whimsically yours

Wet and windy

2007-06-25T22:01:00.000Z

Bloody hell!! It always seems that when I drive to my sisters, either the outward or return journey seems to take forever. The last time I went, in March, took me nearly 8 hours. To put this into context, I live in Sidcup and my sister lives in the Peak District town of Glossop. A journey of about 230 miles. M25, M1, then the Woodhead Pass.

This time I went up on Saturday, and left at 7am. It was lovely, no traffic jams at all. Took me 4 1/2 hours. Sweet.

That is until today when I came home. In what some of the less reactionary papers are dubbing "The Flood of Britain!!!" I should have known it was going to be a long journey, according to the radio the M1 was blocked all the way from Barnsley to Sheffield (I join somewhere in between). So I decide to drive through Derbyshire.

Mistake.

Three hours, several 'rivers' and I finally get to Matlock, 40 miles (give or take the few I spent getting hopelessly lost around somewhere or other). After that it's easy peasy. The motorway is a bit wet, but thankfully after Northampton, the weather clears, and a mere 3 hours after that I'm home!! Just in time to watch Heroes.

Now to watch Die Hard for the umpteenth time.

Yipee Ka-Aye Muthafucka!!

Hoarding as a hobby

2007-05-14T20:09:00.000Z

My house is crammed full of stuff. Old books, old clothes, old LPs and, adding to the family (so to speak), old CDs. And that's just the stuff I collect. On purpose. There's a great deal of crap I have no use for ever, that seems to insinuate its way onto and into various bits of furniture, all around the house. Bank statements from 1997, letters from long since pension companies telling me how little I had saved 12 years ago. Why do I keep all this stuff? If I do notice that some bastard hacked into my account 10 years ago, what the hell can I do about it now? And as for the pension people, my money's probably been 'reinvested' in a house in Malibu.

Am I an old romantic fool who likes to wallow in nostalgia? I don't think so. I've not lead much of an exciting life. Certainly nothing that eventful happened then that I hark for. Mainly my life was spent working and getting drunk a great deal. Which is what your supposed to do in your twenties, isn't it? Now, in my mid-thirties I look back with great fondness on those times, but I don't want to re-create them now. Christ almighty, it takes me a full 36 hours to recover whenever I drink these days, I'm not about to kill myself chasing some rosetinted dream

So, we can rule out nostalgia and romanticism, which only really leaves one thing. Laziness. Bone idle laziness. Now here I must hold my hands up. I am one lazy fucker. I really am. I can't even be bothered to get a girlfriend. Yes, that's what it is, I can't be bothered. I'm sure if I did bother, then... Anyway, laziness. That and a real apathy for throwing things away. Add the two together and you get, well, me.

I opened my sock drawer the other day, and what did I find? 10 CD covers (cds missing), a porno book (well thumbed!), a booster kit for telephones, complete with 10 metre cord, 5 pairs of socks, and one pair of underpants. Plus 100 record cards, each carefully and lovingly left blank. Two pens (none of which worked) and some old letters from a dear friend of mine who moved one year and forgot to give me her forwarding address.

All this leads me to computers. The hoarders dream? Not necessarily. Now we can store all our music, photos, films, correspondence and virtually everything else into a small box in the corner of the room. Everything that I have lying about me, all in there, and, at the touch of a button, I can sort how I want it. By date, genre, file size, alphabetically, numerically, by importance. Pretty soon there'll be no hard copy of anything to file away. Even the very books we read will be primarily downloadable.

All this means that future generations will miss out on something wonderful. Something that can gladden the heart on the most miserable of days. Finding and playing that lost CD you thought had gone forever. Opening a book, and out recovering an old photograph or love letter that brings a tear to your eye. That sudden link to the past. So evocative and emotive. It's a beautiful feeling.

Not so long ago I was sorting through some old files, when I happened across a stack of old photographs of my parents when they were in their twenties. It had such a powerful effect on me that I had to sit down, and cry a little. There were pictures of me and my sister when we had just moved into our house (the one I still live in - I'm 36 next week, and it'll be 35 years I've lived here). What made it so sad is that I couldn't go and show my mum and dad, they're both dead now. But it was still a happy moment for me to see them again so unexpectedly, healthy and happy and in their prime.

The computer generation will miss all this. Yes, everything is stored away on the hard drive, and backed up in case of an emergency. And yes, you can just click on the relevant directory and go straight to the pictures from 20 years ago. But that will be all. There won't be love letters hiding in drawers next to outdated statements. There won't be the empty CD covers behind the sofa. Half the fun of looking for something is that you invariably end up finding something else that's more interesting. Hard to do when you don't have to search.

Everything that defines you in one small box.

"There's my computer. It contains my life."

I'm glad I'm a hoarder.

Football thuggery

2007-05-03T22:35:00.000Z

I see that Ousmane Dabo is considering suing Joey Barton for punching him unconcious and 'disfiguring' him.

For the love of God, why not call the police? And why haven't they arrested Barton in any case? Are footballers exempt from prosecution?

Some friends I spoke with say that the police can't arrest Barton unless Dabo wishes to press charges, but surely his intention to sue could be construed as such?

Makes me as sick as a parrot.

Coming back

2007-05-02T22:20:00.000Z

Bloody hell, I hadn't realised over a year had passed since I last posted.

You'd think that a lot would have happened, and it has. Went on holiday to France again last year. We stayed in Lot, near the Dordonnes I think. Not a bad holiday, but never as good as the first one.

Still in a year, I've been on a date. Yes! One date!! Which went very well. I'm not sure what went wrong after that, we spoke several times afterwards, then she sort of disappeared. Not in the physical sense, but unanswered texts and e-mails. Don't fret, it wasn't like I was bombarding the poor girl. Two texts and two e-mails are hardly the hallmark of a weirdo stalker.

Since then my luck has been drier than the Kalahari. Oh well.

Oh, and my friends Simon and Vanessa have had a child at last, born sometime in April. I tell you he's a useless get. I only found out last week, three weeks after the birth, and then only by accident. Apparently he sent me a text and an e-mail. Both of which somehow failed to reach me.

Or perhaps he's trying to tell me something.

On a sporting note, I see that Man Utd were beaten by AC Milan earlier this evening. I'm an Arsenal fan, but I even I would like to commiserate to you Manc fans out there.

Looking for somebody.

2005-10-20T08:57:00.000Z

I've decided to re-join the Soulmates webside, a year after I cancelled my previous subscription. Why? The last time generated no interest, so why should this time be any different? But a dear friend of mine said something the other week that made me decide to give it another go.

I can't remember the exact words she used, suffice to say that if you want your dreams to come true, then you have to do something about it. Love might find you, but you stand a better chance if you make yourself noticeable.

Well I've done it, and now I shall just wait and see if anyone's interested.

Time for change.

2005-10-17T12:28:00.000Z

I've been quiet for some time now.

In the time I've been away, I lost my job. Well, losing my job, I still have two weeks left here. It was all amicable, the decision to close our office was entirely justifiable. To be honest we saw this coming 5 months ago.

Still, the pay off was more than I could have expected, and another company have taken me on. Which is nice, as they are all ex-employees of my current company, and we've worked together before. That takes care of the 'new boy' syndrome.

The only downside is the new role means that I won't get so much internet access during the week. The job is split between me working on the shopfloor, doing some assembling and packing, and upstairs in the sales office, doing admin work. Thankfully, in a year's time, there should be a permanent role opening in the office, which they had previously earmarked for me, but due to slight miscalculation, could not offer this year.

All in all, I am happy. Nervous, but happy. It will mean quite a lot of physical work, but that can only be a good thing.

Picnic in the park

2005-09-09T13:09:00.000Z

I've not posted for a few weeks, which is strange.

So, Bank Holiday Monday, and we've arranged a picnic near June's house in Hackney at Victoria Park. Me, June, Blue, Tim and Gordo, my holiday friends, have agreed it would be a good idea.

I get the train to London Bridge at about 11.15, and I've never seen so many people going to London on a bank holiday. The train was packed. Then I realise the tight arses at Southern Railways have only provided 4 carriages instead of 8. If you're not from the UK, or have never travelled on a train here, there is no airconditioning, and the windows seemed to have been welded shut. Add to this the engine heat, and you can imagine it's not a pleasant experience.

Anyway, get to London Bridge, and check out the bus times. I have 20 minutes until the 48 is due. Time for a cup of tea! Too much milk, and not enough stirring of the tightly packed teabag. I throw it away, making sure I put it in a bin, and don't just leave it lying around. There are some particularly mean looking coppers who may, or may not, have been following me.

Soon I arrive in Hackney. June has told me to get off at the stop just past the bingo. Being a bit dense, I don't phone her to let her know where I am, and decide to look for the road I saw on my A-Z earlier. 20 minutes later and I'm completely lost, and then decide to ring June. Another 20 minutes later, I'm at June's place. Gordo (who I passed on the bus ages and ages ago!) are there. 10 minutes later and Blue turns up.

We have something to drink, then set off for the park.

It seemed to take ages to get there, but the walk was very pretty, right along some canal path. We find a shaded area, and start to dish out the goodies. June has cooked a lovely bacon and mushroom quiche and Ginger cake, which I must admit was absolutely scrumptious.

It was an absolutely lovely day. We sat around chatting and being silly, taking photographs.

On the way back, we stopped off at a great pub, The Dove, and had a few drinks outside in the sun. The street was quite vibrant, considering the Notting Hill Carnival was on. Then we went back to June's place, where we viewed all the pictures we took on holday. That made me both happy, and sad.

Afterwards a treat for Blue! I'd taped her some A-Team episodes, and we watched two. It was just like being on holiday, when we watched Blue's A-Team DVD.

Before we knew it, it was time to go home. I give June the bear hug I promised her, and promptly broke one of her wine glasses while swinging her around.

Blue gets her bear hug at the bus stop before her bus arrives.

And then I'm alone, and I feel sad. It's always the worst time when you have to go home.

But I will always have the memories, especially Blue monkeying about in the trees.

Grandma

2005-08-25T13:26:00.000Z

I remember the night my Grandmother died. She was 87 and suffered badly from Alzheimers. Often she would believe it was 1925, and we were her brothers and sisters. It was quite distressing from time to time.

Anyway, I got a call from my Aunt, who had come home and found her dead. So, I went and waited for a bus, feeling sad, but also happy that she had been released from her torment, and that she would be reunited with my grandfather again, who'd died 17 years before. I got to her house, and let myself in with the key. They lived in a maisonette, on the upper level, the door opens onto the stairs.

Except on this occasion, it wouldn't open. Being January, and late at night, and the landing light being switched off, I couldn't see a thing. So I kept trying to open the door. Whap-whap-whap-whap. Finally, I called up. The landing light comes on, and I see a paramedic at the top of the stairs.

Can you guess who's at the bottom of the stairs? Yup. Grandmother. "Oh, mind out!" the paramedic called out, "Your Grandmother is at the bottom of the stairs."

Fucking hell, I thought, a little heads up would've been nice.

So now I have to squeeze through a tiny gap, and step over the lifeless body of Grandmother.

Why hadn't they moved her? "Well, we have to wait for the doctor to officially pronounce her dead before we can move the body."

A doctor? Fuck me, you don't need to have studied for seven years at medical school to tell that the old lady who's been lying at the bottom of the stairs for the past 5 hours is dead. What did they think she was doing, playing hide and seek? A fucking child could make that diagnosis.

Poor thing.

Falling in love and through tables.

2005-08-25T11:51:00.000Z

Have you ever been in love, and lost? It's funny how certain things can trigger memories, hearing a song, a certain aroma, even the way the light shines can remind you of your former love.

A few years ago (in fact, last century), a girl started playing rugby for our ladies team. A really pretty young thing (she was 19), with dark wavy hair, green eyes and a heart-stopping smile. I'd seen her at the club, and at the pub we used to go to on a Sunday. She recognised me, and we started chatting, and soon became friends. I didn't think anything at first, she was going out with a friend of mine, who was nearer her age, but after a few months my feelings towards her changed.

To cut a long story short, I never told her how I felt, as I was scared of rejection. Not only that, but once you do that, it's hard to remain just friends.

Then, on boxing day a year or so later, we all got invited to a house party. That year my old boss had given me the usual xmas present - a litre and a half of vodka. I knew she was there in the living room, and, being in a funny mood that day, I decided to plant myself in the kitchen with my vodka and several cartons of orange juice.

A mistake.

Three hours later, and I've finished the whole bloody lot, but I felt fine. And brave. Too brave. I began to walk to the living room. A walk that slowly deteriorated into lurching, which then crumbled into bouncing off the walls. I enter the living room, the whole place had a fluid quality to it, and the water seemed choppy.

I manage to spot the girl of my dreams, raise my arm and point straight at her. At this point, the room has fallen silent, all eyes looking at me in a combination of amusement and bemusement. Then I bellow the words "K****, I LOVE YOU!"

More silence, and I'm standing there, swaying slightly.

And then I fell through a table. A table full of ashtrays, cans and bottles.

Now I don't remember much else that evening, suffice to say that I woke up near the car park to my house.

Anyway, soon after that, she went to Canada, came back, got married and had a baby boy. Without so much a as a bye your leave.

Love hurts? Well yes. So does smacking your head on a solid wood table, only £100 from your local pine retailer.

Proms and vampires

2005-08-23T11:46:00.000Z

I went to the Proms last night. For those who don't know, the Proms is a series of concerts, sponsored by the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), held daily at the Royal Albert Hall in London during the summer.

Last night, me, Tim, Peggy and Gordon went to see performances of Ravel and Shostakovich. Peggy was doubly excited as her favourite musician was lead violinist.

It was quite weird, we only paid 4 pounds to get in, and were in the Gallery, right at the top. There were a few chairs, but most people stood leaning against the gallery rails. Or so I thought. Halfway through Shostakovich's first movement, I looked behind me, and there were people lying on the floor, propped up against the wall, everywhere. By this time my arms were getting rubbed raw by the rail, so I took myself over to the wall, and spent the rest of the concert in a very comfortable position. On my arse!

The concert itself was wonderful, the first time I'd ever been to a classical music concert. There was a French pianist who received four or five encores, and I asked Tim why she didn't do an encore. Maybe a bit of Chas 'n Dave. "You've got more rabbit than Sainsbury's, why don't you give it a rest?"

Afterwards, we went home, it was getting late and Tim had to get the last train home. I was lucky with connections, the train to my hometown (Sidcup!) had just arrived at Charing Cross (London Terminus). Thankfully it was a quiet train, most people tend to get the later train home.

Just before the train pulled off, a very creepy, weird man got on. Shoulder length silver hair, in his fifties, with mad staring eyes. As per bloody usual, the weirdo picked me out as a target to stare at. From behind his seat 6 feet away. I couldn't work out if he thought he was invisible (If I can't see you, you can't see me!), or just planning when to rip my heart out. In the end he got off at Hither Green, and that was the end of that.

Still when I think back, he was really creepy.

Oh well, off up town again tonight, so who knows. I may get stalked again.

Cat out of the bag.

2005-08-22T11:38:00.000Z

Spoke with my sister earlier, and told her that I was going to the Proms tonight. She presumed that I meant either my rugby friends or school friends. "I didn't know they were into classical music."

Well, they're not. But my holiday friends are, and it is they who I am going with. In the end, after a bit of uncomfortable questioning, I finally admitted that I was going with friends met via the internet. And do you know what? She was happy for me. Genuinely delighted. See, she's always said that I should broaden my horizons and meet new people, and now I have she's being very supportive.

Although, she did come out with the old cliche - "Are they weird?". "Do you think I'm weird?" came the retort. She paused (a little too long for my liking!) before answering "Of course not."

Apparently, her friend met her husband through the internet, but she finds them weird. I put her mind at rest, and she went off happy and relieved.

Odd weekend

2005-08-19T10:40:00.000Z

This weekend is an odd one.

Tomorrow is my sister's birthday, so it should be a happy day for her. But it won't be, and doubt it will be for many a year. Why? Because Sunday is the anniversary of our mother's death, who died two years ago from cancer.

So, dilemma time. Do I do as my aunt did, and send a funny card as I am wont to do? Thinking about it, this is probably the best idea.

For Sunday I had planned to go out and get incredibly drunk, but now my aunt is coming down for lunch, and I foolishly offered to cook her my special chicken dinner. Then we may watch a film, or the football, or just doze. Thankfully I now have space telly back, the engineer came this morning and replaced my digibox.

I hate Sundays sometimes.

A poignant reminder

2005-08-19T07:37:00.000Z

Awoke to a thunder storm rumbling around the skies this morning, at around 6am. The sky was black, the rain heavy enough to dent metal. Lay there for another hour, listening to the clouds crashing and banging into each other. Then off to work.

So there I am waiting at the traffic lights at the police station, feeling miserable, when a lorry trundles past. Nothing unusual in that, you might think. But no! It's a Cuisine de France lorry, stuffed full of baguettes, croissants and other goodies "Direct From The Boulangerie". And for a brief moment, I'm back on the balcony in Verchaix, tucking into fresh, warm croissants, gentle breeze tickling my toes and ruffling what remains of my hair. Tim and June are busy in the kitchen, Gordon is in the shower, and Blue is still in bed, dreaming of pot holing perhaps.

I'm brought back to the real world by the van behind me tooting his horn. The lights are green. Off I go!

Apropos of nothing.

2005-08-18T14:42:00.000Z

I have finally got round to posting a picture of myself. Well, I say myself, if you look hard enough, and have a good enough memory, you will recognise Arthur Mullard adorning my blog page. An inspiration for all those like me that are a little larger and a little uglier than the rest of the populace.

Today is a Thursday (go on, check your calendar if you don't believe me), which means the return of Thursday man. He isn't a superhero, though he may enjoy wearing tights, I really couldn't say. In the words of the Queen song Flash "He's just a man, with a man's..." what, we're still not sure.

The thing with Thursday Man his voice seems to be set on permanently low volume, which doesn't come in handy when our desks are in each corner of an office 30 feet long by 24 feet wide, and the radio is on, the airconditioning unit is on. I have learnt that by simply smiling and nodding occasionally, Thursday Man is content and soon lapses back into silence.

He also has that annoying habit where he will just launch into conversation, without addressing anybody first, so me and my boss can never tell who he's talking to. Very disconcerting.

Oh dear, it seems this week, the first after my lovely holiday, is slowly drawing to a close. Next week will not be nice.

Sunday will be hard.

Flies!

2005-08-18T10:41:00.000Z

Where do they come from? Yesterday morning I noticed more than usual sleeping in the hallway, so instructed stepfather to buy some Raid. He phoned me later to tell me he'd sprayed the house, and was off out. When I returned home, I was confronted with what can only be described as a fly's killing field. There were bodies by the front door, and on the windowsill on the living room. Hundreds of them.

The only decent thing to do was quickly hoover them up, just in case they weren't really dead, just playing mind games with me. I won, though.

Dead flies are no match for a Dyson.

This morning there were one or two, so I emptied another can of chemicals into the atmosphere. Let's see them get out of that!

Today I feel like Ming the Merciless.

Holiday!

2005-08-16T15:58:00.000Z

I've just come back from a wonderful holiday in France. Who did I go with? Would it surprise you if I said people I've met through the internet? It surprised a few people I know, that's for sure. "What if they're really weird?" "What if they turn out to be psycopaths?" that sort of thing. Well, it would be unwise to go on holiday you've only virtually encountered, but as I pointed out to the detractors, we have all met before, on various occasions, and I considered them friends long before we had the idea of going on holiday together.

In total there were five of us, three boys and two girls. Against all the perceived odds, we got on like a house on fire!

We stayed in the Alps region, not far from Mont Blanc, the peak of which you could clearly see from our balcony, if the weather was right. The Alps? In summer time? Surely this is a skiing resort? Well, it is. And it's also a summer resort. There were so many activites - horse riding, paragliding, rafting, hydrospeed, kayaking, pot holing, rock climbing, and many many walks.

Between them, my friends managed to partake of nearly all these activities except the rock climbing. For my part, I did manage to go for a swim in the nearby lake. I'm not really the athletic sort, if you get my drift. Mind you, if there had been a big enough wetsuit, I would have gone for the rafting trip. But there wasn't, so I didn't.

Mont Blanc itself was mightily impressive. Four of us went there one afternoon, and took the cable car to right near the top. It was funny to see most people all wrapped up in their ski jackets, scarves, gloves and hats, for the temperature at the top was around -6 degrees celcius. I don't know what all the American students made of me, a podgy South Londoner strolling around in my t-shirt, smoking a fag, but I did receive one or two bemused looks.

And now I'm back home, missing not only being on holiday, more my friends. We had such fun in the evenings, chatting, drinking, eating fabulous food. The downside with going on holiday with people you meet through the internet is we don't all live near each other, which makes it hard to just pop over and see them.

Having said that, we have arranged to meet up on the Bank Holiday weekend for a drink, and share our photographs with each other. For my part, I'm not really a photograph taker, so my contribution will be a bit measly. I say that, I've still yet to try and work out how to get the blighters off my mobile phone!

Ah well, I'm sure we shall enjoy the next holiday together.

Toodle-oo for now.

Bats!'

2005-06-06T22:16:00.000Z

Once more the weekend arrives. There's so little to do, that I end up staying in bed until 1.30pm, only surfacing when my stomach begins to make more noise than the traffic outside. A bowl of weetabix later, and I'm reclining in front of the television, flicking around in the vain hope that something will grab my interest. Of course the day's best television was at 8am - the British and Irish Lions' first game of their New Zealand tour. But that was far too early. I shall wait until the test matches before getting up that early. If I'm lucky, the rugby club (That's the sport!) will open early, and it will be debauchery before 10am!

I know that this will happen. When England won the world cup in Australia, it started at 8.30am, and about 200 people turned up to watch it at the club. They even opened the bar at 7.30am for the early birds. As you should know, England won, and I doubt I've ever felt so much adrenaline surging through so many people at one time. By 11am, we were all on our way to getting completely smashed. How I managed to stay there until 1am the following morning I'll never know.

But I digress. There I am, watching the England dismiss Bangladesh at the cricket, when the phone rings. It's my friend Simon. He's just phoned to remind me about the bat walk later that evening. I agree to go, as it will probably be the only time I will leave the house all weekend.

We meet at a convenient location, which also happens to be a pub, where we have a meal. I'm most disappointed. I ask for gammon steak, egg and chips. What I get is thick cut ham, with egg, on top of my chips. The rest of the plate, around half, is taken up with salad. Salad!!??!? If I'd wanted half a cesar salad with my chips I'd have asked for it. My sister suggested I should have sent it back, but when you wait for an hour, you tend just to get stuck in.

After a while sitting around, relaxing and chatting, our guide Ian decides it's just about the right time to set off. So we do, and immediately I am glad I made the effort. The meadows are less than a mile from my house, yet I cannot remember ever venturing that far down, even as a child. It was wonderful wandering along the river bank at dusk, and not long before we encountered our first bat.

Ian, who works as a park ranger or something along those lines, bought with him the BatBox III. If you've seen Alien, then it's surprisingly like the motion detectors fashioned by Ash. Whereas his machine detected "micro changes in air density", this identified the frequency of the bats' echolocation signal. Strangely enough, both machines made the same noise when activated.

It was strange. You could walk along these paths, by rivers and near ponds, and never know that there were bats there. But walk around with a bat detector, and you can hear them coming, and also determine from which direction. We must have heard about 30 or so bats with the machine, and made visual contact with at least 15 or so. That may not sound so much, but believe me it was exciting.

All in all, we rambled around for about 90 minutes, the only low point being me putting my foot down a hole and twisting my ankle. Thankfully, we were not too far from our pub base, so hastened back before we got too far into the meadows.

I would honestly urge everyone to do this. It's great fun, and don't be fooled by all those films where bats get caught in your hair. That's really not the case. Remember, these little buggers are flying around dense foliage in the middle of the night, and use echolocation to guide them. They know you're there.

Go on. Treat yourself. It's an experience I want to experience again.

2005-06-05T14:58:00.000Z

So to Friday. My sister was visiting with her family, and it seemed a good idea for us all to go to the seaside for the day. What could be better? A beautiful sunny June morning, the day off work, and the prospect of messing about on the beach, fish and chips on the promenade in the early evening sunshine.

Off to Ramsgate! And things start off well, weather wise. That is until we reach the river Medway, when it all starts to go tits up, to put it mildly. The Scots have a word for that type of rain the bounces off the ground, stoatin'. "Och jings, it's stoatin'!" The rain was like this for the final 20 or so miles.

Some of you in blogland may have visited Ramsgate. One or two of you may live there, and I'm sure when the sun's out it's a nice enough place. Sadly, the 4 long hours I spent there have not endeared me to the place. Not just because of the rain, which was incessant. But the thunder storm that whimpered the whole time we were there really was a little too much. I once went to Florida for two weeks, and everyday they have electrical storms unparalleled here in Britain. But for all their ferociousness, they do not last long, and within 45 minutes or so, everything is back to normal. Here, it was almost like background noise, so isipid and weak it was.

We sought respite in the local maritime museum, which although small, was actually very interesting. Then we had our fish and chips, in a restaurant staffed entirely by very attractive, but terribly surly, young women. At one point I overheard our waitress address the table of old dears behind us thus "'Ave you lot finished yet?"

I believed at that point both she and I shared the same desire, which was to get out of Ramsgate as soon as possible. The only reason I was able to carry on smiling was I knew I'd be gone before she finished her shift.

And so it was we resigned ourselves to going home, and we arrived back just after 3pm, much to the surprise of friends and family, who'd been enjoying a rare hot day in South East London.

"Why are you back so early?" they inquired, "The weather's lovely outside!"

2005-06-02T07:39:00.000Z

Today feels like it will be a good day.

Partly because I like Thursdays, and partly because I have tomorrow off work, and am going to the seaside with my sister's family, and my step dad.

I used to hate Thursdays and love Fridays when at school. Thursdays were the long drawn out days that held Friday, and thus the weekend, back. Nowadays, the feelings have transposed. Thursdays are no longer the turgid affair they used to be. Thursdays flash past, and this brings Friday (the weekend) closer quicker.

Sadly, Fridays are now so slow at work, that it feels like we're here two days, even though we finish two hours early. The phones hardly ring, all our customers are based in the Middle East. Friday is the Muslim Sabbath, and their only day off in the week.

I haven't yet decided whether to regularly post here. My life is pretty mundane - get up, go to work, come home, have dinner, watch a bit of tv, go to bed. That's Monday to Friday taken care of. The weekends are only different in that I don't go to work, and don't get out of bed until early afternoon. I'm not sure if this is a sign of depression. Someone intimated this could be the case. I countered that as I live on my own, and am male, that I simply cannot be arsed to get up and do housework.

Lazy slob that I am.

2005-06-01T11:44:00.000Z

I wanted to start posting on the spur of a good moment. Or on a whim-sy.

But I got bored of waiting.

As I mentioned earlier, this is an occasional thing for me. I was never one to keep a journal or diary. Every year we used to get one from a grandparent, and would earnestly fill in the first few days of January. This was because we were mainly on holiday for New Year, visiting our Scottish relatives.

The Scots always have preferred the New Year holiday to Xmas. My mother told me that up until the 60s in Scotland, Xmas day was only a half day. This is why the Scots have an extra day off at New Year.

So, me and my sister would spend the first 3 or 4 days of that particular new year detailing what we had done that day. Well, detailing is rather misleading. Conciseness, succinctness was the order of the day. "Went to Uncle Pat's. Had dinner. Then to Aunt Anne's. Saw Uncle Frank and cousins. Went home. Went to Bed." A whole day's worth of social interactions, family politics, burgeoning lust and fried bread all condensed into a language even Big Brother would find austere and lifeless.

Still, as soon as we arrived home and returned to school, we ceased detailing the minutae of the day, tossing the diary into some obscure drawer, to be left untouched, unloved and unread for the next 10 years. It was strange when we did rediscover our diaries. My sister was leaving home, to go and live with her boyfriend, and she found it in a drawer, covered with childhood stuffed animals.

Reading the entries, in her neat, italic handwriting, brought back many tearful memories. Silently reading the few entries, it suddenly hit us that in the 8 years that had passed, half the people mentioned during that week had since died. Our father was one, his brother another. Neither of them had reached 40. Eldery relatives had also passed on, and as sad as it was they had died, they all had had good innings. None was younger than 75.

And here I am, 13 years after that discovery, finally getting around to writing my own blog. As I mention somewhere, I'm not publishing this blog for approval, nor for sympathy, simply because I want to. And I can.

In those 13 years, the number of people who have passed on has remained constant, only this time one of the fallen was my mother. She was only 57, and died from cancer. The big C. How I hate that disease. It makes you feel so helpless. By the end, she weighed just 6 stone, and there I was, a hulking great presence (22 stone or thereabouts), unable to stop what was happening. Totally and utterly useless.

Oh well, I've had enough today.