Just got back from doing last minute Christmas food shopping as the wife is still suffering from flu. Town was filling up fast with last minute shoppers. The difference between the sexes is all the more apparent on Christmas Eve. The women shoppers were gliding between counters and buying with the practiced assurance of the professional. Do they teach young girls to shop at school or is it genetic?.
The men on the other hand were looking pale, stressed and sweaty as they blindly stumbled around looking for that special something, wishing they had paid a little more attention back in July when She mentioned something that She liked. But what the hell was it?!
Other men, sent out to do the shopping, held lists, chewed pens, scratched heads and phoned home. From the furrowed brows and intense middle distance stares you would have imagined they were trying to solve Fermat`s Last Theorem rather than locate the eggnog and brussels sprouts.
I drove home with that warm glow that only comes from knowing others are suffering. The compound is very quiet at the moment but I did bump into Sunnymountain`s resident homosexuals, Butch and Sundance. They are a delightful elderly couple but are prone to complain a bit. After wishing me and mine a happy Christmas Sundance, he makes Quentin Crisp look butch, launched into a monologue about parking spaces and how all the foreign visitors didn`t know the rules and parked willynilly. This seemd to drag on for ages, it was like the Queen`s Speech. In the end I had to feign an attack of the vapours to get away.
So here I am back in the bosom of the family. It is already 11.30am and the wife hasn`t touched the gin. She must be ill. The daughter is playing with one of the local urchins. She would not normally associate with this child but as most families are away she is having to swim in the shallow end of the play pool.
I suppose it is Christmas and these kids, the ugly, the smelly and the boring, think Christmas has come early when they get a call. Bless them. Sadly, when the holidays are over and the A-list return these poor little creatures will be abandoned like unwanted puppies. I believe it is still legal to dispose of unpopular kids in sacks thrown off a bridge at exactly midnight in certain parts of Switzerland.
On that festive note I shall wish you and yours whatever kind of Christmas you want. I shall be off line under the influence for a few days.
As a worldwide blogger with immense influence, the police have asked me to leave you with one last thought: Eggnog related violence peaks at this time of year. Drink responsibly.
Thursday 24 December 2009
Friday 18 December 2009
Hard Core Prawn Addict
Very cold and wintery here at the moment, but not as bad as the UK where news reports tell me that life as we know it has ceased to exist. Reminds me of a story I was told last year. Zurich was several feet deep in snow and the storyteller had just caught the train into work, on time. A tele-conference was due to take place between offices in Zurich, London and Moscow. Zurich dialled in on time, Moscow, under several metres of snow and -20 temperatures dialled in on time. And London? Well London had experienced 8 inches of snow, key staff had been put up in hotels overnight, all other staff were told to stay home. The London caller just did not stop bitching about how hard it had been to make this call happen. Is it any wonder we lost the Empire. Just wanted to share that with you.
Off for a curry now. Hope it is prawn. I love prawn curries, oh yeh. Have a lovely wintry weekend.
Off for a curry now. Hope it is prawn. I love prawn curries, oh yeh. Have a lovely wintry weekend.
Wednesday 16 December 2009
Strange but Sort of True
All sorts of interesting things have happened to me today. It all started when I found three, yes I said three not the normal two, peanuts in one peanut shell. I know!. Then I saw a cloud that was an exact facsimilie of the British Ilses, just without Stoke on Trent. Amazing!. Then the daughter asked if she should tidy her room totally unprompted. Unheard of!. What is happening, are these portents of doom?. Ah, who knows. (NB: the last one was totally made up, get real)
Anyway, the Street has been very quiet of late. I suspect it is because all the Daughters of the American Revolution and spawn have gone back Stateside to enjoy the "happy holidays". Meanwhile, without an external enemy, the Sunnymountain Street Mother`s Mafia seem to be engaged in some internecine struggle to see who can come up with the best/most yuletide decorations. The houses round here are sagging under the weight of Chritsmas lights, Santas on ladders scaling the walls and for some reason this seasons must have, large straw donkeys. Me neither.
That means gang related violence drops off drastically this time of year and the daughter and I are free to roam at will without fear. However, Eggnog realted violence peaks around now, so it is always worth staying on your toes. We went to look at the Christmas market the other day. It was lovely, but spoiled a little by the immigrant British bankers who hang around at the train station. Talk to them and they will tell you how they have been driven out of the UK by economic persecution and cannot return for fear of the death tax penalty. I do feel a little sorry for them huddled around their warmth giving bonuses behind the station, begging passersby for the price of a good relocation agent, or if they are really lucky, a room in a low tax shelter community down the lake. There but for the grace of God.
Ciao for now
PS- please start using the comment facility under articles. I would love to get some feedback as long as it is glowingly positive. I know who you are.
Anyway, the Street has been very quiet of late. I suspect it is because all the Daughters of the American Revolution and spawn have gone back Stateside to enjoy the "happy holidays". Meanwhile, without an external enemy, the Sunnymountain Street Mother`s Mafia seem to be engaged in some internecine struggle to see who can come up with the best/most yuletide decorations. The houses round here are sagging under the weight of Chritsmas lights, Santas on ladders scaling the walls and for some reason this seasons must have, large straw donkeys. Me neither.
That means gang related violence drops off drastically this time of year and the daughter and I are free to roam at will without fear. However, Eggnog realted violence peaks around now, so it is always worth staying on your toes. We went to look at the Christmas market the other day. It was lovely, but spoiled a little by the immigrant British bankers who hang around at the train station. Talk to them and they will tell you how they have been driven out of the UK by economic persecution and cannot return for fear of the death tax penalty. I do feel a little sorry for them huddled around their warmth giving bonuses behind the station, begging passersby for the price of a good relocation agent, or if they are really lucky, a room in a low tax shelter community down the lake. There but for the grace of God.
Ciao for now
PS- please start using the comment facility under articles. I would love to get some feedback as long as it is glowingly positive. I know who you are.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
What Is Amiss with the Swiss Kiss
Influenza still grips the Welle-Skitts in it`s sneezy, bless you, stacks of soggy tissue stranglehold. The daughter has recovered just enough to go back to school this morning, thus ensuring the virus should clobber the maximum number of households over the Christmas period. Ho ho ho. Well, at least I get to take it easier today, and that`s the important thing. Sadly, the wife is still affluent (I think that is the right term for a banker who is off with flu?). They do say it hits the elderly particularly hard.
Anyway, I blame the Swiss. They kiss like it is going out of fashion. As I have metioned before, three air kisses is the accepted norm here everytime you greet or retreat. It is not surprising that we are being stalked by a flu pandemic with all this intimate and unprotected carnal canoodling going on. If you turn up at a place where there are lots of women, say a brothel, there is simply no point in taking your coat off as by the time you have finished the greeting kissing it will be time to start all over again with the retreating kissing so that you can make your last train home. Madness!.
And the Swiss will steal a kiss whenever and where ever it presents itself. The wife was knocked off her bicycle a couple of years back and, while she lay dazed and bleeding at the roadside, a passing pervert saw his chance and kissed her on top of the head then ran off giggling.
Maybe I am feeling just a bit grumpy because I have quit smoking. I have composed a short poem in memorium to my erstwhile companion, the humble cigarette.
"You were My north, My Silk Cut, My Emphysema, My West,
My morning drag, My constricted chest,
My crutch, My Marlborough Light, My midnight walk, My old bloke pong,
I thought that cough would last forever, I hope I was wrong."
Ciao for now
Anyway, I blame the Swiss. They kiss like it is going out of fashion. As I have metioned before, three air kisses is the accepted norm here everytime you greet or retreat. It is not surprising that we are being stalked by a flu pandemic with all this intimate and unprotected carnal canoodling going on. If you turn up at a place where there are lots of women, say a brothel, there is simply no point in taking your coat off as by the time you have finished the greeting kissing it will be time to start all over again with the retreating kissing so that you can make your last train home. Madness!.
And the Swiss will steal a kiss whenever and where ever it presents itself. The wife was knocked off her bicycle a couple of years back and, while she lay dazed and bleeding at the roadside, a passing pervert saw his chance and kissed her on top of the head then ran off giggling.
Maybe I am feeling just a bit grumpy because I have quit smoking. I have composed a short poem in memorium to my erstwhile companion, the humble cigarette.
"You were My north, My Silk Cut, My Emphysema, My West,
My morning drag, My constricted chest,
My crutch, My Marlborough Light, My midnight walk, My old bloke pong,
I thought that cough would last forever, I hope I was wrong."
Ciao for now
Monday 14 December 2009
Breaking News: Swine Flu May Have Hit Sunnymountain Street, Possibly.
It is like a particularly sniffy, snotty and thoroughly coughy episode of House here on Sunnymountain Street. Both the wife and daughter are down with suspected flu.
I wish I had paid attention to all the Government infomercials about flu. I have a hazy recollection that there are different types. Bird flu which I suspect only affects women, absolute bloody pig flu, that one has to be men only and of course the dreaded Tamiflu, which has decimated female country and western singers across Mississippi.
Anyway, the upshot is that I am now the main carer for the entire family. I tried to think what my mother used to do when we were sick and needing TLC. So I stuck a postit note to the fridge door saying there were pop tarts in the freezer and popped down the pub for a large G&T or three. Dear old mum, bet she is looking up at us and laughing.
Must dash, the wife needs me
I wish I had paid attention to all the Government infomercials about flu. I have a hazy recollection that there are different types. Bird flu which I suspect only affects women, absolute bloody pig flu, that one has to be men only and of course the dreaded Tamiflu, which has decimated female country and western singers across Mississippi.
Anyway, the upshot is that I am now the main carer for the entire family. I tried to think what my mother used to do when we were sick and needing TLC. So I stuck a postit note to the fridge door saying there were pop tarts in the freezer and popped down the pub for a large G&T or three. Dear old mum, bet she is looking up at us and laughing.
Must dash, the wife needs me
Friday 11 December 2009
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
I had my hair cut this morning. That qualifies as a noteworthy event in my life these days. It is not often I get to go beyond the garden gate. I have been going to the same place now for over two years. The place used to be run by a chain smoking old boy by the name of Herr Peace. I remember the last time I saw him. I went in with a picture of George Clooney and asked him to work his magic. I heard he dropped dead a few hours later from a stress related condition. I refuse to believe that the two incidents were connected. Very sad, I never achieved that Clooneyesque look. Makes you think though, he was only 82.
So I have decided to be positive, to live life at full throtle from now on. That means I have no time to write anymore today. Have lovely weekends. Pip pip
So I have decided to be positive, to live life at full throtle from now on. That means I have no time to write anymore today. Have lovely weekends. Pip pip
Thursday 10 December 2009
Georgie Porgie and the Bearded Lady
Still no missive from Dave. I did get an email from young George Osbourne, the Shadow Chancellor and Head Tuck Shop Monitor. In a nutshell he said Alistair Darling is rubbish and smells a bit. I told the cheeky young chipolata that I used to work with Alistair and he was not at all rubbish, but that yes, I was already aware of the personal hygeine issues.
He also asked if he could copy my homework and if he could catch swine flu from email spam. "No George, no. You will only be cheating yourself and one day you may be running the economy, and email spam is not the same as the delicious pork based product you may have enjoyed as a boy" I said. Honestly, the problems I have with these politicians.
Just got back from the supermarket where I bumped into Fat Kath in the men`s grooming section. She was holding a beard trimmer. "For my husband" she said when she saw me glance at the trimmer. I suspect not, partly because her husband is as hairless as a new born badger and partly because Kath has a five o`clock shadow and something approaching a handlebar moustache.
Kath told me she was starting up her own blog. I said " given that you are as wide as you are tall, almost globe like, you will bring a whole new meaning to the term blogosphere. Are you going to be addressing lots of weighty issues on your blog"?. No, you`re right, I didn`t say that, only thought it. I am too chicken.
After exchanging a few more fake pleasantries we swiss cheek kissed three times as is the norm here. I now have stubble burn.
PS- I now have advertising (see above) Please help the poor starving Africans and my bank balance. Klick away like it`s going out of fashion. This time next year I`ll be a millionaire!
He also asked if he could copy my homework and if he could catch swine flu from email spam. "No George, no. You will only be cheating yourself and one day you may be running the economy, and email spam is not the same as the delicious pork based product you may have enjoyed as a boy" I said. Honestly, the problems I have with these politicians.
Just got back from the supermarket where I bumped into Fat Kath in the men`s grooming section. She was holding a beard trimmer. "For my husband" she said when she saw me glance at the trimmer. I suspect not, partly because her husband is as hairless as a new born badger and partly because Kath has a five o`clock shadow and something approaching a handlebar moustache.
Kath told me she was starting up her own blog. I said " given that you are as wide as you are tall, almost globe like, you will bring a whole new meaning to the term blogosphere. Are you going to be addressing lots of weighty issues on your blog"?. No, you`re right, I didn`t say that, only thought it. I am too chicken.
After exchanging a few more fake pleasantries we swiss cheek kissed three times as is the norm here. I now have stubble burn.
PS- I now have advertising (see above) Please help the poor starving Africans and my bank balance. Klick away like it`s going out of fashion. This time next year I`ll be a millionaire!
Wednesday 9 December 2009
Love Thy Neighbour
Still no reply from Dave "Big Tent" Cameron. I can`t understand it, I thought they were the new touchy feely Tory party, engaging with the less fortunate,not the old devil take the hindmost party. It appears they can hug a hoody but not love a looney. Doesn`t bode well for NHS mental health service funding when they can`t even be bothered to reply to someone so obviously off his rocker. Is this newly minted niceness just a front?. Surely not.
Anyway, all quiet in the compound this morning. The question I am mulling over today is: " am I a good neighbour"?. I am only pondering as we have got through two sets of nextdoor neighbours in the last two years and the house currently stands empty.
I think I am a good neighbour. Our dad always brought us up to respect people`s privacy and property. I remember once, a man stopped and let his dog do his doings on our front lawn. The old man went ballistic, the dogman said it was only a dog doing what dogs do, doo. Pater replied that in that case he would bring his three sons around to the man`s house and let us have a number two on his front lawn. After all that would be just boys being boys doing what they do. Defeated, the man scooped the poop and left. Imagine my unadulterated joy when I moved up to middle school and found dogman was my new headmaster. My life chances were blighted.
Moving on, some people did come to view next door a couple of weeks back. I remember because it was a warm day and I had opened all the windows. The house was really rockin as the daughter and her friend were dancing around and screaming to "I`m a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World" and other classics.
I saw the prospective neighbours from the kitchen window as they left shaking their heads. The estate agent who has been trying to shift the house for six months gave me the kind of stare that could dissolve a gall stone at 20 paces. She hasn`t been back since. Perhaps word has gone round that I am not a good neighbour. My father would be turning in his grave if he were actually dead.
Anyway, all quiet in the compound this morning. The question I am mulling over today is: " am I a good neighbour"?. I am only pondering as we have got through two sets of nextdoor neighbours in the last two years and the house currently stands empty.
I think I am a good neighbour. Our dad always brought us up to respect people`s privacy and property. I remember once, a man stopped and let his dog do his doings on our front lawn. The old man went ballistic, the dogman said it was only a dog doing what dogs do, doo. Pater replied that in that case he would bring his three sons around to the man`s house and let us have a number two on his front lawn. After all that would be just boys being boys doing what they do. Defeated, the man scooped the poop and left. Imagine my unadulterated joy when I moved up to middle school and found dogman was my new headmaster. My life chances were blighted.
Moving on, some people did come to view next door a couple of weeks back. I remember because it was a warm day and I had opened all the windows. The house was really rockin as the daughter and her friend were dancing around and screaming to "I`m a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World" and other classics.
I saw the prospective neighbours from the kitchen window as they left shaking their heads. The estate agent who has been trying to shift the house for six months gave me the kind of stare that could dissolve a gall stone at 20 paces. She hasn`t been back since. Perhaps word has gone round that I am not a good neighbour. My father would be turning in his grave if he were actually dead.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
A Letter to David Cameron
As the UK General Election is fast approaching I thought you would wish to know where the parties stand on issues of import. Below is the letter I have just emailed to David Cameron, Leader of Her Majesty`s Opposition, The Conservative Party. I have adopted the guise of a ignorant,half cut, and politically quizzical London expat. Some may say that is a pretty thin disguise. In the interests of political impartiality for which this site is not noted, there will be follow up letters to the Prime Minister and to the leader of the Liberal Democarts, you know, whats his name. I will of course keep you posted on any response. (See how many names of Tory Front Bench spokespeople you can find, oh fun, a quiz!)
"Dear Dave
I am a retired Londoner living in Switzerland with the wife. We was thinkin of voting for your lot but we are your typical floating voters (I am writing this from me yacht).
Me and the wife is a bit concerned about Europe. Why cant we ahve a referdendum as you promised? The wife thinks you have got yourselfs into a right Eric Pickles over Europe. She says you are perpetrating a massive Francis Maude on the Britsih people. The wife don’t trust you politicians, a Liam Fox on all their houses is what she says. I must admit I am a bit William Hague on where you stand . I can tell you alot of the lads down the yacht club are holding a Greiveance about what they see as being betrayed.
I try and defend you, telling them that you are a good Gove. You were a member of the Bollinger Club I think. Im quite partial to a drop meself, in fact me and the wife are on our third bottle right now. The lads all says they will vote for UKIP becos the Torys are full of merchant bankers and Euro loving Jeremy Hunts (essquse my French),. Idont belive that. I was always bought up to belive the Tory way is the true blue Brutish way, Queen and cuntry ect. And I think you are quite a liberal democrat, you dont appose Theresa Mays in the army for instant.
If you could just reinsure me that you belive you are on the extremely right track then I think I will vote for you Dave..I look forward to your reply.
Yours faithfully from Zurich
Mr Ian Welle-Skitt Esq"
"Dear Dave
I am a retired Londoner living in Switzerland with the wife. We was thinkin of voting for your lot but we are your typical floating voters (I am writing this from me yacht).
Me and the wife is a bit concerned about Europe. Why cant we ahve a referdendum as you promised? The wife thinks you have got yourselfs into a right Eric Pickles over Europe. She says you are perpetrating a massive Francis Maude on the Britsih people. The wife don’t trust you politicians, a Liam Fox on all their houses is what she says. I must admit I am a bit William Hague on where you stand . I can tell you alot of the lads down the yacht club are holding a Greiveance about what they see as being betrayed.
I try and defend you, telling them that you are a good Gove. You were a member of the Bollinger Club I think. Im quite partial to a drop meself, in fact me and the wife are on our third bottle right now. The lads all says they will vote for UKIP becos the Torys are full of merchant bankers and Euro loving Jeremy Hunts (essquse my French),. Idont belive that. I was always bought up to belive the Tory way is the true blue Brutish way, Queen and cuntry ect. And I think you are quite a liberal democrat, you dont appose Theresa Mays in the army for instant.
If you could just reinsure me that you belive you are on the extremely right track then I think I will vote for you Dave..I look forward to your reply.
Yours faithfully from Zurich
Mr Ian Welle-Skitt Esq"
The Deaf and the Dumb
Just when I thought the day couldn`t get any worse, it has. I was sitting at the laptop trying to bang out an article that is overdue when there was a ringing of the door bell. I shouted through the open window that I would be there in a sec as I was at a critical juncture in plot composition (the title is always the trickiest bit). Well would you believe it, the doorbell went again. "Just a minute" I yelled, loudly enough to be heard down most of the street. Three seconds later it went again. Well that was it, by now I was shouty-crackers mad. I stormed to the door, but not before the bell sounded for a fourth time.
Flinging open the door I scowled and growled menacingly "Are you deaf or what!". The sweet young lady at the door smiled, and then handed me a card without a word. It said " I am deaf". Well, I ask you, what are the chances of that?. Needless to say I bought something out of guilt.
Flinging open the door I scowled and growled menacingly "Are you deaf or what!". The sweet young lady at the door smiled, and then handed me a card without a word. It said " I am deaf". Well, I ask you, what are the chances of that?. Needless to say I bought something out of guilt.
Fashion Victim
My postion as Sunny Mountain Street's resident fashionista is fast unraveling. How can this be, my fashion CV is to die for?. I was the first person to introduce flourescent lycra and leg warmers to a certain Worcestershire village (it`s still too dangerous for me to go back) and I knew Calvin Klien when he was just plain old Kevin Small, operating his bespoke pants business from above a chip shop in Tipton.
But it's all going pear shaped. First there was the incident of the ladyboy jumper. Regular readers will remember that my manly equalibrium was unsettled when I saw a woman buying a jumper I had my eye on. Well I can no longer wear that jumper in public, it`s simply not worth the risk.
So I found a new jumper. Really liked it. Then at a recent party where I was wearing my new favourite jumper two people said "oh you`re wearing your Christmas jumper". I was devastated. Thats another one for indoor use only.
Today I was walking past the Town Brothel when I was jeered by the penniless old Italian men who gather there to lick the windows. The semi naked girls in the windows don`t seem to mind them and it saves on the window cleaning bill. Anyway, the old gits thought my red drainpipes and winkle pickers highly entertaining. Normally I would just turn and give them a withering stare, and they would run away giggling, Italians do that. But yesterday the wife told me I was too old to wear my jeans turned up a la Morrissey. My confidence is shattered. I just skulked off home and had a little manly cry.
Moving on, the Christmas party season is upon us and I thought that there is no reason why I, as a worker, should not have a Christmas do with the boss, or the daughter as she is otherwise known. I am in the process of organising a full sit down meal at local mid range eatery with secret santa gift giving thrown in to spice up the proceedings. Oh, wonder what I will get?.
The daughter has just informed me that she can`t make the Christmas party after all as she has to wash her Barbie`s hair that night. No secret santa for me then. Just as well really, I have absolutely nothing that I can wear out now.
But it's all going pear shaped. First there was the incident of the ladyboy jumper. Regular readers will remember that my manly equalibrium was unsettled when I saw a woman buying a jumper I had my eye on. Well I can no longer wear that jumper in public, it`s simply not worth the risk.
So I found a new jumper. Really liked it. Then at a recent party where I was wearing my new favourite jumper two people said "oh you`re wearing your Christmas jumper". I was devastated. Thats another one for indoor use only.
Today I was walking past the Town Brothel when I was jeered by the penniless old Italian men who gather there to lick the windows. The semi naked girls in the windows don`t seem to mind them and it saves on the window cleaning bill. Anyway, the old gits thought my red drainpipes and winkle pickers highly entertaining. Normally I would just turn and give them a withering stare, and they would run away giggling, Italians do that. But yesterday the wife told me I was too old to wear my jeans turned up a la Morrissey. My confidence is shattered. I just skulked off home and had a little manly cry.
Moving on, the Christmas party season is upon us and I thought that there is no reason why I, as a worker, should not have a Christmas do with the boss, or the daughter as she is otherwise known. I am in the process of organising a full sit down meal at local mid range eatery with secret santa gift giving thrown in to spice up the proceedings. Oh, wonder what I will get?.
The daughter has just informed me that she can`t make the Christmas party after all as she has to wash her Barbie`s hair that night. No secret santa for me then. Just as well really, I have absolutely nothing that I can wear out now.
Friday 4 December 2009
Something For the Weekend
Given up the diet. I have lost 2.5 kg in 4 days but I calculated that if I carried on at this rate by 14th February I would cease to exist in any physical form. That would be inconvenient. Who cheered?! Come on own up. Have lovely weekends and normal service will resume on Monday.
Wednesday 2 December 2009
SIT REP DAY 3
Weight Loss: 0.8 kg = total 1.8kg
Weather: Dangerous levels of atmospheric pollution associated with a deep depression moving up from the Azores
Bodily Reaction to Diet: As above.
Mental State: Just dandy and a little delirious
Physical Appearance: Failing eyesight means I can only see shadows in the mirror
Comments received on new skinny me: None
Well day 3 and already major organs are beginning to fail. The old brain seems to be ok though, probably because it has oodles of pristine, never before used, still in the original package capacity to absorb the punishment. I do feel very feeble and I have a strange tingling sensation on my scalp. It could be that I am stressed from lack of food or I have head lice, I just don't know. Just noticed that stressed is desserts spelled backwards. Mmmmm desserts.
I am starting to doubt the "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" maxim. I have heard that there are websites devoted to promoting/supporting anorexic lifestyles, so called ProAna sites. Sure its nice to feel good about yourself, so I am told, but how the hell do these hard core bods operate day to day. After just two and a half days my mental faculties and levels of concentration, never Premier League quality to start with, are now operating somewhere in the relegation zone of Vauxhall Conference League.
Far be it from me to criticize so I won't. Anyway, people on these sites can get quite bonkers in the nut fanatical. I don't want to upset any scrawny stick insect psychos and end up on the recieving end of a ProAna Fatwa, or should that be Thinwa? Who knows.
What else happened today. Well, the daughter is off school as they have another teacher training day. That is now 6 days off for teacher training since October! What is going on?. If this carries on we will have super brain box teachers but kids who can hardly tie their own shoe laces at age 13 cos their teachers were never there. Goodness I am grumpy.
Then swimming. The daughter can swim very well now and I am so light I could be mistaken for a pond skater or a very large cork. I hardly broke the meniscus. We did not stay long as the place was packed with pensioners. It is a fact that naked pensioners are not easy on the eye, shed dead skin and have a higher rate of leprosy than the under 44s.
I think I am delirious.
Weather: Dangerous levels of atmospheric pollution associated with a deep depression moving up from the Azores
Bodily Reaction to Diet: As above.
Mental State: Just dandy and a little delirious
Physical Appearance: Failing eyesight means I can only see shadows in the mirror
Comments received on new skinny me: None
Well day 3 and already major organs are beginning to fail. The old brain seems to be ok though, probably because it has oodles of pristine, never before used, still in the original package capacity to absorb the punishment. I do feel very feeble and I have a strange tingling sensation on my scalp. It could be that I am stressed from lack of food or I have head lice, I just don't know. Just noticed that stressed is desserts spelled backwards. Mmmmm desserts.
I am starting to doubt the "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" maxim. I have heard that there are websites devoted to promoting/supporting anorexic lifestyles, so called ProAna sites. Sure its nice to feel good about yourself, so I am told, but how the hell do these hard core bods operate day to day. After just two and a half days my mental faculties and levels of concentration, never Premier League quality to start with, are now operating somewhere in the relegation zone of Vauxhall Conference League.
Far be it from me to criticize so I won't. Anyway, people on these sites can get quite bonkers in the nut fanatical. I don't want to upset any scrawny stick insect psychos and end up on the recieving end of a ProAna Fatwa, or should that be Thinwa? Who knows.
What else happened today. Well, the daughter is off school as they have another teacher training day. That is now 6 days off for teacher training since October! What is going on?. If this carries on we will have super brain box teachers but kids who can hardly tie their own shoe laces at age 13 cos their teachers were never there. Goodness I am grumpy.
Then swimming. The daughter can swim very well now and I am so light I could be mistaken for a pond skater or a very large cork. I hardly broke the meniscus. We did not stay long as the place was packed with pensioners. It is a fact that naked pensioners are not easy on the eye, shed dead skin and have a higher rate of leprosy than the under 44s.
I think I am delirious.
Monday 30 November 2009
Cabbage Soup Diet Report Day 2
SITUATION REPORT DAY 2
Weight Loss- approx 1 kg, I kid you not!
Weather Conditions- Stong Winds with Heavy Dumps of Snow Overnight
Bodily Reaction to Diet- Almost the same as above
Physical Appearance- An extra from Bridge on the River Kwai
Mental State- easily distracted, inability to concentrate (reads like one of my old school reports)
Comments made about me looking super slim- None
Well the good news is I have lost 1 kg in one day, amazing!. The bad news is I am so weak I am typing this with my nose, slumped at the keyboard without the strength to lift my arms. I have just found out that if I lick the keyboard it tastes good. Must be bits of food I have dropped between the keypad in the good old days.
It has snowed heavily overnight and the daughter skipped off to school through the heavy snow. Seeing her all togged up in powder blue ski gear gave me an idea. If I dress totally in black today I will stand out against the winter wonderland background and maybe people will notice that I have lost weight and make flattering comments. Surely someone will notice.
Anyway, this morning I had to go to the supermarket on another hoisery run for the wife, one of my favourite jobs. All was going well, I was alone in the aisle about to grab the tights when I heard a voice calling my name. I looked around and it was my dear friend Charlotte the beer monster pushing her new baby. At almost the same time I felt a powerful stiring downdoors and knew that there would be an unavoidable and immenent cabbage fueled eruption.
Charlotte was upon me in seconds, she can move surprisingly quickly for a big girl, giving me the obligatory Swiss style three air kisses. After kiss number one I couldn't prevent venting and by kiss two a noxious cloud enveloped us. The mix of fermented cabbage and assorted legumes is a heady mix I can tell you.
Infact, this random vulcanicity and failing eyesight are the two main drawbacks to this diet that I have encountered so far. But I have to keep going because as Kate says, "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels". I do hope she is right cos I could murder a kebab right now.
Top Tip When On Cabbage Soup Diet- Avoid confined public spaces for the duration.
Anyway, back to the supermarket. I had to think fast as Charlotte was beginning to choke and turn puse. It came to me in a flash. I stepped back and bent over her baby buggy. "Oh isn't he cute (not true, he is a ugly little spud but needs must), but, oh dear, I think SOMEONE (eyes swivelling and slight nodding of the head back to the baby as I spoke to reinforce the point, whilst to the mother I appeared to be treating her bundle of joy as an actual sentinent being rather than the dull, drooling tub of lard he actually is. My emotional intelligence development is really coming on) really needs a nappy change" I added my best grimmace for effect.
New mothers are so gullible. Charlotte immediately started to apologise and made a swift exit. I do feel a bit sorry for framing the little chap but that's life and he had better get used to it.
I think I need to lie down now as I am feeling faint. Check in tomorrow.
Supershrink Me
Hello its me again. I was reading today about dear Kate Moss and her "nothings tastes as good as skinny feels" comment. The advice I have always given people is to eat in moderation, that way there is more left over for me. And that, I suspect, is precisely the reason that I am in my current porky pickle.
Anyway, Ms Moss is the classiest thing to have come out of South London since the Croydon facelift. Just look at these quotes and tell me she is not a wise, wise woman with whom you can identify- "the more visible they make me, the more invisible I become", as Kate approaches old age she feels for the lot of pensioners, how sage!. "A lot of horrible, unfair, untrue things have been said about me", you are not alone sister, have you met my wife?. "It's neurotic fat women who hate me- they're stupid", here, here, I have the same problems, Fat Kath take note. You go girl, tell it like it is!
Well, full of positive Kate inspired energy I decided to go to the doctors this morning to ask about my super skinny slimming options. When my turn came I walked into his office and said hello. He held up his hand and said "no, don't tell me, let me guess, I have a knack for divining what patients are here for". He looked me up and down. "I know, hair loss treatment", "No" I said involuntarily touching my once lustrous locks. " STD?" he ventured. "No" I replied feeling my positivity ebbing away. "Impotence?". Well frankly he was just fishing now, but it was a little unsettling to even be suspected of having these middle aged maladies. Middle aged, oh God, I am!.
Anyway, putting on a brave face and trying not to cry, I said "No, I want to be as slim as Kate Moss. I will try anything, even an unproven dodgy drugs, I promise I won't sue. Yes, I want to be a guinea pig".
"With those chubby little checks and the big buck teeth you're already half way there" he quipped.
What is it with doctors today? They all think they are so bloody funny. I blame House.
I gave him a piece of my mind and left him with a flea in his ear. He left me with his bill in my pocket. I have decided to go it alone. I have put up a shrine to Kate to give me inspiration and I will record my progress over the next week. You will be able to read my daily reports on this blog.
Wish me luck.
Anyway, Ms Moss is the classiest thing to have come out of South London since the Croydon facelift. Just look at these quotes and tell me she is not a wise, wise woman with whom you can identify- "the more visible they make me, the more invisible I become", as Kate approaches old age she feels for the lot of pensioners, how sage!. "A lot of horrible, unfair, untrue things have been said about me", you are not alone sister, have you met my wife?. "It's neurotic fat women who hate me- they're stupid", here, here, I have the same problems, Fat Kath take note. You go girl, tell it like it is!
Well, full of positive Kate inspired energy I decided to go to the doctors this morning to ask about my super skinny slimming options. When my turn came I walked into his office and said hello. He held up his hand and said "no, don't tell me, let me guess, I have a knack for divining what patients are here for". He looked me up and down. "I know, hair loss treatment", "No" I said involuntarily touching my once lustrous locks. " STD?" he ventured. "No" I replied feeling my positivity ebbing away. "Impotence?". Well frankly he was just fishing now, but it was a little unsettling to even be suspected of having these middle aged maladies. Middle aged, oh God, I am!.
Anyway, putting on a brave face and trying not to cry, I said "No, I want to be as slim as Kate Moss. I will try anything, even an unproven dodgy drugs, I promise I won't sue. Yes, I want to be a guinea pig".
"With those chubby little checks and the big buck teeth you're already half way there" he quipped.
What is it with doctors today? They all think they are so bloody funny. I blame House.
I gave him a piece of my mind and left him with a flea in his ear. He left me with his bill in my pocket. I have decided to go it alone. I have put up a shrine to Kate to give me inspiration and I will record my progress over the next week. You will be able to read my daily reports on this blog.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
:- )
I have just experienced the unique Swiss style of boosting consumer spending in these bleak finacial times. What did they do?. Well, they simply locked us all in the shopping centre. For nearly an hour the doors would simply not open.
I must say it worked. I only went to get some new pants and came backwith a Japansese Face Slimmer, Automated Ice Cream Cone and Shri Yantra that banishes all negative vibrations and adds positive cosmic energies to my environment.
Anyway, to fill the rest of the time I read an article about Mumsnet, the influential mother's network which is not afraid to tackle the weighty issues of the day, such as what biscuits politicians like. It got me thinking, I could do that. Several ideas came to mind, but I need a niche market.
What about Fishnet- a saucy site for transvestite trawlermen, Nettnet- the online rendevous for nice Germans (look it up), Coronet- bringing lonely aritocratic heart attack victims together, Electromagnet-the premier fan site for the wealthy Amstrad entrepreneur Sir Alan Sugar, Gannet- for online gut buckets, Hairnet- a site for elderly northern spinsters looking for casual sex and, finally, Hornet, yes you are ahead of me there.
Anyway, the article said Mumsnet was such a big hit because it allows women a platform to emote, which apparently they enjoy. I had to look that up. Basically it means to express emotion, in an excessive or theatrical manner. The example used was " The more she emotes, the less he listens, the less he listens, the more strident and emotive she gets". I kid you not.
I know I probably shouldn't venture this thought, but isn't that just nagging?. Whatever, I have decided I need to emote more to attract women and homosexuals to this site. ;- ), (that was an emoticon).
So, what emotions am I feeling at the moment?. Let me give you a snapshot. Well, I am quite hungry, but I suspect that doesn't count. I am a little anxious about whether the wife will let me watch the Liverpool game this evening, and world peace. Fear, not at the moment, Anger ditto, Jealousy, mmmm not really, Love- hopefully later, and now I have run out of emotions. This emoting is quite strenuous and I am now very hungry. Its a start anyway, I have never written such an emotional blog. Now I am off to eat.
I must say it worked. I only went to get some new pants and came backwith a Japansese Face Slimmer, Automated Ice Cream Cone and Shri Yantra that banishes all negative vibrations and adds positive cosmic energies to my environment.
Anyway, to fill the rest of the time I read an article about Mumsnet, the influential mother's network which is not afraid to tackle the weighty issues of the day, such as what biscuits politicians like. It got me thinking, I could do that. Several ideas came to mind, but I need a niche market.
What about Fishnet- a saucy site for transvestite trawlermen, Nettnet- the online rendevous for nice Germans (look it up), Coronet- bringing lonely aritocratic heart attack victims together, Electromagnet-the premier fan site for the wealthy Amstrad entrepreneur Sir Alan Sugar, Gannet- for online gut buckets, Hairnet- a site for elderly northern spinsters looking for casual sex and, finally, Hornet, yes you are ahead of me there.
Anyway, the article said Mumsnet was such a big hit because it allows women a platform to emote, which apparently they enjoy. I had to look that up. Basically it means to express emotion, in an excessive or theatrical manner. The example used was " The more she emotes, the less he listens, the less he listens, the more strident and emotive she gets". I kid you not.
I know I probably shouldn't venture this thought, but isn't that just nagging?. Whatever, I have decided I need to emote more to attract women and homosexuals to this site. ;- ), (that was an emoticon).
So, what emotions am I feeling at the moment?. Let me give you a snapshot. Well, I am quite hungry, but I suspect that doesn't count. I am a little anxious about whether the wife will let me watch the Liverpool game this evening, and world peace. Fear, not at the moment, Anger ditto, Jealousy, mmmm not really, Love- hopefully later, and now I have run out of emotions. This emoting is quite strenuous and I am now very hungry. Its a start anyway, I have never written such an emotional blog. Now I am off to eat.
Friday 20 November 2009
The Birds and the Baggies
Kids grow up so quickly these days. Today my daughter asked me the question that I have been dreading. "Daddy" she said as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth "which football team do you support?".
I knew we would have to talk openly and frankly about this one day, I just did not expect it to be so soon. I was really hoping that the school would deal with this. Frankly I was caught totally off guard and felt more than a little uncomfortable. How do you explain a concept like West Bromwich Albion to a five year old girl. Is it fair to burden someone so young and pure with the curse of the Baggies? I have suffered for over 40 years as a result of lack of parental guidance. My mind was in turmoil. To buy myself sometime I feigned appendicitis.
She stopped poking my lifeless body after half an hour and went downstairs to watch Charlie and Lola. I started googling to find out how to deal with this situation.
The websites that I found gave great advice. " Learning about football and succesful teams to support should be a gradual process, not a one off lesson. Let them ask questions and they will, over time, get to know what they need to know." one website said.
"Questions should be answered as they arise so that their natural curiosity is satisfied as they mature. You can begin to introduce books that approach European success and aggregate league positions over the last 40 years on a developmentally appropriate level. Parents often have trouble finding the right words to explain the off side rule but many excellent books are available to help". Well what a relief.
I decided to strike while the iron was at least luke warm. I sat the girl down and said "when mummies and daddies love each other very much they often support the same team, except for your mother who for some reason chose Aston Villa, and that is where small football supporters come from. Don't let anyone pressure you into having a team too early. If they love you they will wait. If you do start to play with boys always use protection, good quality shin pads."
Frankly by this stage she was bored. I was relieved that was over for the time being.
" What about sex?" she said
"Ask your mother" I replied.
I knew we would have to talk openly and frankly about this one day, I just did not expect it to be so soon. I was really hoping that the school would deal with this. Frankly I was caught totally off guard and felt more than a little uncomfortable. How do you explain a concept like West Bromwich Albion to a five year old girl. Is it fair to burden someone so young and pure with the curse of the Baggies? I have suffered for over 40 years as a result of lack of parental guidance. My mind was in turmoil. To buy myself sometime I feigned appendicitis.
She stopped poking my lifeless body after half an hour and went downstairs to watch Charlie and Lola. I started googling to find out how to deal with this situation.
The websites that I found gave great advice. " Learning about football and succesful teams to support should be a gradual process, not a one off lesson. Let them ask questions and they will, over time, get to know what they need to know." one website said.
"Questions should be answered as they arise so that their natural curiosity is satisfied as they mature. You can begin to introduce books that approach European success and aggregate league positions over the last 40 years on a developmentally appropriate level. Parents often have trouble finding the right words to explain the off side rule but many excellent books are available to help". Well what a relief.
I decided to strike while the iron was at least luke warm. I sat the girl down and said "when mummies and daddies love each other very much they often support the same team, except for your mother who for some reason chose Aston Villa, and that is where small football supporters come from. Don't let anyone pressure you into having a team too early. If they love you they will wait. If you do start to play with boys always use protection, good quality shin pads."
Frankly by this stage she was bored. I was relieved that was over for the time being.
" What about sex?" she said
"Ask your mother" I replied.
Thursday 19 November 2009
You Snooze You Lose Choos
Today didn't start well. I was in town early because I had heard that Jimmy Choo was at H&M. I wanted to warn Mr Choo that in the wrong hands his products were potentially lethal, remember Fat Kath took a Choo to the eye, and ask him if he had any plans to bring out a size 11 slingback. Anyway, by the time I got there the place was packed with women fighting for the few remaining pairs of Choos. It was mayhem, elbows flying, pushing, swearing, eyes being scratched out, shoes clutched jealously to chests, faces contorted in a way that reminded me of Jack Nicholson when he comes through the door with an axe in The Shining. And they were just the shop assistants. I haven't been this scared since 1981 when I inadvertently walked into a gay S&M bar and asked for a fruit cocktail. I still walk with a stoop.
Finally I found a young assistant sobbing in the corner. "Please don't hurt me " she said. "Fear not high school drop out, I only want to see Mr Choo" I said. She managed to shout out above the din that Mr Choo was not here. I informed her that in that case the posters all over town were misleading as it clearly stated that Mr Choo was at H&M. "Jimmy Choo FOR H&M" she said. Pedant.
Our conversation ended abruptly as she was sucked screaming into a vortex of brawling banshees who had spotted the last remaining pair of Jimmy Choo studded platforms. I doubt she made it out in one piece. Sad, but that is the price you pay for not working hard at school.
Finally I found a young assistant sobbing in the corner. "Please don't hurt me " she said. "Fear not high school drop out, I only want to see Mr Choo" I said. She managed to shout out above the din that Mr Choo was not here. I informed her that in that case the posters all over town were misleading as it clearly stated that Mr Choo was at H&M. "Jimmy Choo FOR H&M" she said. Pedant.
Our conversation ended abruptly as she was sucked screaming into a vortex of brawling banshees who had spotted the last remaining pair of Jimmy Choo studded platforms. I doubt she made it out in one piece. Sad, but that is the price you pay for not working hard at school.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Ding Dong
I have been very busy today telling everyone how clever my daughter is and basking in the reflected glory. I think I may have alienated some more people. In between gloating, I took the daughter to the circus school, the garden centre and the swimming pool.
At the swimming pool I spotted three low ranking Daughters, J-Lo, Odd Molly and Charlotte Farringdon-Tubestation. J-Lo, I should add, is not world popular music sensation and purveyor of perfume Jennifer Lopez but rather Jocasta Longbottom from Peculiar, Missouri. I once toyed with the idea of adopting a similar street name until I realised mine would be I-We. It has unpleasant bed wetting overtones so I dropped the idea. Anyway, these three are absolute bottom feeders in the great pond that is Sunny Mountain Street so I fancied my chances of striking up a conversation and maybe making friends.
They were sitting deep in conversation as I strolled nonchalantly up to them, well as nonchalantly as is possible when wearing a pea green mankini. They did not notice me at first so I took the opportunity to eaves drop on their conversation to pickup some pointers. I couldn't hear very well but I did pick up the words "Hung on HBO and More4", "like a donkey", "male appendix". This was interesting, a programme about capital punishment, a subject I am able to debate at the drop of a hat, although what the donkey or a man's appendix had to do with it I could not fathom. Perhaps it was organ harvesting. Anyway, that was all I got before they noticed me.
"Yes" said J-Lo rather frostily. I said I couldn't help overhearing their conversation and that I was totally opposed to the death penalty and willing to get more concerned about illegal organ harvesting aswell. As I talked I had the uneasy feeling that I was being judged. Three pairs of eyes were almost imperceptibly slipping down my mankini. Well it was disorientating to say the least and I started to worry that I was showing something I shouldn't be showing. These mankinis are incredibly skimpy and I have been warned by the lifeguard before about accidental spillage. I lowered my head to check. At that point we were all looking at my downdoors. Phew, everything present and correct, ship shape and bristol fashion. When I looked up they were all gone. Only the faintest whiff of urine betrayed the fact that they had ever been there.
My interest was piqued so when I got home I decided to look up the series on the internet and got ready to set the HD recorder. Thank goodness I checked. Hung is not a documentary about capital punishment, oh no. I was shocked. Now I understand about the donkey, and it was appendage not appendix. Oh my goodness, I have just realised why they were looking where they were looking. I feel soiled and just a little curious to know what score I got.
At the swimming pool I spotted three low ranking Daughters, J-Lo, Odd Molly and Charlotte Farringdon-Tubestation. J-Lo, I should add, is not world popular music sensation and purveyor of perfume Jennifer Lopez but rather Jocasta Longbottom from Peculiar, Missouri. I once toyed with the idea of adopting a similar street name until I realised mine would be I-We. It has unpleasant bed wetting overtones so I dropped the idea.
Odd Molly, as her name implies, is called Molly and Charlotte Farringdon-Tubestation is from Nu Joyz ( that is New Jersey to the rest of the English speaking world) and has an infamous bladder control problem after giving birth to seven children. Her very few close friends have learnt to approach her from up wind and breath orally.
They were sitting deep in conversation as I strolled nonchalantly up to them, well as nonchalantly as is possible when wearing a pea green mankini. They did not notice me at first so I took the opportunity to eaves drop on their conversation to pickup some pointers. I couldn't hear very well but I did pick up the words "Hung on HBO and More4", "like a donkey", "male appendix". This was interesting, a programme about capital punishment, a subject I am able to debate at the drop of a hat, although what the donkey or a man's appendix had to do with it I could not fathom. Perhaps it was organ harvesting. Anyway, that was all I got before they noticed me.
"Yes" said J-Lo rather frostily. I said I couldn't help overhearing their conversation and that I was totally opposed to the death penalty and willing to get more concerned about illegal organ harvesting aswell. As I talked I had the uneasy feeling that I was being judged. Three pairs of eyes were almost imperceptibly slipping down my mankini. Well it was disorientating to say the least and I started to worry that I was showing something I shouldn't be showing. These mankinis are incredibly skimpy and I have been warned by the lifeguard before about accidental spillage. I lowered my head to check. At that point we were all looking at my downdoors. Phew, everything present and correct, ship shape and bristol fashion. When I looked up they were all gone. Only the faintest whiff of urine betrayed the fact that they had ever been there.
My interest was piqued so when I got home I decided to look up the series on the internet and got ready to set the HD recorder. Thank goodness I checked. Hung is not a documentary about capital punishment, oh no. I was shocked. Now I understand about the donkey, and it was appendage not appendix. Oh my goodness, I have just realised why they were looking where they were looking. I feel soiled and just a little curious to know what score I got.
Monday 16 November 2009
My Day
And so the first day of the daughter's new senior class draws to a close. You remember she was bumped up a year. I haven't been this proud since I won the School Handwriting Prize in 1978. I have lived a very unaccomplished life.
Anyway, after the daughter left this morning I decided to celebrate by treating myself to some retail therapy. I read in Heat magazine that this is all the rage. I have had my eye on a rather fruity ski style zip up pullover since last Sunday. Into the shop I went and, to my horror, saw that there were only two jumpers left and two women were holding them, pawing at them infact, holding them up and checking themselves out in the mirror.
My paramilitary training immediately kicked in, I had been aide de camp to Brown Owl in the cubs, and I knew I had to somehow scare these scavengers away from MY jumper. I hovered menacingly, roughly fingering some skimpy cashmere thongs and delivering some whoopass eye contact. Finally they moved away, but with one of the jumpers. Yes, with a mans jumper! And then the woman paid for it and left the shop.
Well I was almost speechless. Why had she bought this jumper?. It was most obviously a manly mans jumper. Or was it?. Now I wasn't sure. Should I buy a jumper that girls wear? What would that say about me? What, horror of horrors, would happen if I bumped into her again and we were wearing the same jumper?! Oh the shame.
I checked, yes I was in the men's department, although it was worringly close to the blouses. Why can't these stores have clear demarcation zones?. Anyway, 75% sure I had a genuine redblooded male article of clothing I went to the till. In a jocular, devil may care tone, I commented to the sales assistant that I hoped this was a mans jumper because I had seen a woman buying one.
"Oh yes sir, it is a mans jumper. No need to worry, and anyway she had smaller breasts than you. Would Sir like to take a look at our winter collection of daringly low cut blouses, just in today" she said.
"No Sir bloody well wouldn't" I said in my most hetrosexual voice. I paid and left tout suite. Damn my moobs!.
What is the world coming to. I love this jumper but I will never be able to wear it out now for the fear I will bump into women wearing the same jumper and be branded as a cross dresser. Anyway, it has given added impetus to my diet, and I think I am going to start pumping iron to firm up the old clevage and shop in exclusively, 100% no chicks allowed, chap shops from now on.
Anyway, I have now selected the cabbage soup diet. There are warnings about possible turbulence when you are on this diet but in for a penny, lose many pounds. Will keep you posted.
Anyway, after the daughter left this morning I decided to celebrate by treating myself to some retail therapy. I read in Heat magazine that this is all the rage. I have had my eye on a rather fruity ski style zip up pullover since last Sunday. Into the shop I went and, to my horror, saw that there were only two jumpers left and two women were holding them, pawing at them infact, holding them up and checking themselves out in the mirror.
My paramilitary training immediately kicked in, I had been aide de camp to Brown Owl in the cubs, and I knew I had to somehow scare these scavengers away from MY jumper. I hovered menacingly, roughly fingering some skimpy cashmere thongs and delivering some whoopass eye contact. Finally they moved away, but with one of the jumpers. Yes, with a mans jumper! And then the woman paid for it and left the shop.
Well I was almost speechless. Why had she bought this jumper?. It was most obviously a manly mans jumper. Or was it?. Now I wasn't sure. Should I buy a jumper that girls wear? What would that say about me? What, horror of horrors, would happen if I bumped into her again and we were wearing the same jumper?! Oh the shame.
I checked, yes I was in the men's department, although it was worringly close to the blouses. Why can't these stores have clear demarcation zones?. Anyway, 75% sure I had a genuine redblooded male article of clothing I went to the till. In a jocular, devil may care tone, I commented to the sales assistant that I hoped this was a mans jumper because I had seen a woman buying one.
"Oh yes sir, it is a mans jumper. No need to worry, and anyway she had smaller breasts than you. Would Sir like to take a look at our winter collection of daringly low cut blouses, just in today" she said.
"No Sir bloody well wouldn't" I said in my most hetrosexual voice. I paid and left tout suite. Damn my moobs!.
What is the world coming to. I love this jumper but I will never be able to wear it out now for the fear I will bump into women wearing the same jumper and be branded as a cross dresser. Anyway, it has given added impetus to my diet, and I think I am going to start pumping iron to firm up the old clevage and shop in exclusively, 100% no chicks allowed, chap shops from now on.
Anyway, I have now selected the cabbage soup diet. There are warnings about possible turbulence when you are on this diet but in for a penny, lose many pounds. Will keep you posted.
Friday 13 November 2009
Sink or Slim
Just got back from the swimming pool. What fun we had, the daughter frolicked like a 5 year old child shaped dolphin. I on the other hand resembled more of a humpbacked whale trapped in the shallows. I was half expecting Friends of the Earth to turn up cover me in vaseline and pour water over me until the tide came back in. I think I need to go on a diet.
I do not think people realise the intense social pressure we stay at home dads are under to look good. Now I am as metrosexual as the next chap, I am au fait with toilet seat etiquette and on a nodding aquaintance basis with dental floss, but being checked out by the yummy mummys during a lunch time swim is confidence destroying to say the least. The sounds of tutting and looks of disgust in the eyes of all those present seemed to follow me around. I am sure I heard one mom say to her child "look Sebastian, if you don't eat properly and excercise thats how you'll end up" . Granted the fact that I was wearing a Borat style Mankini didn't help. I knew that woman in the swimwear shop didn't have my best interests at heart.
I had to hold my stomach in for such a long time I think I have pulled a muscle. When I mercifully entered the protective cloak of the pool and relaxed it caused a powerful vortex. It was only the keen eyed watchfulness of the lifeguard that prevented those two tots from being sucked under.
I have just tried to calculate my body mass index. Anywhere between 18 and 25 is ok, I came out at 429, that is several hundred over the 40 that indicates you are morbidly obese. Must get new batteries for that damned calculator. All quite depressing. Off to look up some fadish diets and get a bikini line wax.
PS thanks to those who have recently become followers of the blog and to the original loyal stalwarts, you don't mind me calling you stalwarts do you? Brings a tear to my eye when I think about you all out there with nothing better to do than read this rubbish. Thanks and keep up the good work.
I do not think people realise the intense social pressure we stay at home dads are under to look good. Now I am as metrosexual as the next chap, I am au fait with toilet seat etiquette and on a nodding aquaintance basis with dental floss, but being checked out by the yummy mummys during a lunch time swim is confidence destroying to say the least. The sounds of tutting and looks of disgust in the eyes of all those present seemed to follow me around. I am sure I heard one mom say to her child "look Sebastian, if you don't eat properly and excercise thats how you'll end up" . Granted the fact that I was wearing a Borat style Mankini didn't help. I knew that woman in the swimwear shop didn't have my best interests at heart.
I had to hold my stomach in for such a long time I think I have pulled a muscle. When I mercifully entered the protective cloak of the pool and relaxed it caused a powerful vortex. It was only the keen eyed watchfulness of the lifeguard that prevented those two tots from being sucked under.
I have just tried to calculate my body mass index. Anywhere between 18 and 25 is ok, I came out at 429, that is several hundred over the 40 that indicates you are morbidly obese. Must get new batteries for that damned calculator. All quite depressing. Off to look up some fadish diets and get a bikini line wax.
PS thanks to those who have recently become followers of the blog and to the original loyal stalwarts, you don't mind me calling you stalwarts do you? Brings a tear to my eye when I think about you all out there with nothing better to do than read this rubbish. Thanks and keep up the good work.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Proud As Punch
I was called in to see the daughter's teacher yesterday. I was concerned I can tell you. What had the little one been up to, dealing again, or had that girl died after the conker incident?. But no, to my relief and delight the teacher announced that the daughter is to be moved up a year. Ah, my genes are asserting themselves at last, the girl's a genius.
Just as I was about to leave the teacher said there was one area of concern. Apparently the daughter had been singing an inappropriate song in the playground.
What song I asked?.
"I don't like your girlfriend" she replied.
"Well" I said " that's rather personal and she is much better now I have the cooking sherry safely under lock and key. And she is my wife now. You are no oil painting yourself you know".
"Nein, nein, zat is ze name of ze song, I don't like your girlfriend" she said.
"Oh, you mean Avril Lavigne, the tiny, talented troubadour beloved of Canadians the world over. Well what's the problem?" said I.
"Zer are lines in zer zat are not very good" she said, and proceeded to tell me.
"Well, I have to disagree with you there. Getting something to rhyme with "Hell yeah I'm a mother f*****g Princess" is no mean feat, and little Avril deserves credit for pulling it off with aplomb" I said.
I explained to the teacher that she had only started to listen to this music recently because she was sick of the endless loop of Jeremy Kyle Shows that I have started to watch. All that swearing, violence and the somewhat depressing evidence of the interplay of socio-economic conditions that are contributing inexorably to the undermining and eventual disintegration of the fabric of western society, she gets enough of that in the playground she said. I must admit I don't understand what she says sometimes.
Anyway, I agreed with her teacher that I will monitor future listening (bang goes the "Best of the Sex Pistols" compilation album I was got her for Christmas. Have to give it to the wife now). Bye for now.
Just as I was about to leave the teacher said there was one area of concern. Apparently the daughter had been singing an inappropriate song in the playground.
What song I asked?.
"I don't like your girlfriend" she replied.
"Well" I said " that's rather personal and she is much better now I have the cooking sherry safely under lock and key. And she is my wife now. You are no oil painting yourself you know".
"Nein, nein, zat is ze name of ze song, I don't like your girlfriend" she said.
"Oh, you mean Avril Lavigne, the tiny, talented troubadour beloved of Canadians the world over. Well what's the problem?" said I.
"Zer are lines in zer zat are not very good" she said, and proceeded to tell me.
"Well, I have to disagree with you there. Getting something to rhyme with "Hell yeah I'm a mother f*****g Princess" is no mean feat, and little Avril deserves credit for pulling it off with aplomb" I said.
I explained to the teacher that she had only started to listen to this music recently because she was sick of the endless loop of Jeremy Kyle Shows that I have started to watch. All that swearing, violence and the somewhat depressing evidence of the interplay of socio-economic conditions that are contributing inexorably to the undermining and eventual disintegration of the fabric of western society, she gets enough of that in the playground she said. I must admit I don't understand what she says sometimes.
Anyway, I agreed with her teacher that I will monitor future listening (bang goes the "Best of the Sex Pistols" compilation album I was got her for Christmas. Have to give it to the wife now). Bye for now.
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Bonfire Night
Every year at his time we throw open our doors to the locals who then feel obliged to regift cheap bottles of wine, grind mud into the carpets and up the walls, break priceless family heirlooms, leave half eaten toffee apples wedged into the ipod dock and leave the garden looking like the Somme, obviously without the bodies, although there is a strange smell coming from under the gooseberry bush, must check that out.
Yes, it was our 5th Bonfire Night party attended by the great and good of Sunnymountain Street. Notables from both the SSMM and Daughters attended and agreed some kind of truce, sealed by passing round a crack pipe of peace.
I had rented a pergola to give some protection to guests as the weather forecast promised prolonged heavy rain. Did it rain?. No it didn't. I have instructed my lawyers to sue the BBC weather department for the rental costs and emotional damages. I mean, I wouldn't care so much if they only did this forecasting lark as a hobby, but its their bloody job!
Anyway, I had planned a firework display. I got my neighbour to help. He was to light the smaller fireworks while I snuck off to a nearby hollow and prepared the finale, a crescendo of rockets. I really should have read the instructions. Rockets need to sit in a launcher of some kind and not be stuck in wet ground. I lit them, they fired but never left the ground. It was like being stuck on the set of Apocalypse Now. After treating the casualties people started to leave. I don't think some will ever come back. Fat Kath received an injury to her good eye (you'll remember she got a Jimmy Choo to the other eye during the Great Halloween Rumble with the Daughters) To be fair the injury wasnt caused directly by a firework but rather by English mustard. She was squirting some from an easy squeeze bottle on to her umpteenth hot dog when the explosions startled her, causing a reflex squeeze straight into the eye. I suppose she is now legally blind. The last I saw of her she was heading home, ricocheting off parked cars like an untethered barrage balloon. All in all I think it went very well.
Monday I was in the garden harvesting lavender to make potpourri. The girlification process is unstoppable.
Yes, it was our 5th Bonfire Night party attended by the great and good of Sunnymountain Street. Notables from both the SSMM and Daughters attended and agreed some kind of truce, sealed by passing round a crack pipe of peace.
I had rented a pergola to give some protection to guests as the weather forecast promised prolonged heavy rain. Did it rain?. No it didn't. I have instructed my lawyers to sue the BBC weather department for the rental costs and emotional damages. I mean, I wouldn't care so much if they only did this forecasting lark as a hobby, but its their bloody job!
Anyway, I had planned a firework display. I got my neighbour to help. He was to light the smaller fireworks while I snuck off to a nearby hollow and prepared the finale, a crescendo of rockets. I really should have read the instructions. Rockets need to sit in a launcher of some kind and not be stuck in wet ground. I lit them, they fired but never left the ground. It was like being stuck on the set of Apocalypse Now. After treating the casualties people started to leave. I don't think some will ever come back. Fat Kath received an injury to her good eye (you'll remember she got a Jimmy Choo to the other eye during the Great Halloween Rumble with the Daughters) To be fair the injury wasnt caused directly by a firework but rather by English mustard. She was squirting some from an easy squeeze bottle on to her umpteenth hot dog when the explosions startled her, causing a reflex squeeze straight into the eye. I suppose she is now legally blind. The last I saw of her she was heading home, ricocheting off parked cars like an untethered barrage balloon. All in all I think it went very well.
Monday I was in the garden harvesting lavender to make potpourri. The girlification process is unstoppable.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Cupcake Top Tips
"Why do my cupcakes come out flat on top or slightly sunken in?" a friend recently asked me. Well I have to admit that I was wrong footed for a moment or two.
Recovering my wits I replied "Well, there are three main reasons why your cupcakes might deflate, over mixed batter, too much baking powder or soda or overfilled cups".
"Over mixing the batter leads to increased gluten production, ending up with a tight, dense final product. It is best to fold the ingredients with a light hand until they come together. Baking powder, when used judiciously, results in small pockets of air evenly distributed through the dough. These pockets are a result of the carbon dioxide producing reaction with acidic ingredients in the dough. If there is too much baking powder the bubbles of carbon dioxide expand too greatly and break, causing collapse. Overfilled cups mean that, when the cupcake rises, it won't have anywhere to go and will level itself out. This is easy to avoid, just fill your cupcake no more than three quarters full, so the batter can rise sufficiently. Now get out, I want to finish my shower in peace"
Recovering my wits I replied "Well, there are three main reasons why your cupcakes might deflate, over mixed batter, too much baking powder or soda or overfilled cups".
"Over mixing the batter leads to increased gluten production, ending up with a tight, dense final product. It is best to fold the ingredients with a light hand until they come together. Baking powder, when used judiciously, results in small pockets of air evenly distributed through the dough. These pockets are a result of the carbon dioxide producing reaction with acidic ingredients in the dough. If there is too much baking powder the bubbles of carbon dioxide expand too greatly and break, causing collapse. Overfilled cups mean that, when the cupcake rises, it won't have anywhere to go and will level itself out. This is easy to avoid, just fill your cupcake no more than three quarters full, so the batter can rise sufficiently. Now get out, I want to finish my shower in peace"
Rumble on the Street
Oh it has all been happening on Sunnymountain Street. Last Saturday was Halloween and here in the compound we celebrated it with gusto. Hundreds of kids were bused in from goodness knows where, local Borstals I suspect, and swarmed from house to house leaving a trail of destruction and sweet wrappers in their wake.
The whole event is beautifully organised by the gang that control the northside, known as the Daughters of the American Revolution, or the Daughters for short. They are almost exclusively American moms who send their kids to the local private school. Every year the Daughters draw up a list of the houses that can be visited and woe betide anyone who tries their luck on a non listed house, the Swiss have automatic weapons at home and are easily spooked.
Anyway, there is always a bit of friction and a simmering rivalry between the SSMM and the Daughters because the Daughters refuse to mix with the SSMM (remember, they control the southside, do pay attention). As a result many of the southside houses cannot get onto the visiting list. Is that all clear, are you still with me?.
Well, on Saturday night the street was full of parked cars making it effectively a one lane road. About 8pm (according to police reports) two cars travelling in opposite directions tried to get through at the same time. Inevitably they met head on, each refused to yield. One was driven by a middle ranking Daughter, the other by an SSMM foot soldier. An argument ensued. Meanwhile traffic was backing up in both directions, horns started to blare.
Within minutes the SSMM lined one side of the street, the Daughters the other. Words were exchanged and the mood turned uglier than Fat Kath's children. In what smacked to me as the result of pre meditation, the SSMM produced handheld breast pumps and waved them in a provocative manner at the Daughters. The SSMM credo holds that mothers who express milk are not real women. The Daughters, again in what can only have been a pre arranged provocation, lifted their coats to show their cesarean scars and sculptured washboard like stomachs. A collective gasp went up from the SSMM ranks. The SSMM all simultaneoulsy sucked in their natural child birth stomachs. I found I was doing this aswell.
The SSMM hit back by burning a picture of Martha Stewart, the patron saint of the Daughters. After that it just kicked off. Fat Kath received a Jimmy Choo to the eye and several of the Daughters sustained nasty breast pump injuries. One woman was taken to hospital with stretch marks.
What an evening, can't wait for next year.
The whole event is beautifully organised by the gang that control the northside, known as the Daughters of the American Revolution, or the Daughters for short. They are almost exclusively American moms who send their kids to the local private school. Every year the Daughters draw up a list of the houses that can be visited and woe betide anyone who tries their luck on a non listed house, the Swiss have automatic weapons at home and are easily spooked.
Anyway, there is always a bit of friction and a simmering rivalry between the SSMM and the Daughters because the Daughters refuse to mix with the SSMM (remember, they control the southside, do pay attention). As a result many of the southside houses cannot get onto the visiting list. Is that all clear, are you still with me?.
Well, on Saturday night the street was full of parked cars making it effectively a one lane road. About 8pm (according to police reports) two cars travelling in opposite directions tried to get through at the same time. Inevitably they met head on, each refused to yield. One was driven by a middle ranking Daughter, the other by an SSMM foot soldier. An argument ensued. Meanwhile traffic was backing up in both directions, horns started to blare.
Within minutes the SSMM lined one side of the street, the Daughters the other. Words were exchanged and the mood turned uglier than Fat Kath's children. In what smacked to me as the result of pre meditation, the SSMM produced handheld breast pumps and waved them in a provocative manner at the Daughters. The SSMM credo holds that mothers who express milk are not real women. The Daughters, again in what can only have been a pre arranged provocation, lifted their coats to show their cesarean scars and sculptured washboard like stomachs. A collective gasp went up from the SSMM ranks. The SSMM all simultaneoulsy sucked in their natural child birth stomachs. I found I was doing this aswell.
The SSMM hit back by burning a picture of Martha Stewart, the patron saint of the Daughters. After that it just kicked off. Fat Kath received a Jimmy Choo to the eye and several of the Daughters sustained nasty breast pump injuries. One woman was taken to hospital with stretch marks.
What an evening, can't wait for next year.
Friday 30 October 2009
Curse of the Dummy
I think my estrogen levels are going through the roof. Two years of being a daddy who takes on the traditional role of the mummy, or Dummy as one friend helpfully suggested that I now designate myself, has led to some alarming developments.
Just this afternoon I took delivery of a machine that will make my life so much better. No, not a sports car, rather the Miele Rotary Iron. When the delivery man turned up I ran outside in my pinny ( I was baking) and squealed with delight, making small jumping movements and clapping my hands rapidly together. The look of pity the delivery guys gave me will haunt me until the day I die.
I tried to man up and lift the machine down the stairs alone. My goodness it was heavy, so in the end I gave in and let the big strong men take it for me. As soon as the job was done they were out of the house like a shot, seemed like they were uncomfortable spending time alone with me in a confined space. It was only when I glanced in the mirror a little while later that I saw my face was lightly dusted in glitter makeup, a legacy of cleaning out the daughter's room this morning.
Oh the shame, how has it come to this. Must dash, think my macaroons are burning.
Just this afternoon I took delivery of a machine that will make my life so much better. No, not a sports car, rather the Miele Rotary Iron. When the delivery man turned up I ran outside in my pinny ( I was baking) and squealed with delight, making small jumping movements and clapping my hands rapidly together. The look of pity the delivery guys gave me will haunt me until the day I die.
I tried to man up and lift the machine down the stairs alone. My goodness it was heavy, so in the end I gave in and let the big strong men take it for me. As soon as the job was done they were out of the house like a shot, seemed like they were uncomfortable spending time alone with me in a confined space. It was only when I glanced in the mirror a little while later that I saw my face was lightly dusted in glitter makeup, a legacy of cleaning out the daughter's room this morning.
Oh the shame, how has it come to this. Must dash, think my macaroons are burning.
Thursday 29 October 2009
GS Widowers Club
Concussion is better now, I can focus again. Forgot to mention that last night was the inaugural meeting of the GS Widowers Club at Pot Bellies Snooker Hall. It is open to all chaps who have been brought to Zurich by some femme fatale, only to be cut adrift like so much flotsam and jetsam to fend for themselves, or something like that, bit hazy on the club rules as we were on beer number four,but you get the drift.
Anyway, a chance to get out of the compound is a rare treat indeed and I met up with Big J and Blind Jon for a game or two of snooker. Blind Jon is not atually blind, just colour blind, which made for some interesting choices of ball selection. And he is a Liberal Democrat. It really makes you realise that there is always someone worse off than yourself. That said, he still beat me, must have spiked my drink, typical shabby Lib Dem trick that. I will have to get him defrocked and disbarred from the club for ungentlemanly behaviour.
Just thought you might want to know. Must dash.
Anyway, a chance to get out of the compound is a rare treat indeed and I met up with Big J and Blind Jon for a game or two of snooker. Blind Jon is not atually blind, just colour blind, which made for some interesting choices of ball selection. And he is a Liberal Democrat. It really makes you realise that there is always someone worse off than yourself. That said, he still beat me, must have spiked my drink, typical shabby Lib Dem trick that. I will have to get him defrocked and disbarred from the club for ungentlemanly behaviour.
Just thought you might want to know. Must dash.
Play the Game
Off to the daughter's school this morning for a parental visit to see the little angels do PE. So there we were, 20 parents crammed onto a bench obviously not designed for sitting on if you are over four years old. Watching the kids run around was enchanting, at least for the first 10 minutes. After that I lost the feeling in my left leg. At the half an hour stage it was frankly wearing a bit thin. Distracted myself by looking at all the greying roots of all the neighbouring mums.
By the 45 minute stage the lesson had decended into mayhem, the chaos theory as interpreted by 5 year olds. Kids ran wild, smashing into each other at high speed, richocheting off walls while squealing with delight. Why the heck are we spending billions on the Large Hadron Collider when we could simply wire up all the junior school PE lessons in the world and achieve the same effect for a fraction of the cost.
And then it happened. The teacher called for a volunteer. My Swiss German is not what it should be and I did not fully understand. I made the school boy error of making eye contact with the teacher. "You, Herr Welle-Skitt, come here".
I was told I would be playing Britsih Bulldog against the whole class. I had to stand at one end of the sports hall while 40 plus tots stood at the other. They were and ugly looking bunch with a nasty collective glint in the eyes. I am sure I caught site of a knuckle duster and a cosh being slipped expertly up sleeves. Anyway, my mission was to make it to the opposite wall. The spawn were to stop me.
How difficult could it be I thought. So I charged, and so did they. I dealt with the first two kids, a couple of crew cut thugs from Fat Kath's neck of the woods with well aimed palm slaps to the face. The third I caught with my knee and sent the spud flying. Then I felt something wrap around my right leg. I still had no feeling in the left leg.
And they were on me. One sweet little girl, dressed in a delightful Laura Ashley flower print dress, donkey punched me. My shins were being kicked and I feared my belt was about to give way under the weight of tots hanging off it. I stumbled, they scented a kill. One well aimed blow to the solar plexus from an unseen hand sent me down. I had lost, but that did not stop the little hooligans from giving me a good kicking until they were pulled off by the beaming teacher.
I limped back to my two square centimetres of bench space in disgrace and a good deal of pain. I don't know how long the lesson went on, I had mild concussion. Infact, I have no recollection of how I got back home. Must rest now, painkillers are wearing off.
By the 45 minute stage the lesson had decended into mayhem, the chaos theory as interpreted by 5 year olds. Kids ran wild, smashing into each other at high speed, richocheting off walls while squealing with delight. Why the heck are we spending billions on the Large Hadron Collider when we could simply wire up all the junior school PE lessons in the world and achieve the same effect for a fraction of the cost.
And then it happened. The teacher called for a volunteer. My Swiss German is not what it should be and I did not fully understand. I made the school boy error of making eye contact with the teacher. "You, Herr Welle-Skitt, come here".
I was told I would be playing Britsih Bulldog against the whole class. I had to stand at one end of the sports hall while 40 plus tots stood at the other. They were and ugly looking bunch with a nasty collective glint in the eyes. I am sure I caught site of a knuckle duster and a cosh being slipped expertly up sleeves. Anyway, my mission was to make it to the opposite wall. The spawn were to stop me.
How difficult could it be I thought. So I charged, and so did they. I dealt with the first two kids, a couple of crew cut thugs from Fat Kath's neck of the woods with well aimed palm slaps to the face. The third I caught with my knee and sent the spud flying. Then I felt something wrap around my right leg. I still had no feeling in the left leg.
And they were on me. One sweet little girl, dressed in a delightful Laura Ashley flower print dress, donkey punched me. My shins were being kicked and I feared my belt was about to give way under the weight of tots hanging off it. I stumbled, they scented a kill. One well aimed blow to the solar plexus from an unseen hand sent me down. I had lost, but that did not stop the little hooligans from giving me a good kicking until they were pulled off by the beaming teacher.
I limped back to my two square centimetres of bench space in disgrace and a good deal of pain. I don't know how long the lesson went on, I had mild concussion. Infact, I have no recollection of how I got back home. Must rest now, painkillers are wearing off.
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Know Thy Enemy
Last week I decided it was time to integrate with the local Sunnymountain Street Mothers Mafia. If you can't beat em, invite them round for a coffee morning. Invites were issued to the top five movers and shakers.
I cleaned the house, read a month old copy of Heat magazine for small talk purposes, ironed my best cravat, bought five packets of chocolate biscuits and put the coffee on. Then I waited, and waited, and waited. By 10.30 I realised no one was coming. The whole experience has left me feeling sick to the stomach, mainly because I ate all the choccy biscuits while waiting. My social isolation is now complete and I have put on 2 kilos.
Well, if they want a war a war is what they will get! Operating on the principle of know your enemy I decided to do some research before I strike. I found the wife's copy of "The Female Brain". It's quite thick.
But what an interesting read it is proving to be. Did you know that the hippocampus is not an ancient type of Roman fat camp but rather the brain's seat of learning and memory? Or that every brain starts off as female and only becomes male 8 weeks after conception, usually coinciding with the start of the football season and the release of excess testosterone that shrinks the communication centre and reduces hearing?
Its all to do with hormones apparently. Estrogen, Progesterone, Manoloblahniksale, Cortisol, Jomalonebuyonegetonefreeosol, Androstenedione and Allopregnenolone to name but a few.
These flood women's brains every few days and, to quote the book " their influence can be said to create a woman's reality...which is not as constant as a man's. His reality is like a mountain that is worn away imperceptibly by glaciers, weather and tectonic movements. Hers is more like the weather itself- constantly changing and hard to predict". Oh great! Even highly paid BBC meteorologists can't get the weather right, what chance do I stand.
I'm off to have a lie down and rest my hippocampus.
I cleaned the house, read a month old copy of Heat magazine for small talk purposes, ironed my best cravat, bought five packets of chocolate biscuits and put the coffee on. Then I waited, and waited, and waited. By 10.30 I realised no one was coming. The whole experience has left me feeling sick to the stomach, mainly because I ate all the choccy biscuits while waiting. My social isolation is now complete and I have put on 2 kilos.
Well, if they want a war a war is what they will get! Operating on the principle of know your enemy I decided to do some research before I strike. I found the wife's copy of "The Female Brain". It's quite thick.
But what an interesting read it is proving to be. Did you know that the hippocampus is not an ancient type of Roman fat camp but rather the brain's seat of learning and memory? Or that every brain starts off as female and only becomes male 8 weeks after conception, usually coinciding with the start of the football season and the release of excess testosterone that shrinks the communication centre and reduces hearing?
Its all to do with hormones apparently. Estrogen, Progesterone, Manoloblahniksale, Cortisol, Jomalonebuyonegetonefreeosol, Androstenedione and Allopregnenolone to name but a few.
These flood women's brains every few days and, to quote the book " their influence can be said to create a woman's reality...which is not as constant as a man's. His reality is like a mountain that is worn away imperceptibly by glaciers, weather and tectonic movements. Hers is more like the weather itself- constantly changing and hard to predict". Oh great! Even highly paid BBC meteorologists can't get the weather right, what chance do I stand.
I'm off to have a lie down and rest my hippocampus.
Monday 26 October 2009
More Home Thoughts From Abloke
At 8.45 this morning I was sitting on the terrace preparing to enjoy my first dry sherry of the day. Life seemed good, daughter at school, hedgehogs snuffling around in the rubbish bags and empty beer bottles that I had left out overnight, not a care in the world in fact. Why am I telling you this. Well, just lonely I guess.
Thursday 22 October 2009
It's a Wonderful World
Tried to put a petition on the No10 website today. It read "We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to stop being nasty to bankers." I sleep with a banker, need to keep her sweet.
This is the reply I have just received
Hi,
I'm sorry to inform you that your petition has been rejected. Your petition was classed as being in the following categories:
* Intended to be humorous.
If you wish to edit and resubmit your petition, please follow the following link:
http://petitions.number10.gov.uk/Hugabanker/Au7sWXDP3kGUAArMHlABICo
You have four weeks in which to do this, after which your petition will appear in the list of rejected petitions.
the ePetitions team
Couple of points...The reply starts "Hi...Hi!, this is an official communication from Downing Street for goodness sake. Second, it appears I am now officially classed as someone with unacceptable humorous intent, that must now be a crime surely so I may be going away for a while. And it appears this email reply was not the work of a single person but was a team effort. Well done the ePetitions team, keep up the good work.
Must dash, off to make some popcorn and watch Neo Nazis on the BBC's Question Time. What a strange and wonderful world we live in.
This is the reply I have just received
Hi,
I'm sorry to inform you that your petition has been rejected. Your petition was classed as being in the following categories:
* Intended to be humorous.
If you wish to edit and resubmit your petition, please follow the following link:
http://petitions.number10.gov.uk/Hugabanker/Au7sWXDP3kGUAArMHlABICo
You have four weeks in which to do this, after which your petition will appear in the list of rejected petitions.
the ePetitions team
Couple of points...The reply starts "Hi...Hi!, this is an official communication from Downing Street for goodness sake. Second, it appears I am now officially classed as someone with unacceptable humorous intent, that must now be a crime surely so I may be going away for a while. And it appears this email reply was not the work of a single person but was a team effort. Well done the ePetitions team, keep up the good work.
Must dash, off to make some popcorn and watch Neo Nazis on the BBC's Question Time. What a strange and wonderful world we live in.
Top Tip
Back to the supermarket again this afternoon with ravenously hungry daughter. I was in such a state from this morning's visit (see below)I clean forgot to buy any food. To calm the daughter's constant moaning about hunger cramps I bought her some Littlest Pet Shop toys.
In the vegetable section I was trying to get the daughter to agree to eat more fruit and veg but she was protesing that she wanted pizza. She was sitting in the trolley trying to suck any nutrition from the plastic packaging when we passed a little girl and her mother. As kids do they stared unashamedly at each other. Within second of passing, the daughter announced in a loud voice that "that girl wanted my Littlest Pet Shop toys but she can't have them and she did not look very nice". Ssshhhh! I hissed, although I had to admit she was an ugly little spud with a face like an angry elf chewing on nettles.
Then it came to me in a blinding flash of pedagogical inspiration, I could turn this situation into a valuable object lesson for the daughter. "Well" I said " if you don't eat enough fruit and vegetables then you may end up looking like her".
We left the supermarket with a trolley groaning under the weight of fresh, healthy produce. The daughter is currently gnawing on sugar beet and anxiously checking in the mirror every few minutes. You can have that child rearing tip on the house.
In the vegetable section I was trying to get the daughter to agree to eat more fruit and veg but she was protesing that she wanted pizza. She was sitting in the trolley trying to suck any nutrition from the plastic packaging when we passed a little girl and her mother. As kids do they stared unashamedly at each other. Within second of passing, the daughter announced in a loud voice that "that girl wanted my Littlest Pet Shop toys but she can't have them and she did not look very nice". Ssshhhh! I hissed, although I had to admit she was an ugly little spud with a face like an angry elf chewing on nettles.
Then it came to me in a blinding flash of pedagogical inspiration, I could turn this situation into a valuable object lesson for the daughter. "Well" I said " if you don't eat enough fruit and vegetables then you may end up looking like her".
We left the supermarket with a trolley groaning under the weight of fresh, healthy produce. The daughter is currently gnawing on sugar beet and anxiously checking in the mirror every few minutes. You can have that child rearing tip on the house.
Supermarket Creep
Another day on Sunnymountain Street and the dreaded trip to the supermarket to buy the wife some tights. I hate doing this. I am sure I catch women looking at me out of the corner of the eye and thinking "cross dressing perv in your dirty old mac". Of course it doesn't help that I am wearing my favourite old mac, which to be fair could do with a dry clean. To counter this I have developed a strategy to prove beyond doubt that I am not a cross dresser. This is a small town and I have my reputation to protect.
Firstly, I do not approach the women's section directly. Rather, I hang around by the powertools testing the equipment until I am satisfied that enough female shoppers have noted my presence or I am asked to move on by security.
Only then will I make my approach, theatrically checking each isle for the women's underwear as though I have never done this before. In reality I know the exact position of what I want. Ideally I will wait until it is clear and make a precision strike. Usually however there are women around, have they got nothing better to do!.
I then have to move to stage 3. I whip out my fake shopping list and pace up and down the aisle looking perplexed, a stranger in unchartered territory. I have contemplated taking this to another level, maybe scratching in a manly way or spitting on the floor but I would probably get a fine this being Switzerland.
Once I have the tights I have to run the gauntlet of the check out queue. Here I deploy classic deception techniques. Sometimes I fake a phonecall to the wife, talking just a little too loudly into the phone even though there is no one at the other end: " Yes I have your tights, I hope they're the right ones as I have never done this before" Hang up, check reactions around me, exchange knowing looks with any other men in the line. Sometimes I will buy chewing tabacco, no one who cross dresses could chew tobacco. ( I have many tins at home if anyone is interested). Occasionaly I will turn my collar up, try and look sinister and hope the girl at the check out till thinks I am an armed robber just stocking up.
Then out into the street, gasping for breath, heart beat at attack level, offending items tucked beneath aforementioned dirty old mac. Well thats over for another few weeks. Have to go, need a lie down.
Firstly, I do not approach the women's section directly. Rather, I hang around by the powertools testing the equipment until I am satisfied that enough female shoppers have noted my presence or I am asked to move on by security.
Only then will I make my approach, theatrically checking each isle for the women's underwear as though I have never done this before. In reality I know the exact position of what I want. Ideally I will wait until it is clear and make a precision strike. Usually however there are women around, have they got nothing better to do!.
I then have to move to stage 3. I whip out my fake shopping list and pace up and down the aisle looking perplexed, a stranger in unchartered territory. I have contemplated taking this to another level, maybe scratching in a manly way or spitting on the floor but I would probably get a fine this being Switzerland.
Once I have the tights I have to run the gauntlet of the check out queue. Here I deploy classic deception techniques. Sometimes I fake a phonecall to the wife, talking just a little too loudly into the phone even though there is no one at the other end: " Yes I have your tights, I hope they're the right ones as I have never done this before" Hang up, check reactions around me, exchange knowing looks with any other men in the line. Sometimes I will buy chewing tabacco, no one who cross dresses could chew tobacco. ( I have many tins at home if anyone is interested). Occasionaly I will turn my collar up, try and look sinister and hope the girl at the check out till thinks I am an armed robber just stocking up.
Then out into the street, gasping for breath, heart beat at attack level, offending items tucked beneath aforementioned dirty old mac. Well thats over for another few weeks. Have to go, need a lie down.
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Oh me Oh my
The bad dad stories have been flooding in. Just this morning the daughter reminded me of the incident at last year's Raebe Festival. This is a Swiss celebration where basically you go into a forest at night with a lantern and sing songs to a turnip, or something like that, I wasn't paying attention when it was all explained.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, last year us parents and respective tots were walking in a long procession into the dark forest, lanterns swaying as we threaded our way up the valley, casting little pools of light into the November gloom.
Well, I had obviously not secured the daughter's candle inside the paper lantern properly. It caught fire. There the daughter stood, flaming torch in hand, screaming people of all ages scattering left and right into the forest.
Like a flash I grabbed an old coat hanging from a nearby pram intending to beat out the spreading flames. How was I to know there was still a toddler inside it, anyway I don't think there was any lasting damage, although the child still flinches when he sees me.
This year's festival is fast approaching, I wonder if they will let us have a lantern again this year. I will keep you posted.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, last year us parents and respective tots were walking in a long procession into the dark forest, lanterns swaying as we threaded our way up the valley, casting little pools of light into the November gloom.
Well, I had obviously not secured the daughter's candle inside the paper lantern properly. It caught fire. There the daughter stood, flaming torch in hand, screaming people of all ages scattering left and right into the forest.
Like a flash I grabbed an old coat hanging from a nearby pram intending to beat out the spreading flames. How was I to know there was still a toddler inside it, anyway I don't think there was any lasting damage, although the child still flinches when he sees me.
This year's festival is fast approaching, I wonder if they will let us have a lantern again this year. I will keep you posted.
Friday 25 September 2009
Negligent Dad Bank
I am feeling better now. I have decided to establish this blog as a resource, or seed bank, of negligent father stories. Future generations/social services will be able to look back on this record and marvel/use as evidence when taking children into care.
The first tale comes courtesy of our London correspondent. A friend of his (do we think this is one of those my mate stories?) was left in charge of his 9 month old daughter one Saturday. His wife was out with the other 2 for the day. Anyway, the baby was asleep, he forgot about her, went to the shops for a paper, had a beer on his front porch, and fell asleep. He only woke up when disturbed by some annoying baby crying. Why wasn't the mother taking care of it he wondered in his alcohol induced haze. Then his brain clicked… Ooops. Same guy lost his 2 year old daughter in a camp site. He was in charge again (what was the mother thinking!), and was sitting having a beer with his friend. Some mums were calling out if anyone had lost a little girl. He actually said no! Then saw her… She had gone about 500 yards through a busy camp site.
Astounding!. Well my advice...in future tether the child. A stake firmly driven into the ground and a length of hemp rope (difficult for little teeth to gnaw through) and problem solved. The child will be able to walk miles in a circular fashion and you are free to enjoy that well earned beer.
If you have a negligent dad story please contribute, I love you all
The first tale comes courtesy of our London correspondent. A friend of his (do we think this is one of those my mate stories?) was left in charge of his 9 month old daughter one Saturday. His wife was out with the other 2 for the day. Anyway, the baby was asleep, he forgot about her, went to the shops for a paper, had a beer on his front porch, and fell asleep. He only woke up when disturbed by some annoying baby crying. Why wasn't the mother taking care of it he wondered in his alcohol induced haze. Then his brain clicked… Ooops. Same guy lost his 2 year old daughter in a camp site. He was in charge again (what was the mother thinking!), and was sitting having a beer with his friend. Some mums were calling out if anyone had lost a little girl. He actually said no! Then saw her… She had gone about 500 yards through a busy camp site.
Astounding!. Well my advice...in future tether the child. A stake firmly driven into the ground and a length of hemp rope (difficult for little teeth to gnaw through) and problem solved. The child will be able to walk miles in a circular fashion and you are free to enjoy that well earned beer.
If you have a negligent dad story please contribute, I love you all
Pretty in Pink
Hello poppets. Well what an eventful day I had yesterday. Woke up with what I suspected was Polonium 210 poisoning. After a trip to the doctors he couldn't rule out Acute Polonium 210 Induced Poisoning Syndrome but thought it rather more likely that I had a cold. Phew! what a relief. He then made me take all my clothes off for a full examination. He was German and I strongly suspect he was gay.
He was very concerned by a black, sticky, yeast like substance that he found between my toes. "Unknown to medical science" were his exact words, "referral to specialist in Vienna", "would I mind if he took photos and could I drape myself coquettishly over his examination table". I was just adjusting the nipple tassles he had given me when I remembered I had dropped my marmite on toast that morning and must have missed a bit. Panic over.
Anyway, from one German fairy to another (Can I say that?), Princess Lillifee The Movie. The daughter wanted to see this. How can I explain it to any of you who have not seen it. Well, just imagine Bambi and the cast of Watership Down meeting Sponge Bob Squarepants in a dark alley,then gang raping him. Nine months later a baby is born. That baby grows, develops a nasty candyfloss habit and starts to mainline petrol and bucket fulls of psychotropic drugs. Now add more pink than you could shake a stick at and you are still nowhere near imagining how smashing Princess Lilifee the Movie really is.
To be fair this is not my opinion of the film. I fell asleep before the film started. I have simply repeated what my 5 year old daughter told me after the usher woke me up. She has a mouth on her that one.
Just last week I caught her down the rough end of Sunnymountain Street abusing the transvestites who congregate there after midnight. She was yelling that they had no sense of style, that their shoes and handbags clashed and that some of them needed a thorough going over with an Epilady if they were going to wear those slingbacks. Some of them were actually crying. Why are you doing this I asked her? I want to be a TV critic when I grow up dad she said. It's been a long day. Have a lovely weekend.
He was very concerned by a black, sticky, yeast like substance that he found between my toes. "Unknown to medical science" were his exact words, "referral to specialist in Vienna", "would I mind if he took photos and could I drape myself coquettishly over his examination table". I was just adjusting the nipple tassles he had given me when I remembered I had dropped my marmite on toast that morning and must have missed a bit. Panic over.
Anyway, from one German fairy to another (Can I say that?), Princess Lillifee The Movie. The daughter wanted to see this. How can I explain it to any of you who have not seen it. Well, just imagine Bambi and the cast of Watership Down meeting Sponge Bob Squarepants in a dark alley,then gang raping him. Nine months later a baby is born. That baby grows, develops a nasty candyfloss habit and starts to mainline petrol and bucket fulls of psychotropic drugs. Now add more pink than you could shake a stick at and you are still nowhere near imagining how smashing Princess Lilifee the Movie really is.
To be fair this is not my opinion of the film. I fell asleep before the film started. I have simply repeated what my 5 year old daughter told me after the usher woke me up. She has a mouth on her that one.
Just last week I caught her down the rough end of Sunnymountain Street abusing the transvestites who congregate there after midnight. She was yelling that they had no sense of style, that their shoes and handbags clashed and that some of them needed a thorough going over with an Epilady if they were going to wear those slingbacks. Some of them were actually crying. Why are you doing this I asked her? I want to be a TV critic when I grow up dad she said. It's been a long day. Have a lovely weekend.
Wednesday 23 September 2009
My Day So Far....
Had a shock this morning. When I got back from taking the offspring to school there was a noose hanging on my garden gate. I was 99% certain that it could only have come from the Sunnymountain Mothers Mafia mainly because it was fashioned from an old maternity bra.
Later, while browsing through the women's underwear section of our local supermarket, someone must have slipped a note into my shopping basket while I was distracted pondering the respective merits of Pretty Polly, DKNY and Donna Karan or Skinkiss tights in various hues.
The note said "They are on to your blog. This morning was a warning. Next time they will sub contract to Fat Kath. signed A friend".
The cold hand of fear gripped me. Fat Kath is well known around here. She runs the play date concession on the southside and is widely rumoured to have been behind the mass brawl at last years WI cake sale.
I am a nervous wreck at the moment. I cant write anymore as I need to convert the downstairs toilet into a panic room.
Later, while browsing through the women's underwear section of our local supermarket, someone must have slipped a note into my shopping basket while I was distracted pondering the respective merits of Pretty Polly, DKNY and Donna Karan or Skinkiss tights in various hues.
The note said "They are on to your blog. This morning was a warning. Next time they will sub contract to Fat Kath. signed A friend".
The cold hand of fear gripped me. Fat Kath is well known around here. She runs the play date concession on the southside and is widely rumoured to have been behind the mass brawl at last years WI cake sale.
I am a nervous wreck at the moment. I cant write anymore as I need to convert the downstairs toilet into a panic room.
Tuesday 22 September 2009
Am I a Good Dad?
Am I a good dad? This question has been worrying me lately. So much so that I am hardly able to sleep in the afternoon. I suspect I am fantastic but how can I be sure as I have no reference points.
Mothers can meet up and compare notes but every time I attend one of these gatherings I am distracted by the amount of breast feeding going on. Everything starts out fine and dandy but invariably just as we are reaching the critical advice sharing stage a breast is whipped out without warning making it impossible to concentrate. All my mental energies are then devoted to maintaining eye contact and never letting my eyes drift south. After a few minutes of this staring the mother becomes uncomfortable and remembers she has something important to do on the other side of the room.
Of the few remaining Sunnymountain Street mothers who are still prepared to talk to me I suspect my stock has fallen of late due to one or two minor incidents. The first was when my daughter's friend came round to play. I left them to their own devices while I smoked a pipe of my favourite Old Scrotum's Jamaican Ready Rub on the terrace. Just before the mother was due to arrive to pick up her daughter the girls came down stairs and I saw that my little angel had drawn a clown face on her friend. The mother arrived and was enchanted by this display of infant face painting creativity. She wasn't so enchanted when she got home and found out it was permanent marker pen. Oh how we laughed when we looked at her daughters red raw blotchy little face some days later. I didn't point out that she had missed a bit and that you could still see the clowns mouth quite clearly.
To give her credit the mother did allow her daughter back to play. I decided to err on the side of caution and remove the marker pens. On collecting her daughter that evening the mother got a little hysterical when she noticed her daughter's new haircut. I could hardly see any difference and thought it was anyway quite modish. I have now also removed the scissors. The girl never came back.
Just yesterday, having finished my post lunch cigar and brandy, I decided I should go and see what my daughter was up to at the play ground. As I rounded the corner I saw the local Sunnymountain Street Mothers Mafia ranged on the benches keeping a beedy eye on their offspring. The head Capo said "Oh I really admire the fact that you allow your daughter to come down here on her own". I suspect she didn't admire it at all. They then all started breast feeding in a calculated act of intimidation. I collected my daughter, her pile of clothes and pen knife and made a tactical retreat. We spent the rest of the afternoon practicing cricket in the garden. And that is my life.
Mothers can meet up and compare notes but every time I attend one of these gatherings I am distracted by the amount of breast feeding going on. Everything starts out fine and dandy but invariably just as we are reaching the critical advice sharing stage a breast is whipped out without warning making it impossible to concentrate. All my mental energies are then devoted to maintaining eye contact and never letting my eyes drift south. After a few minutes of this staring the mother becomes uncomfortable and remembers she has something important to do on the other side of the room.
Of the few remaining Sunnymountain Street mothers who are still prepared to talk to me I suspect my stock has fallen of late due to one or two minor incidents. The first was when my daughter's friend came round to play. I left them to their own devices while I smoked a pipe of my favourite Old Scrotum's Jamaican Ready Rub on the terrace. Just before the mother was due to arrive to pick up her daughter the girls came down stairs and I saw that my little angel had drawn a clown face on her friend. The mother arrived and was enchanted by this display of infant face painting creativity. She wasn't so enchanted when she got home and found out it was permanent marker pen. Oh how we laughed when we looked at her daughters red raw blotchy little face some days later. I didn't point out that she had missed a bit and that you could still see the clowns mouth quite clearly.
To give her credit the mother did allow her daughter back to play. I decided to err on the side of caution and remove the marker pens. On collecting her daughter that evening the mother got a little hysterical when she noticed her daughter's new haircut. I could hardly see any difference and thought it was anyway quite modish. I have now also removed the scissors. The girl never came back.
Just yesterday, having finished my post lunch cigar and brandy, I decided I should go and see what my daughter was up to at the play ground. As I rounded the corner I saw the local Sunnymountain Street Mothers Mafia ranged on the benches keeping a beedy eye on their offspring. The head Capo said "Oh I really admire the fact that you allow your daughter to come down here on her own". I suspect she didn't admire it at all. They then all started breast feeding in a calculated act of intimidation. I collected my daughter, her pile of clothes and pen knife and made a tactical retreat. We spent the rest of the afternoon practicing cricket in the garden. And that is my life.
Monday 21 September 2009
Home Thoughts From Abloke
As Sunnymountain Street's resident thinker I have been musing on the topic of family. Living an expat life one of course misses aspects of home. But it is family that I miss the most. I miss coming down to breakfast and seeing my dear old mum, dry sherry in one hand, Capston Full Strength Cork Tip in the other, lovingly removing the stray cigarette ash from last nights reheated chicken tikka masala. She always insisted that breakfast was the most important meal of the day.
And my father. How we kids used to squeal with delight when he hung us upside down from the chandelier and used us to knock in his new cricket bat before the season started. Happy days.
Maybe I am becoming a sentimental old fool but even my brothers have brought a tear to my eye. I am very proud of my two younger brothers. Despite swimming in the shallow end of our family's gene pool they have both overcome being dimmer than eco friendly light bulbs and manage to live rewarding lives in the community with only a little help from their respective wives, or carers as social services designate them.
One brother works as a full time garden ornamnet and the other has held the Shropshire All Comers Village Idiot title since 1983, which is odd as he has never been to Shropshire.
Family legend has it that this family curse,which only afflicts the second and third born of the male line each successive generation, originates from 1599 when Sir Eustace Ponsonby D'Welle-Skitt was struck by a catapulted cow while besieging Jersusalem. It knocked him senseless. Given that the siege of Jerusalem had ended some 500 years earlier, and that the residents of Jerusalem only fired that cow to get rid of their one and only besieger, I suspect that there may have been a pre existing condition in the family. He later married the cow and settled down in Stow on the Wold.
Why am I telling you all this?. Well, I just get lonely sometimes is all.
And my father. How we kids used to squeal with delight when he hung us upside down from the chandelier and used us to knock in his new cricket bat before the season started. Happy days.
Maybe I am becoming a sentimental old fool but even my brothers have brought a tear to my eye. I am very proud of my two younger brothers. Despite swimming in the shallow end of our family's gene pool they have both overcome being dimmer than eco friendly light bulbs and manage to live rewarding lives in the community with only a little help from their respective wives, or carers as social services designate them.
One brother works as a full time garden ornamnet and the other has held the Shropshire All Comers Village Idiot title since 1983, which is odd as he has never been to Shropshire.
Family legend has it that this family curse,which only afflicts the second and third born of the male line each successive generation, originates from 1599 when Sir Eustace Ponsonby D'Welle-Skitt was struck by a catapulted cow while besieging Jersusalem. It knocked him senseless. Given that the siege of Jerusalem had ended some 500 years earlier, and that the residents of Jerusalem only fired that cow to get rid of their one and only besieger, I suspect that there may have been a pre existing condition in the family. He later married the cow and settled down in Stow on the Wold.
Why am I telling you all this?. Well, I just get lonely sometimes is all.
A Trip Around the Block
Everyone has a novel inside them as I believe someone once said. Since becoming a full time stay a home dad several people, all without kids, have suggested that I use my new found freedom (they really have no idea) to write. Good idea you may think, and so did I at first. I have always enjoyed writing and can spin a yarn as well as the next ex government press officer, or so I thought. I decided to start a novel. Well, days turned into weeks, weeks into months and still I have not managed to put pen to paper. I know I have a novel inside me but I just cannot find it.
Recognising that you have a problem is the first step to overcoming it, so I sought the advice of my trusted inner circle. My wife suggested that it was all due to the early onset of senile dementia and my daughter recommended that I write about princesses. As much as I love them both I dismissed their ideas out of hand and turned to a writer friend of mine who said I had a classic case of writers block. That came as something of a relief as the senile dementia idea was starting to seem strangely plausible.
Armed with my diagnosis I decided to learn more about my condition. Google informed me I was not alone. The world seems to be full of people offering advice (usually for $19.99 plus postage) on how to beat writers block.
After pulling together the top ten tips to beat the block I decided to test their effectiveness. I did it for all of you out there struggling to be the next JK Rowling and who at present don't have a Hogwarts to show for it. I will now take you through the top ten tips, my observations and the results/conclusions.
Tip 1- Talk to the monkey- that is, explain what you are really trying to say to a stuffed animal.
I wasn't really sure about this one but in for penny in for a pound. Getting along quite well until my 5 year old daughter and her friends walked in and asked if they could play too. Result/Conclusion: Could be ueful to focus the mind but make sure the house is empty first. The look of pity in my daughter's eyes will live with me until the day I die.
Tip 2- Do something easy- is there a small part of the project you could finish quickly that could move things forward.
I decided to practice my new signature for the much anticipated book launch. Result/Conclusion: I developed a Repetitive Strain Injury and becuase I like my new signature so much I will have to write to the bank and utility companies to update their records.
Tip 3- Freewriting- write anything for an arbitrary period, say 10 minutes. Don't stop, no matter even if you know what you're typing is gibberish. Get your hand moving and your brain will follow.
I discovered that I can write fluent gibberish. It is a good way to kill time and I think I had some good ideas. Result/Conclusion: Intend to spend the next month trying to decipher text to find the good ideas.
Tip 4- Take the dog for a walk- get out of your writing brain for 10 minutes.
I don't have a dog so I took my daughter instead. Result/Conclusion: Really helped clear my mind and my daughter will now fetch sticks that I throw.
Tip 5- Take a shower, change clothes,write from a new persona. Get a truly clean start, lend your voice to a personality who isn't you to see things from a new perspective.
Toying with the idea of writing a spy novel. Decide to write from a James Bond point of view. Result/Conclusion: Writing in a tuxedo is uncomfortable and those Martinis really knock you out.
Tip 6- Write someplace new- if you have been staring at the screen and nothing is happening walk away. Shut down the computer, get a pen and paper and go somewhere new.
Decide to lie on the bed to write after those dry Martinis (see above) Result/ Conclusion: Awoke feeling refreshed and ready to go.
Tip 7- Quit beating yourself up. You can't write when you feel under pressure. Focus on poistive outcomes.
Tried to go into a Zen like state. Result/Conclusion: Feeling very positive but I think I may now have a hangover (see 5&6 above).
Tip 8- Add one ritual behaviour- get a glass of water every 20 minutes. Eat a Tootsie Roll after every paragraph.
Spend an hour touring the local shops asking if they have Tootsie Rolls. No luck. I think this might have come from an American website. The water is doing wonders for my hangover though. Result/Conclusion: Totally rehydrated
Tip 9- Listen to music- put it on repeat until your draft is done.
Put on my Best of the Smiths CD that I got for my birthday. Result/Conclusion: Heaven knows I'm miserable now.
Tip 10- Write the middle bit or the title. Accept that your first draft will suck and just finish something A block ends when you start putting words on a page.
I feel a little intimidated now. These tips are very challenging and if I knew what I wanted to write I would have done it by now. Result/ Conclusion: this tip is rubbish. I am a sensitive and creative soul and no amount of threats are going to work on me sunshine.
If you are thinking about writing then I hope the above will help you remove any unwanted blockages. As for me, well I have decided to keep my novel safely inside me where it appears to be very happy. However, I am thinking about writing an Idiots Guide to Beating the Block, available soon at all good booksellers priced $19.99 plus postage.
Recognising that you have a problem is the first step to overcoming it, so I sought the advice of my trusted inner circle. My wife suggested that it was all due to the early onset of senile dementia and my daughter recommended that I write about princesses. As much as I love them both I dismissed their ideas out of hand and turned to a writer friend of mine who said I had a classic case of writers block. That came as something of a relief as the senile dementia idea was starting to seem strangely plausible.
Armed with my diagnosis I decided to learn more about my condition. Google informed me I was not alone. The world seems to be full of people offering advice (usually for $19.99 plus postage) on how to beat writers block.
After pulling together the top ten tips to beat the block I decided to test their effectiveness. I did it for all of you out there struggling to be the next JK Rowling and who at present don't have a Hogwarts to show for it. I will now take you through the top ten tips, my observations and the results/conclusions.
Tip 1- Talk to the monkey- that is, explain what you are really trying to say to a stuffed animal.
I wasn't really sure about this one but in for penny in for a pound. Getting along quite well until my 5 year old daughter and her friends walked in and asked if they could play too. Result/Conclusion: Could be ueful to focus the mind but make sure the house is empty first. The look of pity in my daughter's eyes will live with me until the day I die.
Tip 2- Do something easy- is there a small part of the project you could finish quickly that could move things forward.
I decided to practice my new signature for the much anticipated book launch. Result/Conclusion: I developed a Repetitive Strain Injury and becuase I like my new signature so much I will have to write to the bank and utility companies to update their records.
Tip 3- Freewriting- write anything for an arbitrary period, say 10 minutes. Don't stop, no matter even if you know what you're typing is gibberish. Get your hand moving and your brain will follow.
I discovered that I can write fluent gibberish. It is a good way to kill time and I think I had some good ideas. Result/Conclusion: Intend to spend the next month trying to decipher text to find the good ideas.
Tip 4- Take the dog for a walk- get out of your writing brain for 10 minutes.
I don't have a dog so I took my daughter instead. Result/Conclusion: Really helped clear my mind and my daughter will now fetch sticks that I throw.
Tip 5- Take a shower, change clothes,write from a new persona. Get a truly clean start, lend your voice to a personality who isn't you to see things from a new perspective.
Toying with the idea of writing a spy novel. Decide to write from a James Bond point of view. Result/Conclusion: Writing in a tuxedo is uncomfortable and those Martinis really knock you out.
Tip 6- Write someplace new- if you have been staring at the screen and nothing is happening walk away. Shut down the computer, get a pen and paper and go somewhere new.
Decide to lie on the bed to write after those dry Martinis (see above) Result/ Conclusion: Awoke feeling refreshed and ready to go.
Tip 7- Quit beating yourself up. You can't write when you feel under pressure. Focus on poistive outcomes.
Tried to go into a Zen like state. Result/Conclusion: Feeling very positive but I think I may now have a hangover (see 5&6 above).
Tip 8- Add one ritual behaviour- get a glass of water every 20 minutes. Eat a Tootsie Roll after every paragraph.
Spend an hour touring the local shops asking if they have Tootsie Rolls. No luck. I think this might have come from an American website. The water is doing wonders for my hangover though. Result/Conclusion: Totally rehydrated
Tip 9- Listen to music- put it on repeat until your draft is done.
Put on my Best of the Smiths CD that I got for my birthday. Result/Conclusion: Heaven knows I'm miserable now.
Tip 10- Write the middle bit or the title. Accept that your first draft will suck and just finish something A block ends when you start putting words on a page.
I feel a little intimidated now. These tips are very challenging and if I knew what I wanted to write I would have done it by now. Result/ Conclusion: this tip is rubbish. I am a sensitive and creative soul and no amount of threats are going to work on me sunshine.
If you are thinking about writing then I hope the above will help you remove any unwanted blockages. As for me, well I have decided to keep my novel safely inside me where it appears to be very happy. However, I am thinking about writing an Idiots Guide to Beating the Block, available soon at all good booksellers priced $19.99 plus postage.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
