending up in our prop box. And it wasn't a store-bought toy. Oh no. This thing had been "hand made".
This was special.
I can only imagine that this toy was lovingly made for a child that maybe had trouble sleeping and might perhaps awake in the night. Not to reassure or comfort the child, but to be placed in the child's doorway to stop it from leaving its room.
Look at the picture. See the Wise Actors with their gifts? See the Angels with their wings?
See the Shepherds with their sheep?
No?
See the traumatised look on my face? Third in from the left. See Colin's? Second in.
We were told to pick up a sheep and we would go through our lines (all one of them).
I knew that the other two kids had seen what I had seen, and I knew exactly what they were thinking.
It was a race to the sheep. I was quick on my feet and made it to the best looking sheep. Colin ended up with the anti-sheep. I remember him picking it up from one of its five legs and holding it at a distance.
The teacher told us not to be silly, and promised that we would have better sheep for the actual night. These weren't the final sheep. These were just the rehearsal sheep.
SHE LIED!
Half an hour before curtain up on opening night.
Sell-out.
Nice.
I was just getting my tea-towel wrapped around my head when Shepherd #1 walked past with the best looking sheep. My sheep from rehearsals. Oh god! They had started dishing out the sheep. Where's Colin?? Where's the beast/sheep??!!
I raced to the prop department (toy cupboard) and there was "almost cute sheep" and "THE SHEEPLING THAT TIME FORGOT!"
I scooped up the ACS and cackled like I had never cackled before (quite unnerving to hear a six year old cackle.)
Curtain up.
We were on. I think at the last minute, Colin was making an impassioned plea to the Director as to why he should be a sheepless Shepherd, but there was no time, and we walked out to face our mums and dads.
We walked to the centre of the stage, placed our sheep in the middle of the floor, and then Shepherd #1 delivered his line. Line delivered. We were then supposed to pick up our sheep and leave. Suddenly Colin discovered a previously unknown burst of speed and made it to the sheep and picked up the ACS, I fumbled for the other sheep....NO! The boss Shepherd had it.
I turned to Colin and shouted;
"COLIN! THAT'S MY SHEEP!"
But he was already outta there.
I think I booted the sheep foetus off the stage.
I got a laugh apparently?
That may have been the first time I had made an audience laugh. It doesn't happen often.
My parents later told me that my "line" was the only part of the play they could remember.
As it turns out, Jason Simmonds completely stole the show as The Donkey.
Monday 20 December 2010
Flying
It appears that I am not a very good flyer.
Upon entering a plane, I always have to "pat" or touch the outside, while I pass on telepathic "Come on plane. We can do it!" type thoughts to the aircraft.
Every plane I have ever flown on, I have touched. I'm not a planeophile or anything. It's nothing kinky, I just feel the need to reassure both the plane and myself. Kinda like a horse. I have a fear of horses. Let's blog about that another day.
During take off or landing, I MUST distract myself from what is happening, using all and any means at my disposal. Let's be clear about this, one half of my brain is using all its mental energy to keep the plane in the air (unless we're landing), another half of my brain is trying to re-open long previously cut off lines of communication with god, buddha, satan, anyone who will take my call. And the final half of my brain is busy with the task of keeping me distracted.
I panic-draw. Or panic-read. It doesn't matter which. During my last flight, I had almost filled a notebook with sketches and ramblings before the plane had even left the ground. I had to slow down. A nice Indian gentlemen next to me even made his wife look across at what I was doing. He asked me whether I was writing my autobiography.
"Yes", was my reply. "I'm very famous."
Different people cope with flying in different ways. On my very first flight, the guy sat next to me spent the entire take-off, flight, landing, under a blanket. For a while I started to think he was a pile of luggage that the staff had covered up. He didn't even use the bathroom.
Second flight, a woman prayed, loud and aloud during take-off and landing. That did NOT endear her to the other passengers.
Another thing that I catch myself doing (and this is not entirely rational or scientific here) is, when I board the plane, I look around at the faces of the other passengers and try to picture in my mind whether they are the types of faces that would be printed in the paper, underneath the banner "Mid-Air Tragedy!"
I do. I can't help it. Do we look like victims? Are these the faces of survivors or not? Are we crashers? - is basically what I'm asking myself. Do we look like flyers or crashers?
I didn't say it was logical.
I think I feel better for getting that off my chest.
Upon entering a plane, I always have to "pat" or touch the outside, while I pass on telepathic "Come on plane. We can do it!" type thoughts to the aircraft.
Every plane I have ever flown on, I have touched. I'm not a planeophile or anything. It's nothing kinky, I just feel the need to reassure both the plane and myself. Kinda like a horse. I have a fear of horses. Let's blog about that another day.
During take off or landing, I MUST distract myself from what is happening, using all and any means at my disposal. Let's be clear about this, one half of my brain is using all its mental energy to keep the plane in the air (unless we're landing), another half of my brain is trying to re-open long previously cut off lines of communication with god, buddha, satan, anyone who will take my call. And the final half of my brain is busy with the task of keeping me distracted.
I panic-draw. Or panic-read. It doesn't matter which. During my last flight, I had almost filled a notebook with sketches and ramblings before the plane had even left the ground. I had to slow down. A nice Indian gentlemen next to me even made his wife look across at what I was doing. He asked me whether I was writing my autobiography.
"Yes", was my reply. "I'm very famous."
Different people cope with flying in different ways. On my very first flight, the guy sat next to me spent the entire take-off, flight, landing, under a blanket. For a while I started to think he was a pile of luggage that the staff had covered up. He didn't even use the bathroom.
Second flight, a woman prayed, loud and aloud during take-off and landing. That did NOT endear her to the other passengers.
Another thing that I catch myself doing (and this is not entirely rational or scientific here) is, when I board the plane, I look around at the faces of the other passengers and try to picture in my mind whether they are the types of faces that would be printed in the paper, underneath the banner "Mid-Air Tragedy!"
I do. I can't help it. Do we look like victims? Are these the faces of survivors or not? Are we crashers? - is basically what I'm asking myself. Do we look like flyers or crashers?
I didn't say it was logical.
I think I feel better for getting that off my chest.
The amount of mental energy I must put out during flights could probably be used to power the plane.
Sunday 19 December 2010
Sofa
I don't know how it got to this stage, but I find it very comforting to sleep on my cramped sofa with the tv on through the night.
I used to sleep on the sofa when my dad was calling me at 3:00am, because if I was in the bedroom, I would have to tear through the place to get to the phone quickly. Not so much to answer it, but mainly to stop it ringing and waking the neighbours.
I had some hellish nights on that sofa.
But now I find it quite comforting.
I used to sleep on the sofa when my dad was calling me at 3:00am, because if I was in the bedroom, I would have to tear through the place to get to the phone quickly. Not so much to answer it, but mainly to stop it ringing and waking the neighbours.
I had some hellish nights on that sofa.
But now I find it quite comforting.
A Guide to Coexisting with Bears.
While in Canada, I picked up many, many leaflets and bits of paper. It appears that I was trying to nest.
One of the leaflets was "What about Bears?- A Guide to Coexisting with Bears"
I didn't read this leaflet at the time. I was too busy desperately trying to avoid bears.
I'm bored. It's late. I have a cold. And time on my hands. So let's go through this and see if we can learn some valuable information that may save our, or a Bear's life one day.
"Curious and opportunistic, Bears may travel hundreds of kilometres through all but the most urbanized areas seeking seasonally available foods, safe cover, mates and denning sites."
-Tourists
"Bears use a patchwork of habitats and travel corridors- both natural and man-made. Although they prefer deep forest cover, bears are often spotted along roads, hiking trails, and at the edge of waterways."
-If you happen to spot a bear hitchhiking, don't stop the car. They have been known to spin yarns about running out of gas and having to get a lift to the next McDonald's. They may also make up having a pregnant wife in a broken down car further up the road. If you fall for this ploy and allow them into your car, they will eat all your snacks.
"September through November: Bears feed intensely, gorging on high-calorie foods before hibernating. They may eat as many as 10 salmon in an hour or up to 250,000 berries in a day!"
-250,000 berries in a day? How on earth do they know this? Has somebody had the job of following bears around and counting how many berries they eat? Or is this the maximum capacity that their stomach would allow? This fact sounds pretty sketchy to me. I mean, I MAY eat 50 muffins in a day. It doesn't mean that it happens. Or that I would survive.
They tell you not to camp near berries or anything that a Bear might use as a food source. We did some overnight camping in the car on the Sunshine Coast. I would always go to sleep with the window open about an inch (so I didn't use all of the air in the car and suffocate in my sleep) (Shut up!).
One night, we parked up in a lay-by and settled down for the night. I woke up in the morning to find we'd parked next to a huge berry bush. My fears weren't helped by a ranger telling us how a Bear had pulled his window down and broken into his truck to get half a chocolate bar.
I put waking up with a Bear eating your face as one of the worst ways to wake up.
"Travel as part of a group"
-A very heavily armed group.
"One meal from a backyard or garbage can is enough to bring a hopeful Bear back again and again. And Bears are smart: if they get a meal from your garbage can, they quickly learn to check every garbage can in the neighbourhood."
-They'd need to be smart. A meal from my garbage can? I can't even make a meal from what I have in the fridge.
"Avoid wearing strong perfumes"
-Smell like a berry, die like a berry.
"Keep children close to you at all times, don't let them wander ahead or lag behind."
-Unless you have finally had enough of them. In which case, have them carry a sandwich too.
"Make noise (clap or sing); let the Bear know you're on the trail."
-Yeah. I'm forever singing through the forests.......
"Avoid wearing headphones while walking or jogging."
-It makes you look silly.
One of the leaflets was "What about Bears?- A Guide to Coexisting with Bears"
I didn't read this leaflet at the time. I was too busy desperately trying to avoid bears.
I'm bored. It's late. I have a cold. And time on my hands. So let's go through this and see if we can learn some valuable information that may save our, or a Bear's life one day.
"Curious and opportunistic, Bears may travel hundreds of kilometres through all but the most urbanized areas seeking seasonally available foods, safe cover, mates and denning sites."
-Tourists
"Bears use a patchwork of habitats and travel corridors- both natural and man-made. Although they prefer deep forest cover, bears are often spotted along roads, hiking trails, and at the edge of waterways."
-If you happen to spot a bear hitchhiking, don't stop the car. They have been known to spin yarns about running out of gas and having to get a lift to the next McDonald's. They may also make up having a pregnant wife in a broken down car further up the road. If you fall for this ploy and allow them into your car, they will eat all your snacks.
"September through November: Bears feed intensely, gorging on high-calorie foods before hibernating. They may eat as many as 10 salmon in an hour or up to 250,000 berries in a day!"
-250,000 berries in a day? How on earth do they know this? Has somebody had the job of following bears around and counting how many berries they eat? Or is this the maximum capacity that their stomach would allow? This fact sounds pretty sketchy to me. I mean, I MAY eat 50 muffins in a day. It doesn't mean that it happens. Or that I would survive.
They tell you not to camp near berries or anything that a Bear might use as a food source. We did some overnight camping in the car on the Sunshine Coast. I would always go to sleep with the window open about an inch (so I didn't use all of the air in the car and suffocate in my sleep) (Shut up!).
One night, we parked up in a lay-by and settled down for the night. I woke up in the morning to find we'd parked next to a huge berry bush. My fears weren't helped by a ranger telling us how a Bear had pulled his window down and broken into his truck to get half a chocolate bar.
I put waking up with a Bear eating your face as one of the worst ways to wake up.
"Travel as part of a group"
-A very heavily armed group.
"One meal from a backyard or garbage can is enough to bring a hopeful Bear back again and again. And Bears are smart: if they get a meal from your garbage can, they quickly learn to check every garbage can in the neighbourhood."
-They'd need to be smart. A meal from my garbage can? I can't even make a meal from what I have in the fridge.
"Avoid wearing strong perfumes"
-Smell like a berry, die like a berry.
"Keep children close to you at all times, don't let them wander ahead or lag behind."
-Unless you have finally had enough of them. In which case, have them carry a sandwich too.
"Make noise (clap or sing); let the Bear know you're on the trail."
-Yeah. I'm forever singing through the forests.......
"Avoid wearing headphones while walking or jogging."
-It makes you look silly.
Avoiding unwanted guests in your House:
1) Store garbage in a secure building or Bear-proof garbage container. (I store mine in my kitchen)
2) Put out garbage on the morning of pick-up only. (I store mine in my kitchen)
3) Keep barbeque's clean and grease free; do not leave food unattended. (Yeah. I'm always cooking food for one on my barbecue and leaving it unattended while I cook a proper meal in the oven)
4) Pick berries and fruit as they ripen; pick up fallen fruit regularly. (A Bear that can eat 250,000 berries a day won't mind at all that you're picking and storing one of its major food sources)
5) Remove outdoor freezers. (Bring them indoors. Make the Bears work for it)
6) Feed pets indoors. (Unless you have a pet Bear, in which case, that's silly)
7) Remove bird feeders between April and November; use thin piano wire to hang feeder higher than 3.3m. (Detach piano from the wire before you do this. You don't want to make the job any harder than it needs to be)
8) Put away all petroleum products including rubber, tarpaper, paint, turpentine, kerosene, and charcoal fluid; Bears are drawn to these products. (They love a bit of DIY and will build you and outdoor barbecue while your back is turned. It seems like a good deal, but they charge a fortune and the build quality is shoddy)
BUT IF I DO SEE A BEAR?
* Stay calm, stand still and assess the situation (We're fucked lads)
* Speak to the Bear in a calm, firm voice: your voice helps to identify you as a human (*In a calm, firm voice "Hello Bear. I am a human)
* Back away slowly and NEVER run; running may trigger a pursuit (And Benny Hill music)
* Get your Bear spray ready and know how to use it! (If it's still on the shelf in the gift shop, now is a good time to find religion. As the saying goes "Spray or pray")
* If a Black Bear attacks, use Bear spray (not to be confused with hair spray. Now is not the time to look fabulous) and fight back! Do all that it takes to let the Bear know that you are not easy prey! ( Be wide! And choke it on the way down)
Ok. I've had enough now. And I'm sure you have too. I saw several Bears, and on each occasion, they seemed very keen to leave us alone. They are beautiful animals and I have nothing but huge respect for them. I'd really rather we didn't kill them. It might seem like they are encroaching on our territory, but more often than not, it's us moving into theirs.
I'm not particularly scared of bears (especially here in England), and to be honest, I was more scared in the Detroit Airport lounge than I was in the forests of British Columbia, but I am aware of them. They just want to survive as much as we do, and I like the world with Bears in it.
Snow! Snow! Snow!
Britain is currently locked firmly in the "death grip" of an Arctic weather system.
Snow to you and I.
One newspaper headline read "Arctic weather to last 4 weeks!!"
That'll be Winter then? At what point exactly did we stop expecting Winter to be cold? I'm not up on my geography, but I'm pretty sure we are on the Northern side of the globe (depending entirely on which way up you hold it).
Like most people under 60, I love the first day of deep snow. Everything seems fresh and different. All the dark, grey streets are covered in a white fluffy blanket and all the bad stuff like litter, trash, dog poo and the homeless are covered and out of sight.
I'm kidding. Stratford Upon Avon doesn't have homeless people. Not since the harsh Winter of 92, when the Police beat them all to death and blamed it on the cold.
I'm kidding again.
Or am I?
Anyway. I instantly become a child again when I look out of the window and see the snow. I just have to quickly throw some clothes on and get myself out there.
I love the feel of the fresh snow, the crunch and sound that it makes.
I love seeing kids being pulled on sleds.
I love seeing dogs playing excitedly in the parks. Particularly with other dogs.
*Dog bounds through the snow towards other dog
Snow to you and I.
One newspaper headline read "Arctic weather to last 4 weeks!!"
That'll be Winter then? At what point exactly did we stop expecting Winter to be cold? I'm not up on my geography, but I'm pretty sure we are on the Northern side of the globe (depending entirely on which way up you hold it).
Like most people under 60, I love the first day of deep snow. Everything seems fresh and different. All the dark, grey streets are covered in a white fluffy blanket and all the bad stuff like litter, trash, dog poo and the homeless are covered and out of sight.
I'm kidding. Stratford Upon Avon doesn't have homeless people. Not since the harsh Winter of 92, when the Police beat them all to death and blamed it on the cold.
I'm kidding again.
Or am I?
Anyway. I instantly become a child again when I look out of the window and see the snow. I just have to quickly throw some clothes on and get myself out there.
I love the feel of the fresh snow, the crunch and sound that it makes.
I love seeing kids being pulled on sleds.
I love seeing dogs playing excitedly in the parks. Particularly with other dogs.
*Dog bounds through the snow towards other dog
Alsatian: "Hey! You're a dog! I'm a dog too!"
Terrier: "ARGH! Keep away!"
Alsatian: "Hi! My name's Max!"
Terrier: "Woof! Fuck off!"
Max: "Aw, come on. It's snow! Isn't this great?"
Terrier: "No. It's cold. It comes up to my testicles, I can barely walk through it, my owner refuses to pick me up and I think I have asthma."
Max: "What's a Thmaa? Can I have one?"
Terrier: "It's a medical condition. It means that I get out of breath easily."
Max: "Wow. Are you a doctor?"
Terrier: "No. But I read a lot"
Max: "How often does it happen?"
Terrier: "Whenever I have a book in front of me."
Max: "The medical condition?"
Terrier: "Oh. A couple of times a day at least. It seems to be getting worse. I think it's due to the dust mites in the carpet. I'm quite low to the ground, you see."
Max: "This is snow, not carpet!"
Terrier: "Sigh. In the house. Woof!"
Max: "Have you tried telling your owner? They're normally good about helping. I showed my owner that I was feeling sexually frustrated once and so they had my balls removed. Problem solved. They really love me."
Terrier: "I try. But whenever I get wheezy or breathe heavy, they seem to think I want to play and throw my ball. That just exacerbates it. I think I need an inhaler"
Max: "Wanna make snow angels with me?"
Terrier: "No. We're dogs. Our legs don't bend that way. We'd have to lie flat on our backs, then roll to our left side, kick our legs, then roll back over onto our right side and kick our legs. This would result in more of a snow butterfly than a snow angel."
Max: "Do you wanna do that with me?"
Terrier: "No. Woof! Fuck off."
Sorry. I went off on one there.
Dogs seem to really enjoy snow. I think if we had snow on a regular basis, we wouldn't find it as magical. Like the Sydney sandstorms. Everyone went out to experience something different to the norm.
I'm not saying we'd all be out there with our cameras if it was raining fire, but we seem to love anything that's out of the ordinary.
I think we find snow fun for about a day. The first day of deep snow is great fun. After that, it starts to become tiresome. By about the fourth day, when the fresh deep snow has become compacted grey ice, we're hoping for an end to it.
I LOVE fresh snow.
Saturday 18 December 2010
The Donkey Sanctuary of Canada
Last year I sponsored a donkey. His name is Paco and he lives in Guelph, Canada. I'm not sure that he knows that he lives in Guelph, Canada, but frankly, that doesn't really matter to him.
Donkeys are amazingly sweet animals and can sneak up on you without you hearing a sound.
The sponsorship has now run out. I'm dreading getting letters that start:
Dear sponsor,
Paco has really enjoyed being able to eat this past year.....
Or maybe Paco turning up on my doorstep?
Donkeys are amazingly sweet animals and can sneak up on you without you hearing a sound.
The sponsorship has now run out. I'm dreading getting letters that start:
Dear sponsor,
Paco has really enjoyed being able to eat this past year.....
Or maybe Paco turning up on my doorstep?
Canadian Library Poetry Improv
I'm sat here in this library
On station number four
not the kind with trains and shit
and I've been sat here once before.
This station has a network filter
so I can't look at certain sites
one's with words like Donkey Come
Blue Tits and Wank and Shite.
But I guess I have to make the best of things
and just do what I can.
And try to ignore fart arse next to me
and next to her, the coughing man.
I know people get sick all the time
but it's really not much fun.
So I'd like to stay at station four
not station H1N1.
So now I turn to poetry
as I often do
when I have to escape from boring stuff
and things that make me blue.
I would love to say I'm being productive
but I know that isn't true
the only thing that I'm creating
is pointless, wordy poo.
And I really am not proud of that-
the whole thing with the wordy poo.
I really should be more wordy.
I just don't feel in the mood.
So I'm sat here in the library
trying not to get sick,
thinking of beating up the coughing guy-
with a candle-stick.....
On station number four
not the kind with trains and shit
and I've been sat here once before.
This station has a network filter
so I can't look at certain sites
one's with words like Donkey Come
Blue Tits and Wank and Shite.
But I guess I have to make the best of things
and just do what I can.
And try to ignore fart arse next to me
and next to her, the coughing man.
I know people get sick all the time
but it's really not much fun.
So I'd like to stay at station four
not station H1N1.
So now I turn to poetry
as I often do
when I have to escape from boring stuff
and things that make me blue.
I would love to say I'm being productive
but I know that isn't true
the only thing that I'm creating
is pointless, wordy poo.
And I really am not proud of that-
the whole thing with the wordy poo.
I really should be more wordy.
I just don't feel in the mood.
So I'm sat here in the library
trying not to get sick,
thinking of beating up the coughing guy-
with a candle-stick.....
Unfinished 1
Mum! Dad! Come on let's go!
Wake up. Look outside.
There's snow!
At least I think there's snow?
I'm colourblind to greens,
so it could all be lawn out there, who knows?
Come on! Wake up.
It smells cold out there.
We can play and have fun.
I'll get my lead from downstairs.
Actually that's tough, it hangs on the hook.
Hey dad, wake up, get my lead
Please don't make me beg
I mean plead.
Dad! Mum! That's it, a leg.
I'll grab it and pull
If that doesn't work, I'll try the head.
Finally. We have movement.
He gets up, steps on squeaky ball.
I put that there.
He looks down on me-
he's tall.
I'm less tall.
I always look up to him.
It gives me a bad neck some days.
Dad showers while I pace the floor.
He marks his territory in the bathroom
so I just pace a little more.
I can wait
The snow won't run away.
It usually lasts weeks or more
in dog years anyway.
I scratch my collar
argh-this is a good one.
You can't beat a good scratch-
followed by a long run.
DAD! Come on!
That's it, he's ready
Coat on, we're out the door.
It IS snow! Not lawn.
Wicked.
It melts on my nose
and tickles my toes.
And there's snowmen to pee on all day.
So we head to the park
where I hear other dogs bark
sounds of joy and happiness and play.
Happy chat of chasing things, leaping snow and ice covered fur.
Except for the terrier from number 4
who whines of some inhumane procedure-
That the vet has in store
for him next week.
Poor kid.
Wake up. Look outside.
There's snow!
At least I think there's snow?
I'm colourblind to greens,
so it could all be lawn out there, who knows?
Come on! Wake up.
It smells cold out there.
We can play and have fun.
I'll get my lead from downstairs.
Actually that's tough, it hangs on the hook.
Hey dad, wake up, get my lead
Please don't make me beg
I mean plead.
Dad! Mum! That's it, a leg.
I'll grab it and pull
If that doesn't work, I'll try the head.
Finally. We have movement.
He gets up, steps on squeaky ball.
I put that there.
He looks down on me-
he's tall.
I'm less tall.
I always look up to him.
It gives me a bad neck some days.
Dad showers while I pace the floor.
He marks his territory in the bathroom
so I just pace a little more.
I can wait
The snow won't run away.
It usually lasts weeks or more
in dog years anyway.
I scratch my collar
argh-this is a good one.
You can't beat a good scratch-
followed by a long run.
DAD! Come on!
That's it, he's ready
Coat on, we're out the door.
It IS snow! Not lawn.
Wicked.
It melts on my nose
and tickles my toes.
And there's snowmen to pee on all day.
So we head to the park
where I hear other dogs bark
sounds of joy and happiness and play.
Happy chat of chasing things, leaping snow and ice covered fur.
Except for the terrier from number 4
who whines of some inhumane procedure-
That the vet has in store
for him next week.
Poor kid.
Friday 17 December 2010
I don't joke all of the time.
Sometimes not everything is a joke to me. Humour helps me get through an awful lot, but sometimes, just sometimes I allow myself to write about things that are hurting me. I'm not talking about a poem about a dodgy curry either.
I always feel like I sound so pretentious when I write about something serious. Most poems that I write are little snapshots of how I was feeling at the time, so it's interesting for me (if not you) to go back and re-read some of them. To see what my mood was like. I'm of course not including poems about squirrels with GPS tracking systems.
Talk to me.
Tell me that you're fine
that your days aren't long and painful.
Tell me that your regretful ways are gone
and sadness is not your only visitor.
Tell me how you're happy
to not have me around.
Tell me that you're proud of me
but make me believe it just this once.
Tell me you'll protect me
And not fill my life with fear.
Tell me you're not scared
of all the things you've done.
Tell me how you loved her
and we'll forget all of her pain.
Tell me that you're sorry
and I'll tell you how you're forgiven.
Tell me you'd like to see me
to take away all that I have seen.
Tell me that you're ready
to say goodbye to all you knew.
Tell me that you love me
And I'll lie back to you.
I wrote this at the height of my dad's illness. I was angry and believed nothing from anybody. He would call me every day, from about 3:00am onwards and just bombard me with how he loved me, was proud of me, and how I never let him down. He would call dozens of time each night/morning. After each call, he would forget about what had been said, and call me back and the whole thing would repeat. I managed to cope for a few months, but eventually it started to wear me down and I began to cope less and less. Many times I slammed the phone down. Ignored it. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Nothing, nothing seemed to reach him. I would lose my temper with him, hang up, and then within a minute he'd call back as if nothing had happened and we'd start all over again. There is a black ink stain on the wall where I threw a Sharpie in temper (it was the closest and lightest thing to hand). It got to the point where it felt like I was dying with him. I couldn't go and visit him. I was terrified of how I would react if he behaved the same way in person. I didn't want to hurt him. But I did that in the end anyway by not visiting him.
He died while I was in Canada. I found out a month after he'd died. My sister phoned me and told me. Victim support had informed her. I was the last to know. My other sister's family had even pretended to be acting on my behalf and found out everything they could from the nursing home. The manager had to actually apologize for giving out the details to someone other than me. I had no energy left to care. But it was just a typical move from my family. My family are awful. Each and every one of them. I know that some people include me in that company as well. My dad's sister certainly does. She is.....was in charge of his care. She didn't bother to tell me that he'd died. Dad had already been cremated and scattered by the time I'd found out. He had always wanted to be buried. So I couldn't even grant him that wish. I wish I could have been stronger for him.
Both my parents had some form of dementia towards the end. Mum's was thankfully short lived because of the cancer, but it was still a nightmare. For a long time afterwards, I struggled with the fact that I didn't really know when my mum, the person that was truly my mum, had died. It felt like she'd slipped away and I hadn't even noticed. Like she'd died without me realising. And all that was left was a warped version of her. A warped version that had to be fed and cleaned. Mum never got abusive, which I am so thankful for. Dad's was different and really put me through a lot. And that was just through the power of the telephone.
What really upsets me is I was so proud of how he was dealing with it. The last time we met, we hugged, and we both said how much we loved one another. And I meant it. He said that he wanted it to end this way. That we would remember each other this way. We were in the park in Leamington. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to know about mum's death (he wasn't around for when that happened, but not through his choice), he said no, he didn't ever seem to want to know, so I didn't force any details on him. I was the one that told him she was sick. I had to tell him the news that she wouldn't get better. And I was the one that told him when she'd died. I never thought I'd have to do something like that. I didn't feel grown-up enough.
We hugged and he told me to take care of myself. He was always a big man, one that I was barely able to get my arms around. Now he was skin and bones and he felt so fragile. I was scared to hurt him, but I thought that if I hugged him hard enough, long enough, and really meant it, then I would always remember it. He then said that this is how he wanted it and said goodbye.
He was living in a place about a mile from the park. I followed him all the way back there without him seeing me. Every slow and painful step. It took forever, but I needed to know he was ok. His last sight of me was in the park. Mine was of him walking back to a dirty hostel, dragging his walking stick behind him. The walking stick that he had worn down by dragging it down the same road over and over again. It was worn at an angle. I never saw him use it. But he always dragged it behind him.
Three days later, he called me from his new "home". The nursing home. And I guess that was when both our nightmares began. It was like our "deal" about how it was supposed to end had been forgotten. I don't blame him. But you know what? If I had been him (or my mum), I couldn't put my children through that.
Two different illnesses killed my parents. But I lost them a long time before they died. Sometimes it's easy to get the lines blurred, but I really loved the good parts of my dad. Hated the bad parts. And despised the illness that he had, for what it made him, and for what it made me.
I always feel like I sound so pretentious when I write about something serious. Most poems that I write are little snapshots of how I was feeling at the time, so it's interesting for me (if not you) to go back and re-read some of them. To see what my mood was like. I'm of course not including poems about squirrels with GPS tracking systems.
Talk to me.
Tell me that you're fine
that your days aren't long and painful.
Tell me that your regretful ways are gone
and sadness is not your only visitor.
Tell me how you're happy
to not have me around.
Tell me that you're proud of me
but make me believe it just this once.
Tell me you'll protect me
And not fill my life with fear.
Tell me you're not scared
of all the things you've done.
Tell me how you loved her
and we'll forget all of her pain.
Tell me that you're sorry
and I'll tell you how you're forgiven.
Tell me you'd like to see me
to take away all that I have seen.
Tell me that you're ready
to say goodbye to all you knew.
Tell me that you love me
And I'll lie back to you.
I wrote this at the height of my dad's illness. I was angry and believed nothing from anybody. He would call me every day, from about 3:00am onwards and just bombard me with how he loved me, was proud of me, and how I never let him down. He would call dozens of time each night/morning. After each call, he would forget about what had been said, and call me back and the whole thing would repeat. I managed to cope for a few months, but eventually it started to wear me down and I began to cope less and less. Many times I slammed the phone down. Ignored it. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Nothing, nothing seemed to reach him. I would lose my temper with him, hang up, and then within a minute he'd call back as if nothing had happened and we'd start all over again. There is a black ink stain on the wall where I threw a Sharpie in temper (it was the closest and lightest thing to hand). It got to the point where it felt like I was dying with him. I couldn't go and visit him. I was terrified of how I would react if he behaved the same way in person. I didn't want to hurt him. But I did that in the end anyway by not visiting him.
He died while I was in Canada. I found out a month after he'd died. My sister phoned me and told me. Victim support had informed her. I was the last to know. My other sister's family had even pretended to be acting on my behalf and found out everything they could from the nursing home. The manager had to actually apologize for giving out the details to someone other than me. I had no energy left to care. But it was just a typical move from my family. My family are awful. Each and every one of them. I know that some people include me in that company as well. My dad's sister certainly does. She is.....was in charge of his care. She didn't bother to tell me that he'd died. Dad had already been cremated and scattered by the time I'd found out. He had always wanted to be buried. So I couldn't even grant him that wish. I wish I could have been stronger for him.
Both my parents had some form of dementia towards the end. Mum's was thankfully short lived because of the cancer, but it was still a nightmare. For a long time afterwards, I struggled with the fact that I didn't really know when my mum, the person that was truly my mum, had died. It felt like she'd slipped away and I hadn't even noticed. Like she'd died without me realising. And all that was left was a warped version of her. A warped version that had to be fed and cleaned. Mum never got abusive, which I am so thankful for. Dad's was different and really put me through a lot. And that was just through the power of the telephone.
What really upsets me is I was so proud of how he was dealing with it. The last time we met, we hugged, and we both said how much we loved one another. And I meant it. He said that he wanted it to end this way. That we would remember each other this way. We were in the park in Leamington. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to know about mum's death (he wasn't around for when that happened, but not through his choice), he said no, he didn't ever seem to want to know, so I didn't force any details on him. I was the one that told him she was sick. I had to tell him the news that she wouldn't get better. And I was the one that told him when she'd died. I never thought I'd have to do something like that. I didn't feel grown-up enough.
We hugged and he told me to take care of myself. He was always a big man, one that I was barely able to get my arms around. Now he was skin and bones and he felt so fragile. I was scared to hurt him, but I thought that if I hugged him hard enough, long enough, and really meant it, then I would always remember it. He then said that this is how he wanted it and said goodbye.
He was living in a place about a mile from the park. I followed him all the way back there without him seeing me. Every slow and painful step. It took forever, but I needed to know he was ok. His last sight of me was in the park. Mine was of him walking back to a dirty hostel, dragging his walking stick behind him. The walking stick that he had worn down by dragging it down the same road over and over again. It was worn at an angle. I never saw him use it. But he always dragged it behind him.
Three days later, he called me from his new "home". The nursing home. And I guess that was when both our nightmares began. It was like our "deal" about how it was supposed to end had been forgotten. I don't blame him. But you know what? If I had been him (or my mum), I couldn't put my children through that.
Two different illnesses killed my parents. But I lost them a long time before they died. Sometimes it's easy to get the lines blurred, but I really loved the good parts of my dad. Hated the bad parts. And despised the illness that he had, for what it made him, and for what it made me.
c-c-c-c-changes...
Not big changes. But I've decided to cut down on the number of life-sucking social network thingies that I have spread myself over.
16th Dec 2010
With a title like that, this sounds more like a diary than a blog. I just couldn't muster up a title. Sue me.
I visited my nan yesterday. Turns out that is was her birthday. The clues were there when I walked in. Dozens of birthday cards that weren't there the day before, and balloons with "90" on them.
Who knew that they even made balloons with "90" on them? I had to look closely to make sure somebody hadn't just added a "0" to more ordinary "9" balloons.
By the time you reach 90 years of age everything is dangerous to you, including balloons. They are a trip hazzard for a start. They "drift". One impact from a balloon could break a 90-year old's hip. They create static electricity. One spark from a balloon and my nan's polyester cardigan could go up in flames. Still, it won't be my fault if anything happens to her and that's the most important thing.
Oh, and with how racist old people can be, I'm surprised she allowed different colour balloons in the house.
Anyway, after skillfully avoiding the last 89 of her birthdays, I felt that a card might be expected of me. Not by my nan, you understand. Nan is happy to have nothing, and tells me this every year. But the family frowns upon you if you don't follow protocol when it comes to these things. I tend to get frowned upon more than most, so I thought the card would help.
Fortunately I had a friend whose birthday had fallen upon the same spawning day as my nan, so I had popped into Poundland earlier to buy her a card (no expense spared), and who knew that you could pick up FOUR almost decent cards for a pound?
Wicked! As they say.
So, I had 3 spare cards. So, I had nan's birthday covered. So.........into the bathroom with a pen.
I managed to get it written within two flushes.
Handed her the card and she said "Thank you" and placed it on the mantlepiece. Didn't even open it. Can you feel the love?
She then spent the next half an hour telling me that she didn't want a fuss.
Nan: "I told them not to bring it up. Don't mention it! But they had to go and put it on facebook"
Me: *my really high voice "You know about facebook!?"
Nan: "They're taking me out for a meal on Saturday. Thirty of the family. I've told them I don't want a cake. And I especially don't want everyone singing happy birthday. It's embarrassing!"
Me: "Well yes. And there's copyright issues."
Nan: "I've told them! If they sing happy birthday to me, the next time it's their birthday, I will stand on the table top and SCREEEEEEAM and SCREAM! See how they like it."
That is one family dinner that I would love to see.
Oh, and I wasn't invited to nan's birthday dinner. Can you feel the love?
I visited my nan yesterday. Turns out that is was her birthday. The clues were there when I walked in. Dozens of birthday cards that weren't there the day before, and balloons with "90" on them.
Who knew that they even made balloons with "90" on them? I had to look closely to make sure somebody hadn't just added a "0" to more ordinary "9" balloons.
By the time you reach 90 years of age everything is dangerous to you, including balloons. They are a trip hazzard for a start. They "drift". One impact from a balloon could break a 90-year old's hip. They create static electricity. One spark from a balloon and my nan's polyester cardigan could go up in flames. Still, it won't be my fault if anything happens to her and that's the most important thing.
Oh, and with how racist old people can be, I'm surprised she allowed different colour balloons in the house.
Anyway, after skillfully avoiding the last 89 of her birthdays, I felt that a card might be expected of me. Not by my nan, you understand. Nan is happy to have nothing, and tells me this every year. But the family frowns upon you if you don't follow protocol when it comes to these things. I tend to get frowned upon more than most, so I thought the card would help.
Fortunately I had a friend whose birthday had fallen upon the same spawning day as my nan, so I had popped into Poundland earlier to buy her a card (no expense spared), and who knew that you could pick up FOUR almost decent cards for a pound?
Wicked! As they say.
So, I had 3 spare cards. So, I had nan's birthday covered. So.........into the bathroom with a pen.
I managed to get it written within two flushes.
Handed her the card and she said "Thank you" and placed it on the mantlepiece. Didn't even open it. Can you feel the love?
She then spent the next half an hour telling me that she didn't want a fuss.
Nan: "I told them not to bring it up. Don't mention it! But they had to go and put it on facebook"
Me: *my really high voice "You know about facebook!?"
Nan: "They're taking me out for a meal on Saturday. Thirty of the family. I've told them I don't want a cake. And I especially don't want everyone singing happy birthday. It's embarrassing!"
Me: "Well yes. And there's copyright issues."
Nan: "I've told them! If they sing happy birthday to me, the next time it's their birthday, I will stand on the table top and SCREEEEEEAM and SCREAM! See how they like it."
That is one family dinner that I would love to see.
Oh, and I wasn't invited to nan's birthday dinner. Can you feel the love?
Thursday 16 December 2010
Everyone has the flu and I rewrote a song from Grease once.
I got chills,
they're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' bowel control.
'cause the virus
is multiplyin',
it's terrifyin'!
You better throw up,
'cause you need a pan,
and the nearest one's the loo.
You better throw up;
you better understand
shortly after there'll be poo.
Oh dear god, please don't tell me poo!
I'm gonna throw up!
(You better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then you'd better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, ooooo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, yes indeed.
If you're filled
with infection
and you're starting to sway,
I hope the wind's not in my direction.
Keep away.
I better throw up,
'cause you need a man.
I need a man
who can keep himself alive.
I better throw up
get my bowels to move.
Oh, they will move!
In that my faith is justified.
Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure down deep inside.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then stop singin' and run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(I'm not lisnin' anymore, hon), o, o, oo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, help me please!
Repeat chorus 2x
and call me in the morning.
they're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' bowel control.
'cause the virus
is multiplyin',
it's terrifyin'!
You better throw up,
'cause you need a pan,
and the nearest one's the loo.
You better throw up;
you better understand
shortly after there'll be poo.
Oh dear god, please don't tell me poo!
I'm gonna throw up!
(You better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then you'd better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, ooooo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, yes indeed.
If you're filled
with infection
and you're starting to sway,
I hope the wind's not in my direction.
Keep away.
I better throw up,
'cause you need a man.
I need a man
who can keep himself alive.
I better throw up
get my bowels to move.
Oh, they will move!
In that my faith is justified.
Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure down deep inside.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then stop singin' and run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(I'm not lisnin' anymore, hon), o, o, oo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, help me please!
Repeat chorus 2x
and call me in the morning.
I have been reminded that this blog exists.
No, it hasn't sent me a Christmas card (not yet, anyway), but every so often, I get reminded to visit my Blog, Twitter, Tumblr, YT channels (even the long forgotten ones), and spend some time with them.
I still don't know what I want from a blog. Typing takes much more time than just making a video or tweeting something. But I'd like to keep this thing going. Maybe I'll appreciate it more in a few years than I will 3000 tweets about "Lost a sock" and so forth.
So I will be attempting to keep scribbling in this thing. I think only 2 people check it anyway, but it's interesting to look back on and I very rarely remember what I've written, so it can be a fun surprise.
I just wish I had interesting things to talk about.
No, it hasn't sent me a Christmas card (not yet, anyway), but every so often, I get reminded to visit my Blog, Twitter, Tumblr, YT channels (even the long forgotten ones), and spend some time with them.
I still don't know what I want from a blog. Typing takes much more time than just making a video or tweeting something. But I'd like to keep this thing going. Maybe I'll appreciate it more in a few years than I will 3000 tweets about "Lost a sock" and so forth.
So I will be attempting to keep scribbling in this thing. I think only 2 people check it anyway, but it's interesting to look back on and I very rarely remember what I've written, so it can be a fun surprise.
I just wish I had interesting things to talk about.
Monday 2 August 2010
Monday 19 July 2010
Sunday 11 July 2010
There's always someone worse off than yourself.
Whenever anything would go wrong, if I was feeling down about something, my dad would always say something like "There's always someone worse off than you".
But that's like a sliding scale of shit.
I mean, it only works for so long before you get to the guy that has numerous horrible diseases, is riddled with cancer, is having a double heart attack, was born with only one arm (that has a shark chewing on it), is blind, deaf, mentally retarded, is surrounded by people taunting him for being mentally retarded, has no fashion sense, is naked, with a horse buggering him, the horse has fleas, and aids, even the fleas have aids, the guy's phone is ringing constantly but he can't answer it because his only good arm has a shark on the end of it, and his guide dog has just died after being hit by a car, his car that was just stolen by a gypsy who also just happened to place a curse on the guy. The guy has no legs, just wheels, rusty wheels that squeak every time the guy moves, which is often because he's in constant fucking agony, moving and flailing his shark arm everywhere. He has gum disease and malaria of the nipple, a parasite fish is living in his penis that plays loud music every night, he is allergic to everything, particularly bees, which is unfortunate because he sweats pollen, especially when he's nervous, like now. He sweats pollen but cries tears of crude oil, and he has reason to cry because BP have plans to put an oil rig up his ass after the horse has finished with him, they'll have to put him out first because he's on fire, did I mention he's on fire? Which is almost a good thing, because it stops the mugger from stabbing him more than 12 times, the mugger who's trying to rob the guy of his shark. In the midst of being late for his appointment with the cancer specialist, having TWO heart attacks, being raped by a horse (with aids), the shark attack, being stabbed and on fire, the guy has accidentally "parked" himself in a no-parking zone, and is about to get a ticket from a traffic warden. A traffic warden who also just happens to be the guy's mother. She tells him that she's very disappointed in him and that she wishes the 14 abortions had worked, in her attempt to get rid of him. He can't hear this however because he's deaf. So she uses a dirty syringe from a nearby alley to carve her message to him, in braille on his testicles. The guy's house has just been bombed by a right-wing extremist home makeover show, his dad is in fact the horse that is raping him, his hairline has started to recede, he badly needs to shit himself, but BP have started laying pipe before he can, the horse has now decided to randomly kick the guy in the head with a rusty horseshoe, the guy gets tetanus from the horseshoe, his favourite tv show is about to get cancelled, his girlfriend dumps him for having sex with a horse, a horse that is also his father, and a unicorn, the horse magically gets the guy pregnant after raping him, pregnant with triplets, triplet centaurs that will kick their way out through the guys face, he has a paper cut, has stubbed his toe, and God has just decided to localize the apocalypse to just this one guy.
But, BUT there's always someone worse off than yourself.
But that's like a sliding scale of shit.
I mean, it only works for so long before you get to the guy that has numerous horrible diseases, is riddled with cancer, is having a double heart attack, was born with only one arm (that has a shark chewing on it), is blind, deaf, mentally retarded, is surrounded by people taunting him for being mentally retarded, has no fashion sense, is naked, with a horse buggering him, the horse has fleas, and aids, even the fleas have aids, the guy's phone is ringing constantly but he can't answer it because his only good arm has a shark on the end of it, and his guide dog has just died after being hit by a car, his car that was just stolen by a gypsy who also just happened to place a curse on the guy. The guy has no legs, just wheels, rusty wheels that squeak every time the guy moves, which is often because he's in constant fucking agony, moving and flailing his shark arm everywhere. He has gum disease and malaria of the nipple, a parasite fish is living in his penis that plays loud music every night, he is allergic to everything, particularly bees, which is unfortunate because he sweats pollen, especially when he's nervous, like now. He sweats pollen but cries tears of crude oil, and he has reason to cry because BP have plans to put an oil rig up his ass after the horse has finished with him, they'll have to put him out first because he's on fire, did I mention he's on fire? Which is almost a good thing, because it stops the mugger from stabbing him more than 12 times, the mugger who's trying to rob the guy of his shark. In the midst of being late for his appointment with the cancer specialist, having TWO heart attacks, being raped by a horse (with aids), the shark attack, being stabbed and on fire, the guy has accidentally "parked" himself in a no-parking zone, and is about to get a ticket from a traffic warden. A traffic warden who also just happens to be the guy's mother. She tells him that she's very disappointed in him and that she wishes the 14 abortions had worked, in her attempt to get rid of him. He can't hear this however because he's deaf. So she uses a dirty syringe from a nearby alley to carve her message to him, in braille on his testicles. The guy's house has just been bombed by a right-wing extremist home makeover show, his dad is in fact the horse that is raping him, his hairline has started to recede, he badly needs to shit himself, but BP have started laying pipe before he can, the horse has now decided to randomly kick the guy in the head with a rusty horseshoe, the guy gets tetanus from the horseshoe, his favourite tv show is about to get cancelled, his girlfriend dumps him for having sex with a horse, a horse that is also his father, and a unicorn, the horse magically gets the guy pregnant after raping him, pregnant with triplets, triplet centaurs that will kick their way out through the guys face, he has a paper cut, has stubbed his toe, and God has just decided to localize the apocalypse to just this one guy.
But, BUT there's always someone worse off than yourself.
Monday 18 January 2010
Deeep Cove
The place is actually called, Deep Cove, but I seemed to put an extra "E" in there?
I made it deeper.
We went to Deep Cove a couple of days ago. It's a teeny-tiny little tourist place that is based around a cove. That may or may not be deep? I don't know? I haven't tested it.
Maybe the locals are pulling a fast one? Is it even a cove? What is a cove? Do I even know? I'm assuming I do, but I could be wrong? This is a lot of question marks.
While there, we checked out a small, local gallery, walked up and down, ate sushi, drank fizzy liquid, and took in the town. There's not much of it, it's pretty much just a street that ends at the waterfront, but what there is of it is very beautiful, and I'm guessing that there are many one-armed people living in the town.
We came across a little girl, named Isobel, who was selling drawings outside a pizza place. Apparently, 75% of the proceeds were going to the victims of the Haiti earthquake. I would like to believe that. There is a voice in the back of my head that says she is saving up for a condo, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. She was super cute, and we bought two pictures from her, I got a cat, Amalia got herself a very happy looking snowman. Isobel is now an established artist. Good for her!
We then finished off the day in a coffee shop, that kindly gave us the chance to buy two coffees, sit down, drink a couple of mouthfuls, before saying "Sorry guys, we're closing now!"
Thanks a f_cking bunch!
Next time, just take our money and tell us to get out, why don't you? The whole pretense of letting us believe you were going to let us sit in your establishment and finish the beverages we have just paid you for, is just downright cruel. Don't toy with people that need coffee and sit-down time.
The place is a pretty nice spot to visit if you want a peaceful afternoon.
(But not if you want a coffee at the end of the day)
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