It had been a party at my cousin Buggins', I had, by attempting to be the life and soul, perhaps engendered by the looming juggernaut of my sexagenary, possibly over-quaffed, and was now reaping the painful reward that was my hangover. I had slumped into the lap of my beloved, who's cool hand I had to keep placing on my ice-picked brow in order to devote time for my consciousness to quell the rising pit of bile in my stomach. My second cousin once-removed Louise looked at my sorry state, with some agitation she grabbed boyfriend Dave's elbow, and with her other hand indicated my recumbent, injured body.
"See Dave! That's why we have to drink as much as possible now!"
See the Young still have the potential to learn much from their Elders.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Friday, May 03, 2013
ET
I got down to the bottom of the road this morning and thought, "Bugger, where's my phone*."
Then my internal monologue (I still have one, though these days it often becomes an external monologue, causing passers-by to cross the street and guaranteeing a free seat next to me on the train) moved to, "Will I need it?", I realise that for some of you this question is anathema, for me it isn't. I continued, "Hmm, I am going out with Dean tonight, and my darling may decide to phone me before I get home, so I'd better go and get it."
I returned to the front door and then checked the bedroom - nope. Downstairs to check the sofa - nope. Ho hum, phone up from the landline - success! Well I could hear it ringing - somewhere. I started up the stairs back to the bedroom, the sound faded, I went into the living room, the sound faded. Hmmm? I went into the front garden, the recycling warbled at me! There in the glass basket was a dew-bespattered, very cold phone, I transferred it back to my shirt pocket from whence it had decamped silently the previous evening. Memories of France stir uncomfortably in my noggin (see here for details).
* You have no idea the wrestling (or even wresting) I've had to go through to drop the require apostrophe from 'phone, I still sometimes struggle with the concept of bus, rather than 'bus, let alone fridge and flu, both of which should be gloriously sandwiched between two of the erroneously ubiquitous little buggers.
Then my internal monologue (I still have one, though these days it often becomes an external monologue, causing passers-by to cross the street and guaranteeing a free seat next to me on the train) moved to, "Will I need it?", I realise that for some of you this question is anathema, for me it isn't. I continued, "Hmm, I am going out with Dean tonight, and my darling may decide to phone me before I get home, so I'd better go and get it."
I returned to the front door and then checked the bedroom - nope. Downstairs to check the sofa - nope. Ho hum, phone up from the landline - success! Well I could hear it ringing - somewhere. I started up the stairs back to the bedroom, the sound faded, I went into the living room, the sound faded. Hmmm? I went into the front garden, the recycling warbled at me! There in the glass basket was a dew-bespattered, very cold phone, I transferred it back to my shirt pocket from whence it had decamped silently the previous evening. Memories of France stir uncomfortably in my noggin (see here for details).
* You have no idea the wrestling (or even wresting) I've had to go through to drop the require apostrophe from 'phone, I still sometimes struggle with the concept of bus, rather than 'bus, let alone fridge and flu, both of which should be gloriously sandwiched between two of the erroneously ubiquitous little buggers.
Monday, April 29, 2013
The Truth (with grout)
I had finally bitten the bullet, and had started to tile the kitchen splashback, the first bit had gone relatively well, apart from the plug sockets being in the wrong place and skewiff, now it was time to grout. I had spent a long time trawling the net looking for advice. Eventually I plumped for the ultimate handyman, he gave good advice and had a penchant for doing work slightly out of shot, or, in the case of grouting, working on a piece the same colour as the grout so that you couldn't distinguish anything. This degree of..., I won't say ineptitude as this would be completely unfair, especially compared to my degree of ept, ... of lack of forethought, appealed to me, it was something I could identify with.
I made up the grout to some sort of consistency, and then began to apply it, on the video it goes on like whipped cream on a sponge cake, mine went on like damp sand onto a small child, in fact the splashback looked exactly like that, and a child who had been digging the beach at Weston-Super-Mare no less. We used to holiday at Weston, at the Mead's farm, I can remember, gagging at the fact the milk was warm in the morning, it would be, it had just come out of a cow, the conveyor lift that was used to stack the bales in the barn, and the fact that the tide used to retreat for miles leaving a beach that after you'd dug in about a foot (30cm) used to weep black, sulphide-stinking mud (probably the raw sewage outfall from Bristol), still, there were donkeys.
My grouting continued, I used my grout float, a scraper, and then my fingers to push the sand into the cracks, then I did sponging, Herculean sponging, repeat sponging, I assiduously sponged that wall until my sand-besplattered baby was discovered to be an artful selection of pied tiles. The grout provided the relief necessary to point out the tiles that weren't flat, or the odd bit where they weren't quite the same distance apart. I hate grout.
I'm now involved with removing grout dust, from everywhere.
I made up the grout to some sort of consistency, and then began to apply it, on the video it goes on like whipped cream on a sponge cake, mine went on like damp sand onto a small child, in fact the splashback looked exactly like that, and a child who had been digging the beach at Weston-Super-Mare no less. We used to holiday at Weston, at the Mead's farm, I can remember, gagging at the fact the milk was warm in the morning, it would be, it had just come out of a cow, the conveyor lift that was used to stack the bales in the barn, and the fact that the tide used to retreat for miles leaving a beach that after you'd dug in about a foot (30cm) used to weep black, sulphide-stinking mud (probably the raw sewage outfall from Bristol), still, there were donkeys.
My grouting continued, I used my grout float, a scraper, and then my fingers to push the sand into the cracks, then I did sponging, Herculean sponging, repeat sponging, I assiduously sponged that wall until my sand-besplattered baby was discovered to be an artful selection of pied tiles. The grout provided the relief necessary to point out the tiles that weren't flat, or the odd bit where they weren't quite the same distance apart. I hate grout.
I'm now involved with removing grout dust, from everywhere.
Monday, February 18, 2013
.... but not as we know it.
For my birthday, my girlfriend (yes I have one), brought me a helium balloon emblazoned with "Birthday Boy". I've always been a fan of helium balloons, firstly for their otherworldliness i.e. the way they keep trying to quit this one by going up, away from it, and secondly for the way, when captured, they make your voice go funny.
These days, of course, balloons are made of foil, so keep their buoyancy for much longer than they used to, mine had spent the week sinking lower and lower on his tether and was now settled on the table. I decided to release him from his string to see if I could achieve what is for me - balloon nirvana, that is that he would stay where I put him, not ascending rapidly to the ceiling, nor descend sullenly to the floor like his air-filled cousins, but rather have neutral buoyancy. After a bit of excess foil-paring, I got him to float, though he still had a slight tendency ceilingwards.
This weekend my girlfriend came to visit, at three in the morning nature came calling and forced her out of bed, as she opened the bedroom door a shape loomed out of the darkness, it was Birthday Boy or BB as he came to be known, he had left the living room and had circulated through the kitchen and then up the stairs. I have to say that this is what we assumed, but his uncanny ability to appear in the least expected places did lend him a degree of the occultish self-determination, you'll have of course noticed that he is "he" not "it". During the day he thoroughly explored the house, turning up in different rooms, occasionally leaving rooms surreptitiously so that one minute he was there, and the next - gone. At one point he came up behind me in the bathroom and gently rested against my leg as I cleaned my teeth. For this gift of company I gave him a boost by placing him in the hot air of the radiator.
Last night though, he was getting tired, no longer able to get upstairs, he sat on a step halfway down - moribund, I fear his time has come, he will, like us, be subject to the indignity of gravity, I find it quite sad, pathos abounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQhvgo62l74
These days, of course, balloons are made of foil, so keep their buoyancy for much longer than they used to, mine had spent the week sinking lower and lower on his tether and was now settled on the table. I decided to release him from his string to see if I could achieve what is for me - balloon nirvana, that is that he would stay where I put him, not ascending rapidly to the ceiling, nor descend sullenly to the floor like his air-filled cousins, but rather have neutral buoyancy. After a bit of excess foil-paring, I got him to float, though he still had a slight tendency ceilingwards.
This weekend my girlfriend came to visit, at three in the morning nature came calling and forced her out of bed, as she opened the bedroom door a shape loomed out of the darkness, it was Birthday Boy or BB as he came to be known, he had left the living room and had circulated through the kitchen and then up the stairs. I have to say that this is what we assumed, but his uncanny ability to appear in the least expected places did lend him a degree of the occultish self-determination, you'll have of course noticed that he is "he" not "it". During the day he thoroughly explored the house, turning up in different rooms, occasionally leaving rooms surreptitiously so that one minute he was there, and the next - gone. At one point he came up behind me in the bathroom and gently rested against my leg as I cleaned my teeth. For this gift of company I gave him a boost by placing him in the hot air of the radiator.
Last night though, he was getting tired, no longer able to get upstairs, he sat on a step halfway down - moribund, I fear his time has come, he will, like us, be subject to the indignity of gravity, I find it quite sad, pathos abounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQhvgo62l74
Thursday, December 13, 2012
ROUND ROBIN
HELLO FRIENDS AND FAMILY, WASSAIL!
Well! What a year it’s been for the Virtue Family!
Firstly Poppy.
Poppy and the Twins are thriving, it was a bit cramped at first, but then we moved my father and mother out of the Granny flat, and they all fitted in just beautifully! For those of you that want to know, Phil and Doris seemed to have eventually settled right in at the Home, they always seemed pleased to see us when we can get there, and there are often tears when we leave! Of course we don’t get to see them as often as we would like, but as Margaret says they’re probably not in any condition to notice. Thank God she got them to sign the trust forms all those years ago!
Poppy had a wonderful time cheerleading at the Olympics, she was very popular, especially with the East European teams, and indeed she must have been, because she sometimes didn’t get back until three or four in the morning. What a dedicated little Games Maker she was! Of course while she was away this meant that Granny and Grandpa had lots of time to bond with their Grandchildren. Believe me it came as quite a wrench to hand them back to Poppy, but then term started, and back they were!
GCSE’s this summer, what a lot she’s already crammed in to her life, sometimes I’m quite envious!
Jeremy.
As most of you know, Jeremy was a little troubled last year, and had to drop out of the University of Buckingham, but he has bounced back and is expected to be out of the Priory by Christmas, Marvellous News! Bye-the-bye, if any of you want to write or send a card to Jeremy, please remember he’s now calling himself Gemmy. This may seem strange to some of you, but it’s the compromise recommended by the counsellor after Margaret felt that she couldn’t cope with Gemma, as she said, “It’s all very well to have to cope with one diva in the house [Poppy], but two is one too many!” We laughed quite a bit at that one! Ha ha! Ah well, boys will be b……….
Now, sad news. Pluto had to be put to sleep. Margaret said that with her back she couldn’t re-plant all the bulbs he would keep digging up. What an enthusiastic digger he was, dig, dig, dig like there was no tomorrow, and after last Friday, there wasn’t! Still, I’m sure the display of early spring flowers will easily dispel the guilt!
Close friends will have sensed a bit of tension in the air over that last few months, but I’m happy to report that whatever “Marital Difficulties” Margaret and I were having are now firmly behind us, who would have thought that all that tension could be eased by us taking up ……..HOBBIES! Yes, I now spend the weekend painting in my studio (AKA the shed!) and Margaret spends her time entertaining a veritable cornucopia of potential clients for her lingerie franchise, in fact, quite shockingly I sometimes find her swanning about the house in a state of , dare I say it, deshabille , but then I realise that she’s just modelling some of her frillies for a franchisee.
Well, I think that’s our news, so:
Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year
Alan Virtue and Family
Well! What a year it’s been for the Virtue Family!
Firstly Poppy.
Poppy and the Twins are thriving, it was a bit cramped at first, but then we moved my father and mother out of the Granny flat, and they all fitted in just beautifully! For those of you that want to know, Phil and Doris seemed to have eventually settled right in at the Home, they always seemed pleased to see us when we can get there, and there are often tears when we leave! Of course we don’t get to see them as often as we would like, but as Margaret says they’re probably not in any condition to notice. Thank God she got them to sign the trust forms all those years ago!
Poppy had a wonderful time cheerleading at the Olympics, she was very popular, especially with the East European teams, and indeed she must have been, because she sometimes didn’t get back until three or four in the morning. What a dedicated little Games Maker she was! Of course while she was away this meant that Granny and Grandpa had lots of time to bond with their Grandchildren. Believe me it came as quite a wrench to hand them back to Poppy, but then term started, and back they were!
GCSE’s this summer, what a lot she’s already crammed in to her life, sometimes I’m quite envious!
Jeremy.
As most of you know, Jeremy was a little troubled last year, and had to drop out of the University of Buckingham, but he has bounced back and is expected to be out of the Priory by Christmas, Marvellous News! Bye-the-bye, if any of you want to write or send a card to Jeremy, please remember he’s now calling himself Gemmy. This may seem strange to some of you, but it’s the compromise recommended by the counsellor after Margaret felt that she couldn’t cope with Gemma, as she said, “It’s all very well to have to cope with one diva in the house [Poppy], but two is one too many!” We laughed quite a bit at that one! Ha ha! Ah well, boys will be b……….
Now, sad news. Pluto had to be put to sleep. Margaret said that with her back she couldn’t re-plant all the bulbs he would keep digging up. What an enthusiastic digger he was, dig, dig, dig like there was no tomorrow, and after last Friday, there wasn’t! Still, I’m sure the display of early spring flowers will easily dispel the guilt!
Close friends will have sensed a bit of tension in the air over that last few months, but I’m happy to report that whatever “Marital Difficulties” Margaret and I were having are now firmly behind us, who would have thought that all that tension could be eased by us taking up ……..HOBBIES! Yes, I now spend the weekend painting in my studio (AKA the shed!) and Margaret spends her time entertaining a veritable cornucopia of potential clients for her lingerie franchise, in fact, quite shockingly I sometimes find her swanning about the house in a state of , dare I say it, deshabille , but then I realise that she’s just modelling some of her frillies for a franchisee.
Well, I think that’s our news, so:
Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year
Alan Virtue and Family
Thursday, August 23, 2012
I believe I can fly - just.
It had been a bit of a weekend, what with a drive-in on Saturday night, and a mystery tour of Bucks on the Sunday thanks to TomTom and Billy Conolly (at one point Billy exhorted us to turn down a bridleway). Monday was work, and on Tuesday I went flying, not the "I tripped over the cat" sort of flying, and not in an aeroplane. For Christmas my brother had bought me four minutes of pain and terror in a vertical wind-tunnel AKA Indoor Skydiving.
OK so "pain and terror" is a bit over the mark, I arrived the designated hour before my flight and then sat for the designated fifteen minutes before anyone else showed up. We then trooped in for the training video where we had 3 minutes of instruction including the panoply of hand signals the instructor (Tim) would thrust in our faces (legs bent, legs straight, chin up [physically not emotionally] and relax), and our only hand signal; get me out of here. Then we had twelve minutes of unashamed advertising. Tim came back in flashed a few hand-signals at us for practice, got a pretty girl to demonstrate the position on a table, and then took us out to put on an oversuit, helmet and goggles.
We all trooped to the wind tunnel to view the group in front of us being manhandled into position and caroming off the side walls. All too soon it was our go:
I stepped through the door and then fell face-forward onto.....nothing! Well I say nothing, what I mean is a column of air whizzing past me at over a hundred miles per hour. Tim, pushed and pulled me until I was in nothing like the position demonstrated by the pretty girl, my back felt like it was about to pop but I was airborne. As we were a small group it was suggested we did tricks, so I decided to do a sedate spin, well I span, hardly sedate, the side wall and I became firm friends, several times. Tim grabbed me and shoved me out of the door, I had two goes (lucky me), so sat and waited for my heart rate to drop before I put it up again. This time I did a stately tour of the upper regions of the windows before (for an extra fiver) Tim took me on a visit to the upper stratosphere to check out the baffle pattern on the ceiling. We had been told to smile, not smiling we were told was a bad thing as your cheeks got pushed into a sort of balcony around your nose which wasn't too attractive ("But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Nick's nose is the sun"). My pictures reveal that I wasn't smiling (when I can pull a still off the dvd, I'll post it), sadly the amount of, shall we say, spare tissue I have on my face didn't just give me a balcony, more of a sort of loggia I'd have said. I did smile on occasion, when I did, saliva was ripped out of my mouth, to ascend baffleward at 130MPH after a brief excursion round various bits of my face, I decided that hayfever season was probably not the time to do this sort of exercise.
OK so "pain and terror" is a bit over the mark, I arrived the designated hour before my flight and then sat for the designated fifteen minutes before anyone else showed up. We then trooped in for the training video where we had 3 minutes of instruction including the panoply of hand signals the instructor (Tim) would thrust in our faces (legs bent, legs straight, chin up [physically not emotionally] and relax), and our only hand signal; get me out of here. Then we had twelve minutes of unashamed advertising. Tim came back in flashed a few hand-signals at us for practice, got a pretty girl to demonstrate the position on a table, and then took us out to put on an oversuit, helmet and goggles.
We all trooped to the wind tunnel to view the group in front of us being manhandled into position and caroming off the side walls. All too soon it was our go:
I stepped through the door and then fell face-forward onto.....nothing! Well I say nothing, what I mean is a column of air whizzing past me at over a hundred miles per hour. Tim, pushed and pulled me until I was in nothing like the position demonstrated by the pretty girl, my back felt like it was about to pop but I was airborne. As we were a small group it was suggested we did tricks, so I decided to do a sedate spin, well I span, hardly sedate, the side wall and I became firm friends, several times. Tim grabbed me and shoved me out of the door, I had two goes (lucky me), so sat and waited for my heart rate to drop before I put it up again. This time I did a stately tour of the upper regions of the windows before (for an extra fiver) Tim took me on a visit to the upper stratosphere to check out the baffle pattern on the ceiling. We had been told to smile, not smiling we were told was a bad thing as your cheeks got pushed into a sort of balcony around your nose which wasn't too attractive ("But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Nick's nose is the sun"). My pictures reveal that I wasn't smiling (when I can pull a still off the dvd, I'll post it), sadly the amount of, shall we say, spare tissue I have on my face didn't just give me a balcony, more of a sort of loggia I'd have said. I did smile on occasion, when I did, saliva was ripped out of my mouth, to ascend baffleward at 130MPH after a brief excursion round various bits of my face, I decided that hayfever season was probably not the time to do this sort of exercise.
Afterwards I cycled home, mainly down the canal, now everything hurts!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
A Jolly Good Show
It has been the Olympics, in Hemel Hempstead we have had the heavyweight grape disposal event (won by the Mooshta) plus the 4.30 nightmare, clothes gathering event (won by Imo). On the Monday we all went to watch the athletics, it all went swimmingly (if that's not an oxymoron): the taxi arrived, the train arrived, the route to the next train was well-signed, Stan's Cafe had sponsored sets of footprints depicting Olympic golds, that got even the snail Mooshta moving (BTW Tessa, you know that mystery one with the target, paralympic wheelchair stuff, and, Steve I suspect the high jump was paralympic too, hence the one foot), the next train was nearly empty and getting to it made even more entertaining by the man with the megaphone (see my essay on Empowerment by Amplification. J. Pop. Psychol. Tod. V435, NoII, pp1079-1097. May 2015) "Ark,ark,fark,ark,fark fark fark, arkavelin ark fark. Thank You!", entry to the park seamless, entry to the venue seamless, the one way system seamless due to the man with the megaphone (see above), "Madam, am I invisible? Pass the post on the left please!", the performance of Team GB sadly not seamless.
I had Steve to my distant left employing some sort of Preparatory School exhortation, "Come on, chop chop!" and "Put your back into it!" and a gentleman to my right who seemed to have gone to the same school, "Nearly there!" and "Good effort!", halfway through Mooshta fell asleep (probably something to do with the Women's (?) Shot Putt).
Our session finished so we queued for a pasty, which they ran out of when we got to the till, so then we queued for fish and chips. Then we strolled through the wildflower meadows, watched a bit of stuff on the big screen, and called it a day when it went black to the north.
The return journey, was slightly less seamless, the one-way system being twice the distance back as in, in fact at St Pancras we were dispatched all the way to the front of the station before being invited to return to the point where we got off the train via the shops (we were Tessa, I checked it out when I bought the badges). This, combined with the heat, the early start, the poor showing of Team GB's 800m men caused me to fail the Uncle test when the Mooshta came to a grinding halt.
Back at Euston Station, my brother obviously under the delusion that he was talking to (A) Lord Coe (B) someone who cared started to belabour the 20 year old greeters team about the St Pancras route, they nodded sagely, and started looking for a security man to protect them. Tessa intervened by inserting an Indian Restaurant between them and him. When we came out, they'd gone, or maybe they were hiding. Home. Bed/settee. Sleep.
On another note, I see that Tolworth Roundabout is maintained by the "Kingston Youth Offenders Team", what a Council, I'd vote for them, in fact I'd want to be on the team, as I'm sure that everyone my age would. What? Oh apparently it doesn't mean that. Darn!
I had Steve to my distant left employing some sort of Preparatory School exhortation, "Come on, chop chop!" and "Put your back into it!" and a gentleman to my right who seemed to have gone to the same school, "Nearly there!" and "Good effort!", halfway through Mooshta fell asleep (probably something to do with the Women's (?) Shot Putt).
Our session finished so we queued for a pasty, which they ran out of when we got to the till, so then we queued for fish and chips. Then we strolled through the wildflower meadows, watched a bit of stuff on the big screen, and called it a day when it went black to the north.
The return journey, was slightly less seamless, the one-way system being twice the distance back as in, in fact at St Pancras we were dispatched all the way to the front of the station before being invited to return to the point where we got off the train via the shops (we were Tessa, I checked it out when I bought the badges). This, combined with the heat, the early start, the poor showing of Team GB's 800m men caused me to fail the Uncle test when the Mooshta came to a grinding halt.
Back at Euston Station, my brother obviously under the delusion that he was talking to (A) Lord Coe (B) someone who cared started to belabour the 20 year old greeters team about the St Pancras route, they nodded sagely, and started looking for a security man to protect them. Tessa intervened by inserting an Indian Restaurant between them and him. When we came out, they'd gone, or maybe they were hiding. Home. Bed/settee. Sleep.
On another note, I see that Tolworth Roundabout is maintained by the "Kingston Youth Offenders Team", what a Council, I'd vote for them, in fact I'd want to be on the team, as I'm sure that everyone my age would. What? Oh apparently it doesn't mean that. Darn!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Even more bloody skiing!
I hate skiing! I hate it and haven't even been yet.
Last year it was Teddy hiding my passport, this year it's everything else.
I had re-ordered my pre-loaded-with-Euros debit card, found my European Health Insurance Card, sorted out how to pay for my skis and lift pass while avoiding punitive bank charges; by using the pre-loaded debit card, made a start on my packing.
Yesterday after three weeks the debit card hadn't arrived, I phoned, it was lost in the post, they're sending me a new one, perhaps it will arrive before I leave.
"Oh well, I can always use my credit card as I get a better rate than with the bank." I pull my credit card from the wallet and watch it blink and gasp as it encounters fresh air and sunlight for the first time in ages, then it points to its expiry date - last August.
"Did they send me a new one, in fact have I received any information from them at all..... Oh shit! Did I tell them I moved!"
I phoned, I hadn't. Caroline was very understanding, she promised to send me a new one, it takes up to seven business days, perhaps it will arrive before I leave.
The EHIC card; I study the EHIC card; it waves something at me; it waves an expiry date....."An expiry date! Why the fu%$ do you have an expiry date? Surely your expiry date should be the same as mine?"
I order an online renewal, perhaps it will arrive before I leave?
I wonder if the new coat and helmet I ordered yesterday will arrive before I leave too?
I went into the garden and savaged some geraniums.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Inexactitude
I was just off to a student practical when the phone rang, it was the Boss;
"I've got a problem...."
He hadn't, he wasn't in.
"... there's a minus eighty freezer being delivered to Ca**u, in the Rockefeller, and the service lift is out, can you check with maintenance that they know, and can you go and reassure him."
"Where is he?"
"On the ground floor."
"OK"
I checked with maintenance - they knew.
I went over, the ground floor was devoid of freezers, delivery men and fractious Italians.
I wandered over the ground floor looking for any sort of laboratory, finally scaring the secretaries in Women's Health, who, when recovered from my presence in the hallowed halls - myself being the equivalent of a bubo in the armpit of the average mediaeval peasant, directed me back to where I'd just come from.
I consulted the front desk,
"Do you know the whereabouts of Dr Ca**u?"
A reflex reply:
"I'm just on break cover...... "
A furtle with the building list'
".....no."
"He's new."
"He's not in here."
"Can I borrow the phone?" I already knew this was hopeless, but, you know, sometimes pigs fly..... What? Oh apparently they don't!
They didn't, not only was the person I was phoning not in, but the line to the exchange didn't work.
As I was on the phone I had noticed two men with a stair-walker, the sort of men who looked like they might have recently been in charge of a minus 80. Failing to connect (women of my acquaintance, please discuss), I attempted to find the men. I followed them past the supposed defunct service lift, and emerged in the yard, I went to the gate... padlocked shut! I looked through the gate, there they were getting into the lorry, I didn't feel able to shout through the three inch slot in the gate, even I have some dignity, an eight inch gap (that's this big) maybe. I returned and reconnoitered, eventually walking round the building to approach the lorry from the public side, it would have gone - I know when I'm doomed to failure (women of my acquaintance, please discuss). Bugger me! It was still there - feckless oafs! -
Small scratch at door of lorry,
"Hello lads, umm have you just delivered a minus eighty?"
"Yeah."
"Oh! Umm, where?"
"Third floor, took it up in the lift, for this bloke Ghul summat."
"Julio" ( I of course report in the frenetic, fournetic, whatever.... phonetic).
"Read that - him."
"Oh brilliant, where is he?"
"Third floor, on the left out of the lift."
"The service lift?"
"Nah, that's knackered, we took it up in the passenger lift."
"!" - several decakilopounds Sterling of baroque refurbishment at risk.
"533 I think."
"Ta!" You see how my chameleon personality slips easily into the vernacular?
I arrive on the 5th floor and turn left, missing 533, I open the door that says "Freezer Room", in front of me there are a bank of minus 80's, to my left are two young women fishing in a liquid nitrogen freezer. I back out and return, suddenly, there is 533! I open the door, now, in front of me, there are two young women fishing in a liquid nitrogen freezer! I look to the right, the freezers wave back.
"Hi! Do you know Dr Ca**u?" The last mumbled, as I have no idea if he is Ca**oo, Ca**o, or Ca**u.
"Sure, come with me" all with the Italian rising inflection, at this point I realise that they are Italian, stylish, girls, and that my shoes could do with a polish, and an upgrade from functional to senseless.
"Gulio!" I'm not phonetic anymore.
"Oh Hi Doctor Ca**mumble, I'm Nick Hayes, just checking up that everything was ok?"
He is sympatico (it's catching), we chat about the building, how it's not fit for purpose, how it could be better, how he's happy to be here though, how it's very small, how old it is (me), how none of the floors are level, how it might be falling into the Cancer Institute foundations next door (me), how lovely the Cancer Institute is, as a purpose built laboratory building as opposed to this (by extension) festering pile of cheap refurbishment, we had to bring stuff in through the Cancer Institute it's lovely, this used to be the Medical School (me), you should have a look at the Cruciform next door, it's quite interesting (me), Yes, I intend to explore when I have all my equipment horizontal... in four months time.
"What is your name and phone number so I know how to reach you?"
"Oh shi.....!"
"I've got a problem...."
He hadn't, he wasn't in.
"... there's a minus eighty freezer being delivered to Ca**u, in the Rockefeller, and the service lift is out, can you check with maintenance that they know, and can you go and reassure him."
"Where is he?"
"On the ground floor."
"OK"
I checked with maintenance - they knew.
I went over, the ground floor was devoid of freezers, delivery men and fractious Italians.
I wandered over the ground floor looking for any sort of laboratory, finally scaring the secretaries in Women's Health, who, when recovered from my presence in the hallowed halls - myself being the equivalent of a bubo in the armpit of the average mediaeval peasant, directed me back to where I'd just come from.
I consulted the front desk,
"Do you know the whereabouts of Dr Ca**u?"
A reflex reply:
"I'm just on break cover...... "
A furtle with the building list'
".....no."
"He's new."
"He's not in here."
"Can I borrow the phone?" I already knew this was hopeless, but, you know, sometimes pigs fly..... What? Oh apparently they don't!
They didn't, not only was the person I was phoning not in, but the line to the exchange didn't work.
As I was on the phone I had noticed two men with a stair-walker, the sort of men who looked like they might have recently been in charge of a minus 80. Failing to connect (women of my acquaintance, please discuss), I attempted to find the men. I followed them past the supposed defunct service lift, and emerged in the yard, I went to the gate... padlocked shut! I looked through the gate, there they were getting into the lorry, I didn't feel able to shout through the three inch slot in the gate, even I have some dignity, an eight inch gap (that's this big) maybe. I returned and reconnoitered, eventually walking round the building to approach the lorry from the public side, it would have gone - I know when I'm doomed to failure (women of my acquaintance, please discuss). Bugger me! It was still there - feckless oafs! -
Small scratch at door of lorry,
"Hello lads, umm have you just delivered a minus eighty?"
"Yeah."
"Oh! Umm, where?"
"Third floor, took it up in the lift, for this bloke Ghul summat."
"Julio" ( I of course report in the frenetic, fournetic, whatever.... phonetic).
"Read that - him."
"Oh brilliant, where is he?"
"Third floor, on the left out of the lift."
"The service lift?"
"Nah, that's knackered, we took it up in the passenger lift."
"!" - several decakilopounds Sterling of baroque refurbishment at risk.
"533 I think."
"Ta!" You see how my chameleon personality slips easily into the vernacular?
I arrive on the 5th floor and turn left, missing 533, I open the door that says "Freezer Room", in front of me there are a bank of minus 80's, to my left are two young women fishing in a liquid nitrogen freezer. I back out and return, suddenly, there is 533! I open the door, now, in front of me, there are two young women fishing in a liquid nitrogen freezer! I look to the right, the freezers wave back.
"Hi! Do you know Dr Ca**u?" The last mumbled, as I have no idea if he is Ca**oo, Ca**o, or Ca**u.
"Sure, come with me" all with the Italian rising inflection, at this point I realise that they are Italian, stylish, girls, and that my shoes could do with a polish, and an upgrade from functional to senseless.
"Gulio!" I'm not phonetic anymore.
"Oh Hi Doctor Ca**mumble, I'm Nick Hayes, just checking up that everything was ok?"
He is sympatico (it's catching), we chat about the building, how it's not fit for purpose, how it could be better, how he's happy to be here though, how it's very small, how old it is (me), how none of the floors are level, how it might be falling into the Cancer Institute foundations next door (me), how lovely the Cancer Institute is, as a purpose built laboratory building as opposed to this (by extension) festering pile of cheap refurbishment, we had to bring stuff in through the Cancer Institute it's lovely, this used to be the Medical School (me), you should have a look at the Cruciform next door, it's quite interesting (me), Yes, I intend to explore when I have all my equipment horizontal... in four months time.
"What is your name and phone number so I know how to reach you?"
"Oh shi.....!"
Friday, December 23, 2011
Do you know who I am?
I'm in France, amazingly I got to France without a collapse in the weather systems of Europe, without a collapse in the social fabric of the French Air Traffic Control system and without a collapse of the undercarriage of my plane (despite the best efforts of the pilot). In fact my only cardio-perilous moments came on the journey from the airport, where we were attacked by Peugot 207's hell-bent on pushing the boundaries of the French right-of-way system, and later, when my youngest niece (Mooshi) would run towards me with hands raised, a sure sign of impending genital impact, thwarted by a timely mince.
Today however, was different. After lunch we headed to the Promenade for a stroll, bike and in-line skate, some more successful than others. On the way back, we turn where the prom narrows, and Mooshi's somewhat erratic style of cycling actively threatens the well-being of the over sixties, and meander through the fitness zones. Some of you may remember how my psychological manhood was threatened by an inflatable dolphin - and Tessa. Consequently, certain aspects of the fitness zone, chiefly those aspects that you could hang from, presented a significant challenge as to who could show off the most in front of the children. At one point I managed a somersault around the bar, finishing off with the magnificent trick of producing my phone from my sleeve, where it had ended up from my shirt pocket. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind as I failed to consider what else was in that pocket. Later, my coat came off and on with regular frequency as the fitness park expanded. As we approached the car, a thought, a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's hand, crawled dully into my brain, "Had I taken my passport out of my shirt pocket, or had I, in fact lost it."
I mentioned this to Steve, plumping for, "I had taken it out of my shirt pocket."
We returned to the house, "No, I had, in fact, lost it."
Conscious of two small children, I attempted to keep my swearing sotto voce,or, at least to put my head in the wardrobe, ostensibly searching for my errant document, while actually running roughshod through my Tourettian dictionary.
Steve, switched to Action Mode,
"Have you got a photocopy?"
"No %I^$ (*&%%$ )*&^& I don't."
"Well have you got a scan you can pull out from somewhere?"
"No %I^$ (*&%%$ )*&^& I don't."
"Well let this be a lesson to you, I always have at least three photocopies, one of which I keep in a safe-deposit box in Zurich, so that if I ever hang from a pull-up bar and lose it, I can always give Gunther a buzz and he'll fax me a copy straightaway."
"Aha?"
Tessa dispatched herself on bicycle to retrace the route, there, right there, just under that tree, yes that tree, was a British Passport, fortunately it was mine. It has just occurred to me what happened; whilst upside-down my phone had decamped from my pocket, and taken the path of least resistance down my sleeve, my passport had attempted to do the same, but lacking the weight of a battery had only got so far. As the next round of "Who's more limber?" took place, and because it was becoming serious, I took off my jacket, freeing my errant proof-of-existence, so that it could tombe (as we say in France) to the ground.
The rest of the evening was spent eating, playing charades and being humbled by lithe and winsome Tessa, of whom I will hear (nor be allowed to voice) no criticism.
Today however, was different. After lunch we headed to the Promenade for a stroll, bike and in-line skate, some more successful than others. On the way back, we turn where the prom narrows, and Mooshi's somewhat erratic style of cycling actively threatens the well-being of the over sixties, and meander through the fitness zones. Some of you may remember how my psychological manhood was threatened by an inflatable dolphin - and Tessa. Consequently, certain aspects of the fitness zone, chiefly those aspects that you could hang from, presented a significant challenge as to who could show off the most in front of the children. At one point I managed a somersault around the bar, finishing off with the magnificent trick of producing my phone from my sleeve, where it had ended up from my shirt pocket. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind as I failed to consider what else was in that pocket. Later, my coat came off and on with regular frequency as the fitness park expanded. As we approached the car, a thought, a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's hand, crawled dully into my brain, "Had I taken my passport out of my shirt pocket, or had I, in fact lost it."
I mentioned this to Steve, plumping for, "I had taken it out of my shirt pocket."
We returned to the house, "No, I had, in fact, lost it."
Conscious of two small children, I attempted to keep my swearing sotto voce,or, at least to put my head in the wardrobe, ostensibly searching for my errant document, while actually running roughshod through my Tourettian dictionary.
Steve, switched to Action Mode,
"Have you got a photocopy?"
"No %I^$ (*&%%$ )*&^& I don't."
"Well have you got a scan you can pull out from somewhere?"
"No %I^$ (*&%%$ )*&^& I don't."
"Well let this be a lesson to you, I always have at least three photocopies, one of which I keep in a safe-deposit box in Zurich, so that if I ever hang from a pull-up bar and lose it, I can always give Gunther a buzz and he'll fax me a copy straightaway."
"Aha?"
Tessa dispatched herself on bicycle to retrace the route, there, right there, just under that tree, yes that tree, was a British Passport, fortunately it was mine. It has just occurred to me what happened; whilst upside-down my phone had decamped from my pocket, and taken the path of least resistance down my sleeve, my passport had attempted to do the same, but lacking the weight of a battery had only got so far. As the next round of "Who's more limber?" took place, and because it was becoming serious, I took off my jacket, freeing my errant proof-of-existence, so that it could tombe (as we say in France) to the ground.
The rest of the evening was spent eating, playing charades and being humbled by lithe and winsome Tessa, of whom I will hear (nor be allowed to voice) no criticism.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I have seen the light - one hundred and thirty one times.
Well it's been an interesting couple of weeks, I'm still coughing, consequently my morning musings sometimes drift to the more - esoteric, possibly due to the dextrometorphan burden that my body, and hence mind, is carrying. I walk past a Leylandii hedge that last year was full of starlings at the time I go past, and has become the Singing Ringing Tree. For those of you of a tender age, this was an East German fairy story, featuring a spoilt (naturally) Princess, her suitor (turned by an evil dwarf into a, albeit extremely unconvincing, bear) a dwarf (evil, this was in the days before political-correctness), and a singing, and ringing, tree. Sadly, this year there are no starlings, or it's not dark enough yet, so my thoughts turn to a discussion with my cousin Julian, about dating sites for specific groups, we've already got a name for one for the catering trade - "Hobnobs", and I decided that we should have one for the building trade -"Screwfix".
I also wonder whether it is acceptable, even given the one's spouse's approval, to say in the Groom's speech that, " As you all know I have long been interested in Green policy, and now I'm happy to report that I have a Bag for Life."
Anyway.
I had spent the weekend at Liz and Mike's, Liz and I had gone for a sub-zero stroll down the canal, so cold that at one point a pigeon dropped from a tree and curled up his toes as we walked past. We returned to the flat (more floor area than my house), and, as I sat with my cup of coffee I noticed a meteorite streak past when I turned my head to the right, I took off my glasses and tried again, another flash. "Hmmm", I thought, "Strange".
Others arrived, and after supper, we started to build gingerbread houses, using Mike's somewhat fraught ("This recipe, I've never worked with a dough so brittle") gingerbread slabs, three kilograms of icing, and the entire sweets counter of Tesco. I would have had photo's but I managed to delete the entire camera with a push of a misread button- darn!
The following morning, and my flashes had given way to strings floating about, I decided that one of my coughing spells may have broken a blood vessel, I would give it a couple of days to see if it dissipated and, if not, then go to A&E at Moorfields (the UK's premier eye hospital - still in debt).
I also wonder whether it is acceptable, even given the one's spouse's approval, to say in the Groom's speech that, " As you all know I have long been interested in Green policy, and now I'm happy to report that I have a Bag for Life."
Anyway.
I had spent the weekend at Liz and Mike's, Liz and I had gone for a sub-zero stroll down the canal, so cold that at one point a pigeon dropped from a tree and curled up his toes as we walked past. We returned to the flat (more floor area than my house), and, as I sat with my cup of coffee I noticed a meteorite streak past when I turned my head to the right, I took off my glasses and tried again, another flash. "Hmmm", I thought, "Strange".
Others arrived, and after supper, we started to build gingerbread houses, using Mike's somewhat fraught ("This recipe, I've never worked with a dough so brittle") gingerbread slabs, three kilograms of icing, and the entire sweets counter of Tesco. I would have had photo's but I managed to delete the entire camera with a push of a misread button- darn!
The following morning, and my flashes had given way to strings floating about, I decided that one of my coughing spells may have broken a blood vessel, I would give it a couple of days to see if it dissipated and, if not, then go to A&E at Moorfields (the UK's premier eye hospital - still in debt).
On Tuesday I went. What decided me? I'd like to say that staring into the clear sky of morning I had an epiphany, actually I saw several hundred semi-transparent flying saucers, which my keen scientific intellect told me were red corpuscles. My keen scientific intellect told me to make sure, I used my finger and closed my right eye (yes, I’m winkingly-challenged). Flying saucers – none, remove digit, flying-saucers and some bands of cobweb.
Moorfields’ triage is brilliant, you’re grabbed by a nurse within five minutes, she tests your eyesight, and takes you to another waiting room, ten minutes later another nurse preps you for examination with drops, has a quick squint in your eye, tests intra-ocular pressure (they use a force meter which is placed against the eyeball; a small hint of what is to come) then returns you to the pool. Up to two hours later you are seen by the ophthalmologist, in my case a ten year old Chinese boy. The prodigy shines a series of ever-brighter lights into my eye, then reaches for something below my eyeline,
“This may be a bit uncomfortable” He says. Five seconds later he says,
“Put your forehead back in the strap please, you’re doing very well!”
Some more gouging followed by,
“The good news is you don’t have a detachment......”
I blink through my tears, emotion or assault – I dunno.
“....the bad news is that you have a retinal tear.....”
“!?!!!” The last one is an exclamation mark – the others represent missing letters.
“We can do laser surgery today, without it you have a one in three chance of a detachment, with, a one in twenty.”
I acquiesce, and am given a pink folder and told to find the fourth floor, as I approach the third floor in the only lift I can find, I manage to read the notice that tells me that this is not the lift for the fourth floor, and that I need to go back to the ground floor and follow the blue line. The ground floor sports beige lino, I eventually find the blue line by both enquiry, and following the orange line. I am deposited on the fourth floor right in front of the reception for not-my-clinic, where the nice lady tells me to go round the corner and go to- Ummm, oh – the second or third door on the right. I surprise a nurse and hand over my folder.
Four hours later my book has been finished for two hours , this is an eye hospital, there is no reading matter apart from a discarded “City AM” – a compilation of the fiscally arcane – and a folder containing a large-print leaflet about why floaters are nothing to worry about, and please go home and stop bothering us – which seems a little out of place as you sent me here in the first place.
The waiting room thins, people emerge from rooms with arrows drawn on their foreheads pointing to one of their eyes, an aide-memoire to the surgeon, just in case he can’t spot the problem and decides to go for broke, presumably.
“Mr., Nicholas Hayes?”
Just as I am about to scream with boredom, along comes Dr Keene to fill me with terror instead.
The usual rigmarole with drops.
“I’m afraid this is going to be uncomfortable.”
“!?!!!, umm, as in Doctorspeak uncomfortable?”
“Yes, I shall have to use this”, a tiny pizza paddle, “to move your eye.”
“!?!!!, !?!!!, !?!!!”
“Well the local should be working now, so sign this consent and we’ll begin.”
I am tipped backwards, and Dr Keene straps what looks like some sort of night-vision device to his forehead, the lights are turned out.
“I’m going to laser you now.”
A small, bright green, atomic device goes off in my right eye, there is a transient warmth that drifts (like swimming through the same patch of sea that someone has recently emptied their bladder into), and then a gaping crater in my vision as all my photochemicals have been bleached.
“and another.”
A small, bright green atomic device goes off in my right eye, there is a transient warmth that drifts (like swimming through the same patch of sea that someone has recently emptied their bladder into), and then a gaping crater in my vision as all my photochemicals have been bleached. What light there is in the room is now crepuscular and purple.
A knock at the door.
“Oh excuse me, I’d better attend to that.”
“Ok I’ll just try and recover some visual purple.”
“I wish everyone had your attititude.”
He returns.
“Umm, how many lasers is this likely to be?”
“About one hundred and twenty, maybe more.”
“Oh” (dimuendo)
Being a scientist can be no fun, for example we begin:
Explosion – One, one hundred and nineteen (maybe more) to go. Explosion – two, one hundred and eighteen (maybe more) to go. Explosion – Three, one hundred and seventeen (maybe more) to go.
I get instruction, such as “Look up and left”, sadly I no longer know where up and left is. There are two moments of what I call “Running stitch” where the bombardment comes so fast I lose count, eventually armistice day comes around and I am, for want of a better word, discharged. As indeed is my adrenal gland. Outside the hospital I feel violated, and a little tearful, but this soon dissipates as I return to work and scare the students with my enormous pupil.
This, of course is also the day when Caroline comes over from Dublin to stay, even after being forced to window shop for the afternoon, she is suitably sympathetic and gives me a Christmas card, which I am able to read, and some truffles which I am able to eat.
I still have a few floaters, I also have windowsill herbs, windowsill herbs that generate a surprising amount of small black flies from their compost, thus my evenings are spent in mystery, wondering whether I should try and grab the small motes that drift tanatalisingly past, or ignore them.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
New Moans Here
I'd had my usual autumnal encounter with Death, this is the one where he pops into my life surrounded by his 18 - 21 year old acolytes brimming with whatever influenza they've encountered in pastures distant, and says, “ARE YOU READY YET?” When I answer in the negative, he merely pats me on the back and says, “Try these.” So it is the end of a week that has mainly consisted of sweat and exhaustion (the Gods of Alliteration are still there, going, “sleep”, “somnolence”, “soubriquets (?), well something that begins with ‘s’” but exhaustion is about right. I have spent three days i.e. seventy two hours having the same “edge of sleep” dream, whereby I had to do three things to stop me coughing, for seventy two hours I could only manage two, then I would have to breathe in, which would make me cough, so should I breathe in or not?
“ARE YOU READY NOW?”
Today I have moved out of the fever, and now am firmly in the zone of the hacking cough, hacking as in the axe that folds my trunk in two, the cough that leaves me surprised not to see my lungs decorating the floor in front of me, the cough that leaves me woozy after its onslaught (I haven’t worked this one out yet, I can’t decide if it’s a massive increase in blood pressure or a massive decrease, though I have decided it’s not a carotid aneurism, no – definitely not one of those).
Anyway, I came home and decided to do something positive, what could I do? I opened the ‘fridge, the cauliflower, the neglected cauliflower, spoke to me, it said, “You haven’t been eating much while you’ve been ill, have you? Me I’ve been ageing, I hope we can still get along?” The goat’s cheese just looked smug and self-centred, so he’s in the sauce, the smarmy git! I quickly closed the door, waiting for a time I could guarantee a rush of air through the house, and embarked on the sloe gin instead. I am now running a “with-“ and “without-” sugar experiment to see which matures faster.
I am, of course, on drugs, I favour cough remedies with dextrometorphan, a morphine analogue, that causes a decrease in the responsiveness of the airway, why? So that every time I take a breath, I’m not forced to cough, though one can argue about the wisdom of taking a respiratory depressant while suffering from a respiratory crisis, actually, you can argue, I like sleeping, especially after the first two days of not! When this moves depressingly on to lungs full of, hmm, stuff (as it invariably will in my experience*) then the regime changes, I produce large involuntary donations of sputum that I test a gamut of absorbent fibres with (not to mention detergent), and then, when it goes green, I have to try and persuade one of my GP’s that the current moratorium on antibiotics for colds, doesn’t apply, as I do not have a virus (any more). No, not even a green one!
In the meantime I’ll try to keep breathing, and swirl my sloes.
* Since I wrote this, it has, each breath sounds like an echo in a soup kitchen, I reckon my vital capacity is down to about fifty percent, which makes stairs quite exciting, and the prospect of attempting to attain the horizontal for sleep-purposes, a challenge. As I approach the preferred angle of somnolence, the mucosal tide comes in and washes the alveolar beach with raw crude, leaving my pulmonary pelicans in need of several volunteers with a bucket of soapy water and a consolatory herring. I hope to survive, watch this space
“I’M READY FOR YOU NOW SIR.”
“I’ll need a few minutes thanks.”
Monday, November 07, 2011
A damp squib
Well it was an interesting week, firstly I discovered that brushing the flour off the halogen hob isn't the best thing to do when it's on, secondly I discovered that the mains water in Hemel is, fortunately, very cold and, thirdly, that you can flatspot your fingerprints.
Saturday is market day in Hemel, consequently if anyone has an idea how to use 15 Limes - it was a bargain - I'll be pleased to receive them.
Saturday night was Bonfire Night ( a night to celebrate the non-assassination of James VI, when large quantities of heavy metals and sulphur are injected into the atmosphere), I had decided to watch the Rugby Club/Winkwell display from my bedroom window (no I haven't regressed back to childhood - well....umm..no) as that would give me the best view, yes I could have gone there but it was miz. As it was I got to see the middle third of the display - physically not temporally. The ground fireworks I could distinguish by what colour the smoke went, such as "Oooh red fountain. Aaah green fountain. Oooh silver fountain.". One third of the aerials I could see, the rest disappeared into low cloud so the display consisted of, "There it goes, oh." BOOM followed by the bottom half of a sphere of coloured sparks falling from the clouds. The finale was a set of mortar shells, as these finales go it was fairly standard, a series of shells fired to different heights all with the same fuse-timing to give one a stratified series of blooms, the higher the bigger. Well, we got the bottom half, the big shells disappeared into the cloud never to reappear, not even the flash from their explosion penetrating the murk. Later, in a masterpiece of the obvious, V for Vendetta was on the TV.
Saturday is market day in Hemel, consequently if anyone has an idea how to use 15 Limes - it was a bargain - I'll be pleased to receive them.
Saturday night was Bonfire Night ( a night to celebrate the non-assassination of James VI, when large quantities of heavy metals and sulphur are injected into the atmosphere), I had decided to watch the Rugby Club/Winkwell display from my bedroom window (no I haven't regressed back to childhood - well....umm..no) as that would give me the best view, yes I could have gone there but it was miz. As it was I got to see the middle third of the display - physically not temporally. The ground fireworks I could distinguish by what colour the smoke went, such as "Oooh red fountain. Aaah green fountain. Oooh silver fountain.". One third of the aerials I could see, the rest disappeared into low cloud so the display consisted of, "There it goes, oh." BOOM followed by the bottom half of a sphere of coloured sparks falling from the clouds. The finale was a set of mortar shells, as these finales go it was fairly standard, a series of shells fired to different heights all with the same fuse-timing to give one a stratified series of blooms, the higher the bigger. Well, we got the bottom half, the big shells disappeared into the cloud never to reappear, not even the flash from their explosion penetrating the murk. Later, in a masterpiece of the obvious, V for Vendetta was on the TV.
Friday, September 23, 2011
22.45 Friday. Stream of consciousness alert.
As a lot of you know I am signed up to a few dating sites, life being greener, better, whatever, with Another. A buzz word on dating sites is "tactile" though this is potentially a loaded term, it may mean, "Still interested in Shagging." (M) it may mean, "still capable of shagging." (M) deliberate lower case if anyone was going to complain) BUT it may mean "likes holding hands" (probably F). So with my testicles in mind (they tend to be - ask any man, no not about mine per se, just generally) how does one wittily address this part of a reply.
Initially I thought, "I'm the man who put the cti in tale" hoping for the recognition of a short, think pistol, round ricocheting of a solid surface. Then I thought, "Is this perhaps too male, too dark and violence/Asperger's loaded?", because a rifle or longer round would CKTIIiii, and would be more likely to tumble than splatter (depending on the angle of impact - naturally). So I decided to go for, "I'm the man who put the act in tile!". Now I'm at a loss how to proceed, women with an interest in "DIY" (no coding there) are flocking to my inbox, and I've never even spread a bit of grout.
Advice please
Initially I thought, "I'm the man who put the cti in tale" hoping for the recognition of a short, think pistol, round ricocheting of a solid surface. Then I thought, "Is this perhaps too male, too dark and violence/Asperger's loaded?", because a rifle or longer round would CKTIIiii, and would be more likely to tumble than splatter (depending on the angle of impact - naturally). So I decided to go for, "I'm the man who put the act in tile!". Now I'm at a loss how to proceed, women with an interest in "DIY" (no coding there) are flocking to my inbox, and I've never even spread a bit of grout.
Advice please
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Some mistakes
I had been attending the last meeting of the Writing and Learning course, part of a department that had been found an unnecessary expense, we can audialise the meeting:
"So all things considered we can see that this is surplus to requirements and an expensive and haemorrhaging drain on resources that we can usefully deploy elsewhere."
"Umm wasn't this one of your exemplars, Mxxxxxxx?"
"Moving on!"
So, all things considered I was at a wake, and, as with all good wakes there was booze. After "closure" some of us decamped to the bar.
"What do you want?"
"A white wine, please."
"A sparkling water, please."
"A coke, please."
"Do you want diet?"
The cap blew off the can of worms with a audible exhalation! I had committed a cardinal sin.
In my semi-befuddled state, later I retreated home and committed my thoughts to the ether, sadly the ether rejected them so that when I came today, to extend this draft, I found seven words, however, I can remember that I wondered if I should be thinking about my bestial self, whether I had made assumptions, whether my behaviour had been condescending, outre, chauvinist? I considered my excuses, whether I should have cited a previous anorectic girlfriend for whom non-diet coke did not exist.
Eventually, the next morning I realised what I should have said was, "Any particular sort?"
A couple of days later, my guilt having drifted into the past, I sat in the lounge/living room/front room/parlour, waiting for my dinner to cook, I was roasting a slice of belly pork, and, for carbs, had decided on an aubergine, which I bunged in the oven. There was something niggling, something that I knew but that was subjugated by the TV. A loud explosion from the kitchen pulled me from my semi-moribund state, propelling me to face - what? A raging inferno from a fractured gas pipe, blue acrid smoke and sparks from a melted thirty amp mains. As I got to the door a third scenario occurred - the aubergine. I opened the oven, it was indeed the aubergine, now reduced to a sorry and disparate state - very disparate, in fact dispersed over the entire interior of the recently-cleaned oven.
It would be interesting to know which of the two of us was more surprised by the explosion, me or the aubergine?
Me - "What's that?"
The aubergine - " Gosh! This suit's a bit tight. Blime...!"
"So all things considered we can see that this is surplus to requirements and an expensive and haemorrhaging drain on resources that we can usefully deploy elsewhere."
"Umm wasn't this one of your exemplars, Mxxxxxxx?"
"Moving on!"
So, all things considered I was at a wake, and, as with all good wakes there was booze. After "closure" some of us decamped to the bar.
"What do you want?"
"A white wine, please."
"A sparkling water, please."
"A coke, please."
"Do you want diet?"
The cap blew off the can of worms with a audible exhalation! I had committed a cardinal sin.
In my semi-befuddled state, later I retreated home and committed my thoughts to the ether, sadly the ether rejected them so that when I came today, to extend this draft, I found seven words, however, I can remember that I wondered if I should be thinking about my bestial self, whether I had made assumptions, whether my behaviour had been condescending, outre, chauvinist? I considered my excuses, whether I should have cited a previous anorectic girlfriend for whom non-diet coke did not exist.
Eventually, the next morning I realised what I should have said was, "Any particular sort?"
A couple of days later, my guilt having drifted into the past, I sat in the lounge/living room/front room/parlour, waiting for my dinner to cook, I was roasting a slice of belly pork, and, for carbs, had decided on an aubergine, which I bunged in the oven. There was something niggling, something that I knew but that was subjugated by the TV. A loud explosion from the kitchen pulled me from my semi-moribund state, propelling me to face - what? A raging inferno from a fractured gas pipe, blue acrid smoke and sparks from a melted thirty amp mains. As I got to the door a third scenario occurred - the aubergine. I opened the oven, it was indeed the aubergine, now reduced to a sorry and disparate state - very disparate, in fact dispersed over the entire interior of the recently-cleaned oven.
It would be interesting to know which of the two of us was more surprised by the explosion, me or the aubergine?
Me - "What's that?"
The aubergine - " Gosh! This suit's a bit tight. Blime...!"
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Ursa miner.
On Saturday I'm going skiing. People who know me well, may think that this is a bad idea, for Nick's weather lore suggests that I will be using my considerable-amount-per-day holiday to sit in bars, and watch lizards skip through the spring flowers (rather like my Winter mountaineering course several decades ago).
There was a potential glitch, I had to submit my passport details in order to become a bona-fide passenger, this turned out to be a most useful pre-departure exercise: vis - where was my passport? I'd used it for a pre-Christmas paramour (failed) jaunt to Belgium, and then had moved about three days later. Where the fu.... on Earth could it be now?
First check the files with fiscal and other important details, my late Mother's defunct building society books - yes, passport - no. Death certificates - various - yes, passport - no. Guide to Bryce Canyon and piste maps from Lake Tahoe, Keystone, Breckenridge and Vail -yes (I haven't been to Bryce Canyon or even Utah -though it is, of course, named after me Dad), passport - no!
A small panic, a tiny squirt from the beans above my kidneys. Pockets and bags from trip to Belgium, bottle opener - yes, map of Ghent (creased and marked by frost damage) - yes, unused contraceptives ( also frost-damaged, but only mentally) - yes, passport - no.
A bigger squirt, I was now moving to the arcane. I picked up the box-of-all-hope, the repository of treasured possessions complete with custodian, and opened the lid. Teddy looked back at me... passportless!
"For Gods' sake Teddy what do you think you're playing at! What on Earth have you done with my passport, why do you not have it, surely I'd have left it with you - Captain, my Captain?"
Blind panic set in, I searched below Teddy, in case I'd left it with one of the others, Dog, Lion, Rabbit, HyperGrouch, but no, the feckless bastards had abandoned me! Why, Oh, Why, had I not kept Panda, slow, reliable, trustworthy Panda, even the Trolls may have done a better job at a pinch?
Anguish now, "Teddy!"
He just looked, a non-committal, non-judgemental buttony stare, but I could see behind it, I could sense the recrimination, the "I'm not your keeper, just start looking after yourself, I won't be around to look after you forever, it's about time you took responsibility for your own actions", glazed gaze.
"Alright!" Chastened I turned to a box marked "Bric-a-brac" the contents of the top drawer of the small chest-of-drawers: old watches, old specs, cufflinks, badges declaring London a "nuclear-free zone", "rock against racism" and "I'm not a tourist, I live here" in Welsh (modesty forbids me mentioning the "I taught John Travolta to dance" badge), there under the bathing hat (for swimming in former Eastern Bloc countries - interesting; in France you are not allowed to wear shorts in a swimming pool, and in Hungary you have to wear a hat, there's a message there somewhere, but I fail to comprehend it), THERE under the bathing hat, was my beautiful passport.
As my heart rate dimmed I turned to Teddy and apologised, I thought he looked rather smug, so I left him in the box, I think he probably hid it to teach me a lesson, a lesson well-learned, put your passport somewhere obvious, like in the knife drawer.
There was a potential glitch, I had to submit my passport details in order to become a bona-fide passenger, this turned out to be a most useful pre-departure exercise: vis - where was my passport? I'd used it for a pre-Christmas paramour (failed) jaunt to Belgium, and then had moved about three days later. Where the fu.... on Earth could it be now?
First check the files with fiscal and other important details, my late Mother's defunct building society books - yes, passport - no. Death certificates - various - yes, passport - no. Guide to Bryce Canyon and piste maps from Lake Tahoe, Keystone, Breckenridge and Vail -yes (I haven't been to Bryce Canyon or even Utah -though it is, of course, named after me Dad), passport - no!
A small panic, a tiny squirt from the beans above my kidneys. Pockets and bags from trip to Belgium, bottle opener - yes, map of Ghent (creased and marked by frost damage) - yes, unused contraceptives ( also frost-damaged, but only mentally) - yes, passport - no.
A bigger squirt, I was now moving to the arcane. I picked up the box-of-all-hope, the repository of treasured possessions complete with custodian, and opened the lid. Teddy looked back at me... passportless!
"For Gods' sake Teddy what do you think you're playing at! What on Earth have you done with my passport, why do you not have it, surely I'd have left it with you - Captain, my Captain?"
Blind panic set in, I searched below Teddy, in case I'd left it with one of the others, Dog, Lion, Rabbit, HyperGrouch, but no, the feckless bastards had abandoned me! Why, Oh, Why, had I not kept Panda, slow, reliable, trustworthy Panda, even the Trolls may have done a better job at a pinch?
Anguish now, "Teddy!"
He just looked, a non-committal, non-judgemental buttony stare, but I could see behind it, I could sense the recrimination, the "I'm not your keeper, just start looking after yourself, I won't be around to look after you forever, it's about time you took responsibility for your own actions", glazed gaze.
"Alright!" Chastened I turned to a box marked "Bric-a-brac" the contents of the top drawer of the small chest-of-drawers: old watches, old specs, cufflinks, badges declaring London a "nuclear-free zone", "rock against racism" and "I'm not a tourist, I live here" in Welsh (modesty forbids me mentioning the "I taught John Travolta to dance" badge), there under the bathing hat (for swimming in former Eastern Bloc countries - interesting; in France you are not allowed to wear shorts in a swimming pool, and in Hungary you have to wear a hat, there's a message there somewhere, but I fail to comprehend it), THERE under the bathing hat, was my beautiful passport.
As my heart rate dimmed I turned to Teddy and apologised, I thought he looked rather smug, so I left him in the box, I think he probably hid it to teach me a lesson, a lesson well-learned, put your passport somewhere obvious, like in the knife drawer.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
SPRING - until it snows again.
Doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo, DOO DOOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO! The familiar strains of "Morning" from the Peer Gynt Suite (those old enough will remember that it used to advertise instant coffee) squoze their way out of my imagination and cranked open my eyelids. "Crikey! What was this?" it was sunshine, shouldering aside the cloud and waving, "Hello!". I decided not to be fooled, I got up, showered and poached some eggs. Nope it was definitely sunny, a weak and watery sunny, but a sunny nonetheless. I decided that after "Saturday Kitchen" I would replace my lost winter hat, stolen in Selfridges in December, I dropped it, and it was gone in two minutes, they didn't hand it in, probably coz it was about -5 (centigrade) outside (this was the only time I've ever wished for nits), buy some replacement trainers and that I would buy the wherewithal for making soda bread (I was inspired by a childrens' cookery programme on CBeebies). This is my equivalent of spring-cleaning, all those musty notes and lacklustre pieces of plastic in my wallet, what they need is a good air in balmy weather.
I donned my medium size pack, and headed for town, well, "headed" may not be quite the right term for: down the steep hill, up the steep hill, past the graveyard and down the other steep hill, "traipsed" may be better. One traipse later, and with the memory of the "weak and watery" shining through the crotch of my cords, I ended up in Marks and discovered a bargain in the replacement cords section (this will firmly remain a bargain, so long as I keep out of Primark). As I lovingly stuffed them in the medium pack I resolved not to cycle in them, cycling in corduroys produces a sort of reverse male pattern baldness (MPB), rather like old-fashioned teachers with pipe, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches - bilateral MPB. What were they for those patches? Did they really spend so much time with their head in their hands that they would wear out the elbows of their jackets? Let me think back over the eons to my days at school.... ok, if they were Latin or French masters then that may be true. But I digress.
Wilkinsons to buy a baking sheet... and a bird-feeder.. and two kilograms, TWO KILOGRAMS of bird feed. Even as I sit here tapping away, the bird feeder dangles temptingly from the washing line but so far, no takers. I'm also rather hoping that I have bought a bird-feeder rather than a cat-feeder, I'm quite looking forward to Summer and keeping feline marauders out of my greensward with a super-soaker.
TKMaxx for shoes, I am now the proud possessor of what appear to be a pair of Rohan clogs.
The market, spending in full swing now, but tempered with the knowledge of a decreasing amount of space in the medium pack, and a decreasing amount of muscle tone in my arms, legs and back. I buy lemons and lychees and look fondly at two large cauliflowers for £1.50 but what am I going to do with two large cauliflowers? A cauliflower goes a long way, had Jesus had a couple of cauliflowers on the mount I'm convinced he could have done double the feeding, though there might have been some grumbling from cauliflower despisers but then not everyone likes fish, look you didn't have to come here!
Actually seven lemons will go rather a long way too!
Asda, aka, Hell on Earth. The bad news - this is where I will buy my soda bread wherewithal, like flour, dense, heavy wholemeal flour, buttermilk - fat chance, ok soured cream, heavy soured cream, bicarbonate of soda (molecular weight 84.1, to put that in context water is only 18 and look how much that weighs!), and other foodstuffs notable for their density.
I traipse home, slower, with longer arms, and shoulders rounded by gravity, it's a well-known fact that gravity acts more on plastic bags than any other material (apart from the soul, where it's as heavy as sodium bicarb). But spring is here, it's here in the hazel catkins that have expanded to release their pollen (the botanical equivalent of descending testicles), it's here in the thrusting shoots of bulbs, it's here in male pigeons getting all ruffy and strutty, and most of all, it's here in the warbling tones of the ice-cream van touring the estates.
I donned my medium size pack, and headed for town, well, "headed" may not be quite the right term for: down the steep hill, up the steep hill, past the graveyard and down the other steep hill, "traipsed" may be better. One traipse later, and with the memory of the "weak and watery" shining through the crotch of my cords, I ended up in Marks and discovered a bargain in the replacement cords section (this will firmly remain a bargain, so long as I keep out of Primark). As I lovingly stuffed them in the medium pack I resolved not to cycle in them, cycling in corduroys produces a sort of reverse male pattern baldness (MPB), rather like old-fashioned teachers with pipe, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches - bilateral MPB. What were they for those patches? Did they really spend so much time with their head in their hands that they would wear out the elbows of their jackets? Let me think back over the eons to my days at school.... ok, if they were Latin or French masters then that may be true. But I digress.
Wilkinsons to buy a baking sheet... and a bird-feeder.. and two kilograms, TWO KILOGRAMS of bird feed. Even as I sit here tapping away, the bird feeder dangles temptingly from the washing line but so far, no takers. I'm also rather hoping that I have bought a bird-feeder rather than a cat-feeder, I'm quite looking forward to Summer and keeping feline marauders out of my greensward with a super-soaker.
TKMaxx for shoes, I am now the proud possessor of what appear to be a pair of Rohan clogs.
The market, spending in full swing now, but tempered with the knowledge of a decreasing amount of space in the medium pack, and a decreasing amount of muscle tone in my arms, legs and back. I buy lemons and lychees and look fondly at two large cauliflowers for £1.50 but what am I going to do with two large cauliflowers? A cauliflower goes a long way, had Jesus had a couple of cauliflowers on the mount I'm convinced he could have done double the feeding, though there might have been some grumbling from cauliflower despisers but then not everyone likes fish, look you didn't have to come here!
Actually seven lemons will go rather a long way too!
Asda, aka, Hell on Earth. The bad news - this is where I will buy my soda bread wherewithal, like flour, dense, heavy wholemeal flour, buttermilk - fat chance, ok soured cream, heavy soured cream, bicarbonate of soda (molecular weight 84.1, to put that in context water is only 18 and look how much that weighs!), and other foodstuffs notable for their density.
I traipse home, slower, with longer arms, and shoulders rounded by gravity, it's a well-known fact that gravity acts more on plastic bags than any other material (apart from the soul, where it's as heavy as sodium bicarb). But spring is here, it's here in the hazel catkins that have expanded to release their pollen (the botanical equivalent of descending testicles), it's here in the thrusting shoots of bulbs, it's here in male pigeons getting all ruffy and strutty, and most of all, it's here in the warbling tones of the ice-cream van touring the estates.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Under Pressure
I had been to the Battersea Beer Festival with pal Liz, and, after exercising a modicum of decorum and respectability, had arrived back at Hemel Hempstead station after a lengthy journey.
I left the station and began the walk up the hill to home. The walk - a series of four, five minute vignettes: station to first roundabout past the Fisheries Inn, roundabout to the Grapes pub, Grapes pub to crossing of main road, Northridge Way, Northridge Way to front door.
This night: station to first roundabout past Fisheries Inn: slight pressure in bladder due to lengthy train journey and previous visit to beer festival, should I use the Portaloo at the station (toilets being refurbed)? No, no lights and it's only a short walk. Fisheries Inn in sight, wistful stare in direction of Gents, is it worth having a pint to use the facilities, probably wouldn't make any odds (you only get out what you put in - First Law of Thermodynamics and Drinking, N.Hayes 2011), continue to roundabout.
Roundabout to the Grapes: increasing pressure in bladder caused contraction of urinary sphincter and other sphincters that don't exist, ponder the existence of non-existent sphincters, decide I will write a treatise on "The Use of Phantom Sphincters to prevent Mictatory Accident in the Middle-Aged, aka Indiana Jones and the Ring of Doom).
Brief note to older brother Steve, if you remember what happened when you read about the toothpaste incident - art as life - I should go now!
Grapes to Northridge Way: a further increase in pressure pushes my baroreceptors past "full" to "uncomfortably full", bushes and leylandii hedges in peoples gardens start to become animalistically attractive. However the prospect of being hauled off to the chokey for indecent exposure provides a welcome tempering. ("Come along now Sir." "Be with you in a minute - or two, Officer!")
Northridge Way to front door. "Uncomfortably Full" to "Maximum". I have a bladder the size of Jupiter, it is attended by the twin moons of Ganymede and Calypso formerly known as my kidneys. Hang on! Calypso is a water nymph. ...it is attended by the twin moons Ganymede and ....er...Io (much better - seduced by Jupiter disguised as a cloud, think light and airy thoughts) formerly known as my kidneys. Oh look there's the house! This is a moment for potential disaster, in as much as cows let down their milk upon entering the milking parlour, a feature we psychologists know as "operant conditioning", so the nether regions respond to the prospect of relief. An involuntary schizophrenia kicks in, I (though not I) fumble in my (though not my) pocket for my (though no...JUST GET ON WITH IT!) keys. I stop and survey the front garden in a detached manner, while sneaking up on the door lock, which I open and enter.
Hamlet. Act one, Scene one, Line eight!
I left the station and began the walk up the hill to home. The walk - a series of four, five minute vignettes: station to first roundabout past the Fisheries Inn, roundabout to the Grapes pub, Grapes pub to crossing of main road, Northridge Way, Northridge Way to front door.
This night: station to first roundabout past Fisheries Inn: slight pressure in bladder due to lengthy train journey and previous visit to beer festival, should I use the Portaloo at the station (toilets being refurbed)? No, no lights and it's only a short walk. Fisheries Inn in sight, wistful stare in direction of Gents, is it worth having a pint to use the facilities, probably wouldn't make any odds (you only get out what you put in - First Law of Thermodynamics and Drinking, N.Hayes 2011), continue to roundabout.
Roundabout to the Grapes: increasing pressure in bladder caused contraction of urinary sphincter and other sphincters that don't exist, ponder the existence of non-existent sphincters, decide I will write a treatise on "The Use of Phantom Sphincters to prevent Mictatory Accident in the Middle-Aged, aka Indiana Jones and the Ring of Doom).
Brief note to older brother Steve, if you remember what happened when you read about the toothpaste incident - art as life - I should go now!
Grapes to Northridge Way: a further increase in pressure pushes my baroreceptors past "full" to "uncomfortably full", bushes and leylandii hedges in peoples gardens start to become animalistically attractive. However the prospect of being hauled off to the chokey for indecent exposure provides a welcome tempering. ("Come along now Sir." "Be with you in a minute - or two, Officer!")
Northridge Way to front door. "Uncomfortably Full" to "Maximum". I have a bladder the size of Jupiter, it is attended by the twin moons of Ganymede and Calypso formerly known as my kidneys. Hang on! Calypso is a water nymph. ...it is attended by the twin moons Ganymede and ....er...Io (much better - seduced by Jupiter disguised as a cloud, think light and airy thoughts) formerly known as my kidneys. Oh look there's the house! This is a moment for potential disaster, in as much as cows let down their milk upon entering the milking parlour, a feature we psychologists know as "operant conditioning", so the nether regions respond to the prospect of relief. An involuntary schizophrenia kicks in, I (though not I) fumble in my (though not my) pocket for my (though no...JUST GET ON WITH IT!) keys. I stop and survey the front garden in a detached manner, while sneaking up on the door lock, which I open and enter.
Hamlet. Act one, Scene one, Line eight!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
A brush with terror
It begins, an angel tapdancing on the head of a pin, a feather's touch, a subliminal prickle at the back of my palate, I'm going to sneeze. Normally this would have me rummaging in my pocket for a handkerchief but I'm the sort of man who will try and find something to do in moments of tedium, so that, instead of staring at my frothing reflection in the bathroom mirror, I'm roaming the house while brushing my teeth, my cheeks are hamstered with minty foam, in fact I'm downstairs. My normal sang-froid evaporates along with common sense, so instead of moseying to the kitchen and the salivary watershed of the kitchen sink, I assault the stairs like a true Capricorn and arrive at the bathroom door - too late. A pyroclastic flow of mentholated detergent bursts from my lips, pebble-dashing the floreate tiles, polka-dotting the towels, window and mirror, making a delightful rosy counterpoint to the splashes of lime-scale. Then it's gone, the moment passed, I lean weakly against the wall contemplating how it could have been worse; the carpet, the sofa, the laptop, a full, nasal sneeze, powdered silica racing abrasively through my nostrils at one hundred and twenty miles an hour, twin streams of ejecta! I rinse, and go to bed.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Commute
I leave the house and start up the hill in the light fog, other, distant figures half-visible in front of me. I turn right to start the long-descent to the valley floor and the Station, pausing at the rate-limiting step of my journey to await a break in traffic. As I continue, I become aware of others, striding with greater purpose, ,perhaps they know something I don't? I speed up, tension building in my shins until I'm afraid they'll crack, shatter like trees in an Arctic frost - they don't.
At the station I look along the platform at my fellow commuters, grey in the gloaming, hunched like armadillos, against what - the cold, the impending Pendolino not stopping at Platform 2, the Damoclean doom of a full working-week?
The train arrives, I find a seat and look around at the sleepers, the readers, the caffeine-hungry and the just-plain hungry. We move off, cocooned in a warm oasis of gloom, the reassuring pressure of cushion on buttock giving us a pre-emptive superiority over those others, the less- fortunate, who will get on later and stand, teetering, into London. Is it worth the extra money, this seat? You betcha!
At the station I look along the platform at my fellow commuters, grey in the gloaming, hunched like armadillos, against what - the cold, the impending Pendolino not stopping at Platform 2, the Damoclean doom of a full working-week?
The train arrives, I find a seat and look around at the sleepers, the readers, the caffeine-hungry and the just-plain hungry. We move off, cocooned in a warm oasis of gloom, the reassuring pressure of cushion on buttock giving us a pre-emptive superiority over those others, the less- fortunate, who will get on later and stand, teetering, into London. Is it worth the extra money, this seat? You betcha!
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