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...!"

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

The taste of ash.

I have recently moved, I bought a property on March the 8th and moved in on December the 11th. Now, you would have thought that in the intervening time I might have done all the necessary work, got the place shipshape, so to speak. However, I elected to build the kitchen myself, British Man pitting himself against the Swedes, uneven walls and floors, and his own ability to draw a straight line. The resulting depression has come like a hammer-blow from the Gods, I cannot draw a straight line, saw a straight line, make anything horizontal or vertical. My latest paramour is full of, "I can't understand why you don't...", "Why didn't you...", "Why haven't you..." and "But...", so much so, that last night I hung up on her, perhaps demoting her from "latest" to "last". Though she did send me multiple pictures of pygmy hedgehogs in the bath (to be honest I'd prefer pictures of her in the bath) to "cheer me up".

Why? Because all these phrases resonate in my echoing pate, mainly because they already exist there, they chime and echo, thrum in harmony with the catgut of my worry, smothered with a blanket of stubbornness, and - to be honest, fear. Fear of, "I don't know how to.", "I've never done this before.", "How do you find a kitchen fitter?". Fear of the unknown (though I do ask directions).

Let me tell you about cack-handedness - fitting the handles - I did what every good fitter, self-help book (of which I shall now need a few, though not relating to DIY), sensible person, does and made a template. I marked and drilled, two of the handles didn't fit, and it was after I drilled that I realised that that particular design is only supposed to be mounted horizontally.

My weekend is to be spent, unpacking bags and boxes, and, ironically, packing the worktops to the horizontal. The good craftsmen of Hemel Homestead can look forward to a new year full of employment.

Gall and bile are bitter fruit.

Oysters Aweigh!

WARNING! Contains scatology and mortal illness! Those of a squeamish nature or a nervous disposition should stop reading now!

It had been Jacks birthday on the Saturday and to help him celebrate I had bought some oysters from Morrison’s (a supermarket chain that had bought up the Safeway franchise when they decamped back to the States). Now I’m not saying it was the oysters but they seem the likely candidate. Monday morning I felt quite bloated, but not having a group of forty-year-old female friends to recommend Activia, I thought not much of it. This afternoon I moved from bloat to ropey, and determined to go home so mounting my bike I pedalled slowly off.

At the top of the first hill I had to have a little sit-down to allow the world to swim back into focus. The last half-mile was fraught, peristaltic waves would creep up on me forcing me to think of lock-gates nudging shut, books closing, oysters shutting at the approach of shadow (ironic huh?) and ducks being throttled. I made it with my clothes inviolate and then lost about two litres of bodily fluids in as many seconds into the appropriate receptacle, not so much Niagara, more Hardraw Force in spate.

My keen brain ran through a calculation of toilet roll versus time and came out ahead on a two day stint. Phew! I then threw myself in the appropriate receptacle – bed, and embarked upon a febrile episode with stomach cramps (ladies reading this will be drawing breath, yes I know, I now sympathise a lot more than before). My bedroom was carefully and tremblingly arranged; clear run to the door, spare washing up bowl in easy grasp (always a conflict, should one assume the worst and take the bowl to the toilet?).

Those of you who get my Friday email will know that my libido has been a bit peculiar of late, and it came upon me to wonder whether a life partner would find this behaviour lust arousing at all, the moues , moans and groans, the writhing and finally, the sheer heat. I decided, “no” and also posited that were I in this position again, said life-partner would have to sleep on the side away from the door.

At this point I must have lost my presence of mind for I considered taking an ibuprofen like my period-pain comrades-in-arms, a part of me did consider that putting in an irritant may be a bad idea. It was. Twenty minutes later and I was at one with the fountains in Trafalgar Square. After that I retreated under the covers until the water, salt and sugar ran out when I would have to go and make another batch – a wobbly adventure.

Every time I turned in the bed (at this point with extra blanket) my gut would fall to the downhill side impelled by gravity and several litres of fluid, precipitating a wave of compression that would flow down the liquid mass before ending at my anus, as I felt the wave, I would squeeze everything shut, eyes scrunched, teeth grinding, hands fisted, even my toes would curl and finally and, most fundamentally, buttocks clenched, buttocks clenched so tight that I lost two inches in height.

I failed to sleep, tormented by waking dreams of bubbles floating on a scummy lake, that had to be flattened by counter-bubbles, as soon as the surface was calm the dream would repeat.

The next day I managed to move to the living room and suffer the indignities of daytime tv. Today fifty percent.

First Night

It had been the usual night with Dean, he amazed at my callowness, me at his sensitivity – lack of, so it was with a weary bleary head that I rose on Saturday. After a revivifying, but guilty, breakfast of bacon, egg, tomatoes, buttered toast and Cousin Julian’s Seville and grapefruit marmalade (it’s OK, I’m on statins), in fact it was so good that I’ve had to resist the temptation to capitalise it. Where was I? After breakfast and a small sit in front of the tv, I loaded the trusty steed, pedalled off to Euston and set off for the new house, for a sleepover to validate the insurance. I arrived and pedalled painfully up the hill (some hope for increasing fitness at least, let’s hope it will exceed my increasing decrepitude) and arrived, as I pulled onto the Astroturf (yes I have a front lawn I have to vacuum) my neighbour, John bounced into view, “Can I help y... Oh it’s you, can you put me in touch with your electrician?” This is the man who put “watch” into neighbourhood watch, all of which is quite gratifying. “You cycle too” a simple statement of fact, I can’t decide if this is indictment or approval but the addition of “too” may be telling (try the phrase out for yourself, there are multiple inflections you can apply to ”too”.”
I entered, counted the dead spiders (two but with a few emaciated brethren clinging to the ceiling, at least I think they’re clinging, I haven’t seen them move yet, perhaps five – I’ll leave the door open for a bit, see if we can attract some volunteer nutrition objects), sorted the postal wheat from chaff (it’s a lean year so far), ran a non-horticultural eye over the garden (the recent rain has done wonders for the grass, moss and dandelions that make up the back lawn – I missed the daffodils – isn’t that willowherb?-I really should grub THAT out, please let it not be ground-elder or that blue thing beginning with “P”......... periwinkle!), then, after a quick unpack of sleeping bags (yes bags – is May out yet? No – has the house been heated for two months? No- bags) remounted and went in search of Giant Tesco.
Which I found on the top of a hill up a particularly busy and nasty stretch of the A414, in fact so busy and nasty that I carried the bike over the footbridge rather than risk the right (and therefore cross-traffic, for those of you in uncivilised countries) turn to get to the carpark. Somewhat fazed by the journey, I attached steed to the trolley corral (bike parking – what that?) and set off away from the door, this left me with the option that, rather than being a twat, I had decided to look at the view of the leisure centre (though the sheer size and number of flumes has set me thinking about days off, outside school holidays). Consequently I turned and slid, oysterlike, into the maw of Tesco, I re-emerged (also potentially oysterlike) about 15 minutes later with a packet of liquorice allsorts (on offer), a bottle of fizzy pink wine (on offer and to celebrate my “arrival”) and a blow-up double mattress (which some of you may well be enjoying the company of – not you Roxy, you’ll be sleeping on top of something much more comfy, unless I lose a heck of a lot of weight).
My journey home was less busy but not much, Hemel Hempstead seems to be some sort of arterial anastamosis, but I arrived, l put the bike in the shed, I put the wine in the sink, I put the Allsorts in me and then I put most of me into blowing up the mattress. It took about an hour, I had to keep having a rest, during which time I started the heating and hot water system. The gas system turns on with the sort of explosion that will both wake the dead and have a lot of them chatting about , “That’s exactly what I heard and then I saw all these lights and some feathery bloke gave me this harp, well I’ve never been musical... and this ambrosia. Ambrosia! It’s like no rice pudding I’ve ever had. Anyway I was talking to Mrs Iscariot the other day and she said....” But at least it turns on.
Back to trusty steed and a run to find something to eat, I aim for a pub in Potten End, and end up in the Plough, the less poncey of the two I suspect, my arrival, with bike, fluorescent jacket, helmet etc provokes the usual banter but there’s no malice, so I settle in with a pint of “Brock” from Tring Brewery, which turns out to be a pint of brown bitter beer, and Pasta Alfredo, which turns out to be fusilli, garlic, chicken and salt, I’m not being disparaging it was pretty good but a bit salty (like me? Comments? Please yourselves!). Then I came back as the weather closed in and seated on my mattress, with my back to a radiator (whose thermostat valve I have to play maestrolike to tread the thin line between cooked and frozen), a toothglass of sparkling pink to my right and a chest full of asthma and plasticisers (the mattress inflation not the Alfredo) I started to write this. But what of tomorrow?

The central heating and water come on, it sounds like a broadcast of concrete manufacture, slightly off-station and beaming in from Ganymede, the radiators tick and bang with badly remembered expansion. It had been a cold night, not my coldest but cold enough, I listened to the gastro-intestinal protests of the plumbing for an hour or so and then immersed myself under running hot water. What the hell was I going to do now? It was the typical camping dilemma induced by no chair, I could lie flat until I got bored or my hands fell off if I wanted to read, sit cross-legged until my knees popped, sit on the floor with my back to the wall until my bum went numb, I tried all three in various combinations until Ten when I hoped a shop might be open for breakfast supplies, though without anything to cook them on (or with) breakfast would probably be cake.
Mercifully (perhaps not), the greasy spoon was open (and busy), so now I’m back, full-to-burstin’, waiting for the wine delivery (priorities, priorities) after which I shall trusty steed to see how far along the bluebells are (they’ll be perfect as I forgot the camera). While I wait, I’ll finish the book and do some desultory gardening, not being sure what is and isn’t weeds, if I had had the camera then I could at least have shown my experts, now I’ll probably have to drag them along by waving a corkscrew at them. I have decided to get some sort of bird-feeder though the lawn appears to be doing adequately for the neighbourhood thrush.
The booze arrived, I parked it, shut up shop and headed off for bluebell country, they were out, once again I regretted the lack of camera and naked girl but at least I didn’t ask for volunteers. A delightful amble through the woods turned into a sour debacle in the last two miles before the station when some young people decided they’d creep up on me and shout and sound the horn, oh it was hilarious (Y377 HEE if anyone knows how to trace them), I decided not to give them a piece of my mind when they pulled into a garage a couple of hundred yards later I didn’t want to get blood on the tarmac – particularly mine. Why is it you’re never carrying a shotgun when you need one? Later they overtook me again, restricting themselves to a single epithet, I was amazed from their demeanour I didn’t think they were capable of speech. Cycling back to the flat from the station, a group of kids strolled out in front of me to criticise my, “Wanky hat” God it’s good to be out on the open road, the sun in your eyes and insects between your teeth. I’m writing this at the new canalside cafe, which from its prices has a lot of overheads, I may have to go out for a pint when I get in.

Lumbared!

Once again I'm in the wars. I had spent a Saturday afternoon looking after my Godson, Stuart, and his two year old brother Laurence, while Mum attended an introduction to the Japanese School in London. To be fair I had been treated to a scrummy sushi lunch. Eventually having been told off for playing with toys in the School hall, we went to investigate outside, and discovered a play area. Stuart was eventually inveigled into football by some "other boys", so Laurence and I took to the swings. After extensive swing pushing, I decided to try something different. I walked round to the front of the swing and pulled it towards me,
"Are you holding on tightly?"
Two year old assent.
I let go of the swing. It became patently clear after the apogee of his flight that he wasn't, as the swing returned to me and Laurence didn't. Consequently, I spent the rest of afternoon carrying him in both his traumatised, and later, comatose states. Laurence is a dense little boy and, in the sleep state, his molecules appear to coalesce down to something resembling one of the heavier metals. Later I handed him over to Father, and went home.

On Monday, cycling in, I stood on the pedal to move out of a T junction, and was rewarded with excruciating lumbar pain, this rather slowed my journey, and has led to the bike having a holiday at work. To add insult to literal injury, I was shouted at by a pedestrian as I was moving across a crossroads on a green light.
"There are people crossing!"
If I had felt that I could get off and give the lady a piece of my mind without more damage I would have, pointing out that while there were indeed, people crossing, they, including her, were crossing on a red light. Instead I made an expansive gesture designed to include the lights, this was wilfully misinterpreted.
"Charming!"
I pedalled painfully on, with both mental and physical anguish.

Consequently I now suffer from "sock terror", this is the conviction that when one puts on one's socks (impossible to do without bending, no, it is, try it), there will be a crux point where, after a ripping sound, the wall opposite your back will be studded with vertebrae, and your unsupported head will be making the acquaintance of whatever lives under the bed (in my case a warren of dust bunnies, the occasional bogeyman and that pair of trainers that disappeared). I shall leave "underpants terror" for a more, less salubrious occasion.

Spice of ...

My Father was mild-mannered Clark Kent, he stayed mild-mannered Clark Kent, and never transformed to Superman, lifts, revolving doors and telephone boxes were never compromised in my Father’s realm, he was the same as everyone else’s father, who only ever transform in the cocoon of the imagination of their adult children, and then only post-mortem.
Drinking: towards the end, he moved from a cream sherry towards a half of lager and lime, oh and gave up sugar in his tea, wine (new-fangled at the time) would be Anjou Rose or Lutomer Reisling, red was far too outré.
Smoking: he moved from the pipe to cigarillos, usually Manikin, surely unmoved by the bouncy chest of the blonde as she loped athletically along a tropical beach before plunging carelessly into the surf.
Food: He took up salading as a hobby, bought books on how to compose salad, and let rip: chicory unmanned with the flick of a knife, a series of circumcisions, and there was the poor vegetable displaying its contours to a melange of tomato and tinned sweetcorn before suffering the indignity of being dressed with a vinaigrette of malt vinegar and vegetable oil, flavoured with a, literal, dusting of dried mixed herbs. Sometimes the then Chinese Gooseberry, the now Kiwi fruit, would be seen lurking behind the audacious walnut. He also liked the adventure of the Vesta curry, a jumble of stuff plus some non-rehydrating beef chunks, with occasional spice. It was the daring of difference that captured him, the daring of difference advertised nationwide on the TV as different and daring.
I had staggered home from an evening with Dean, it had been Graduation Day and a female student had made me blush – with fulsome praise rather than a lewd suggestion ( sadly, I think my days of women making lewd suggestions to me may be over. Any and all detractors please contact me as soon as possible). We had gone to the pub so that Dean could watch the first half of England v Croatia. I was the sightline that he returned to only during the pauses in the match, for the rest of the time I had the unrivalled opportunity to map out the veins on the underside of his eyeballs.
At half-time Dean skedaddled off to the station, and I swayed into the supermarket to check out the “reduced” shelf, Wednesday seemingly being a very poor night. So it was that I returned home and raided the store cupboard turning up a packet of soba noodles and cold soup mix. I decided that the onomatopoeic qualities of the soba noodles sounded attractive, given my state, and so embarked on preparation (or to be more honest, opening the packets). The soup turned out to be redolent with wasabi, offsetting the chill of the noodles with sharp needles of spice. This was the point that sent me drifting down the temporal stream to a visit from Dad to London (where he would be going to an IST meeting to talk about chemistry syllabi). I decided that I would take him to Diwana, a vegetarian restaurant that specialised in Bombay street food, which would certainly be more adventurous than a Vesta.
We had Aloo Papri Chaat (potatoes, chick peas, onion, tamarind and yoghurt and poori pieces) and Sev Poori (semolina vermicelli, onion, tamarind and so on). I think that Dad may have lost his taste for spice that day, or perhaps just lost his taste, the sev poori had a chilli hit that would have cleared the sinuses of large pachyderms in one cathartic spasm. I’m not sure if he enjoyed that meal, or whether it may have tipped him against the sub-continent, at least nutritionwise
Moral: Though it may look like a good idea at the time, it still may destroy your sense of taste and, perhaps, trust.

The Cough

It starts as a tic, a glitch, a slight thickening in the air as it rolls over my tongue and surfs down into my lungs, a moment of liquefaction that subsides momentarily before starting to set the unprotected ends of my nerves all ajangle. I glance nervously round the carriage, the filling in a Crombie sandwich, and, handkerchief unavailable without considerable pocket mining, slip off my fleece hat. Then the tickling starts at the back of the throat, I force saliva and swallow, hoping to drown whatever arthritic-fingered grandparent is tormenting me, the tickle subsides then returns with greater insistence. Pressure builds in my chest, and I bunch the hat, more swallowing, a prayer to St Jude. The train stops, adding to my misery, spectacular convulsions and expectoration I can cope with on a platform but in the confines of the carriage it may startle the horses. More pressure, I now know the inevitable will happen, that I will cough but will it be the single bark and wheeze, or the tubercular rack; explosions coming thick and fast, each inhalation providing fuel for the next bombardment? And which breath will it start with, this one, the next one, the one after that? It's this one; my chest contracts forcing air out in spasm, the hat, hovering below my chin, moves swiftly up to catch the gust and any pulmonary detritus. I breathe in cautiously through my nose, this is the crux point, wake up Grandad Tickler now and I will descend into the tussive equivalent of an avalanche. The train is overheated so that the stifling air does just that, it stifles mercifully.
In the night I have to adopt a different strategy, I sleep, or attempt to sleep, with my nose and mouth submerged under the covers where the air is heated by my body. However, there comes a point where I will have to surface to find some oxygen. Like a whale I rise to sip some air, never knowing if the harpoon of the patrolling unheated-air "scientific whaling" fleet will strike, leaving my neighbours to enjoy the aural Nantucket Sleighride of my paroxysms.
Eventually I will reach for the balm of codeine linctus and glug, then wait for the forty minutes it takes to smother my throat with honey and lullaby my tormentors into the arms of morphine. There is a problem with codeine though, not only does it still the cough, it stills everything else as well so that I rise groggily in the morning, mouth filled with glue, head filled with wool, and stumble into my bathroom, my clothes, some shoes, the street. The street where the cycle will begin again, the imp in my throat cracks his hoary knuckles, reaches out and begins very gently to stroke.

The Editors would like to apologise for the somewhat conflicted nature of the following, the copy only arrived thirty minutes ahead of the printing schedule.


Old Nick's Almanac - a guide to love and fortune for 2010.

Capricorn
December 22 - January 19
New Year resolutions are really hard to keep up, though Capricorns with your stubborn pigheadedness are better at succeeding than others. Gosh I hate Capricorns, always moaning about the right way to do things, not one spark of wit or vitality.

Aquarius
January 20 - February 18
The water bearer, well, that just about sums up my resolution, let the good times roll, my arse. I hate Aquarians, always holier than thou, and we all know what WC Fields said about water....

Pisces
February 19 - March 20
Well how apt, here we are talking about fish and along come a pair. The fact that they're swimming in opposite directions is supposed to symbolise internal conflict. I hate Pisces they haven't got a clue about conflict, try being an astrologer, that's conflict.

Aries
March 21 - April 19
Look, it's a science it's got tables and everything, I have to do maths! And then what do they want, they all follow like sheep and just want you to say, "You'll have a lovely time" . Aries (how I hate you, you woolly-headed addle-pated, weak-willed...it beggars belief) you'll have a lovely time.

Taurus
April 20 - May 20
Then what happens, they go and discover more planets, they dump Pluto, what am I supposed to do? A lot of scientists are Taureans, with their desire for recognition, probably bloody astronomers, I hate astronomers even so I'm sure they'll have a lovely time making my life a misery. It's enough to drive one back to drink.

Gemini
May 21 - June 20
Twins, why is there never a pair of compliant twins when you need them? Well Gemini, you're supposed to be multi-talented, well bully for you, here's me working like a slave to produce, "you'll have a lovely time" and Gemini can turn their hand to anything, lucky, bloody Gemini.

Cancer
June 21 - July 22
Precisely, that's what you are, the lot of you, I hate you.

Leo
July 23 - August 22
The Lion, I mean why aren't you "up" in March, y'know, "in like a lion out like a lamb". Bloody Greeks, why can't they make it simple, I mean, when I started I was told there were only four elements and now there's six, with this bleeding Phlogiston and Aether, what's that all about? Whaddya mean a hundred and nine!

Virgo
August 23 - September 22
The Sun is in Virgo at the moment so I can't see a bloody thing. Look, if anything did happen you wouldn't be a Virgo any more. I give up, sod the resolution, I'm off to the pub.

Libra
September 23 - October 22
Well-balanced? WELL-BALANCED! This gin and tonic is well-balanced, if Libra were well-balanced they wouldn't be reading this tosh would they? I hate well-balanced people. Landlord, LANDLORD!

Scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Who's a Scorpio? C'mon the law of odds says one of you is. You, you, I hate you, I hate all Scorpios, they're all creeps, hiding under rocks and then blindsiding you when you least expect it. Come on then! Come on! Ow!

Sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I used to like the Archers until it got all modern, yeah you too? You're my best mate you are, you are, you are, I love you.

According to the supermarkets St Valentine's Day is looming up on us again (though not as fast as Easter apparently). Being a (reluctantly) single man there is a lot of pressure to find a significant other, therefore I have recently consulted the Nixco Dating Helpline for some tips. They have given me a set of straplines to use on dating websites, lonely hearts columns and the like, which they say are guaranteed results. I feel it my duty to pass these on in case there are any more like me out there, they include:


ECO WARRIOR SEEKS BAG FOR LIFE
STUDENT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF LIFE SEEKS BIOLOGY TUTOR
ASPERGIC SEEKS NEW HOBBY
TRAVELLER OF LIFE'S HIGHWAY SEEKS LUGGAGE
ADAM SEEKS EVE (POST-APPLE)
CURMUDGEON SEEKS SOUNDING POST


Nixco say that these have all been lovingly crafted by their team of elderly batchelors, and guarantee that the use of these will generate some form of response.
Their address:


Nixco Assisted DAting
a division of NIxco ENTErprises
Zone Industriel Lucerne, Switzerland

I had hoped that having a laptop was going to make my life easier, I had thought that it would enable me to immediately place my shafts of wit and flashes of brilliance into the public domain. I had forgotten that the source of some of those shafts of wit and flashes of brilliance was the disinhibiting effect of alcohol, and that while those SoW’s and FoB’s were fulminating under the carapace, I would have to be able to type, which is difficult when your fingers and eyes are equally disinhibited, which is why I’m transposing this from a barely legible scrawl mainly written in block capitals so that I can translate it.
There comes a moment in an evening’s drinking where one attains a transcendental state resembling Godhood (Dionysus or Bacchus, I suspect), you can do no wrong, every thought is hilarious, you are the epitome of Adonis and Casanova combined. All this can be instantly undone by catching a glimpse of oneself in a suitably reflective surface – the Dorian Grey Moment. It’s also undone, though with a considerable longueur, the following morning when one becomes the epitome of Job and Lazarus combined.
Just before Christmas I had succumbed to an offer in my local supermarket; two bottles of liqueur for twenty five pounds, I had selected Drambuie (sweet whisky) and Cointreau (a confection of oranges). The thing about liqueurs is that they are sweet, and because they are sweet, they can do you no harm, they obviously contain no alcohol.
I had been out for an evening with Dean: Doom, Gloom, Optimism, Serenity, Pragmatism (ascribe as you see fit, they were all covered, apart from Optimism, which kept itself hidden under a rock, and is likely to stay there in the present work climate). Arriving home I decided on a nightcap and stupidly embarked on a trip around my liqueurs, a trip into a dimension several removed from self-denial, but hey, it’s only sugar and fruit it might even be good for you – my arse.

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me, such as not to be an arse and to keep salacious texts to myself. It was the Bank Holiday Weekend and I had determined to ride up to Epping Forest to do some foraging, with a halt at Tesco on the way to buy some Tom Yam noodles - as one does. The day was warm, and I decided that, as I was mainly off-road, I wouldn't bother with my helmet, I also decided that, seeing as I was going to do a fair distance, I would wear my cycling shorts. I left, shutting the door behind me, and leaping onto my trusty steed prior to dusting up the towpath.

At Tesco, I parked the bike and realised with a sinking heart that I was keyless, and therefore soon to be noodleless. However, I hatched a cunning plan and approached the nice lady holding leaflets and sporting a tee shirt with "Double" written on it, it should have had "Double Points" written on it but the "Points" had vanished into the shadow of her knockers. I raised my chin a couple of inches and made eye contact, "I wonder if you'd mind just keeping an eye on my bike while I go and buy a lock. Please?"
"Alright. Just put it in there."
"Thanks!"

I beetled to the bike section, not one bloody lock to be seen, eventually I found a light and lock set but decided I hardly needed any more lights. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind for I decided to go on to Epping.

The Logic: The neighbours have a spare key, if they're not in I have the spare set at work.

And so it was that I spent the afternoon getting mauled by blackberries, before a slight accidental detour on the way home, anyway I arrived and rang the neighbour's doorbell where "Auntie" let me in with a "Welcome Nick".

I explained my plight, to which she responded, "What are you going to do?"

"You've got a spare set."
"Oh I don't know where they've put them and they're in Pontin's with the kids. I'll give them a ring.
"Thanks!"
"They're not answering."
"Oh well, I'll get the set from work."

I remounted and went to work where a very nice security man called Maurice let me in, I couldn't find them!

"Oh well, let's hope Tony's answered his 'phone by now."

He hadn't.

"Oh well, I'll 'phone round and see if someone can put me up." The 'phone was on charge in the flat, the locked flat.

"Oh well, I'll spend a fortune with directory enquiries, who will have no 'phone numbers due to franchising." They didn't or they couldn't read, probably the latter.

"Oh well, I'll get something to eat and see if Tony's answered his 'phone when I get back." He hadn't.

"Oh well, I'd better find an hotel." I did - it Cost.

The girl (Carla) behind the counter was very nice and gave me an hours free internet, enabling me to find some 'phone numbers, now too late to do anything with. No-one in the hotel seemed the least fazed by this bicycling-clad figure sans bike. I claimed my free toothbrush and razor (and cotton-buds and a shower cap) and went to the pub up the road for a pint, or, in fact two pints. I went to bed, as I took my spectacles off the arm detached itself and fell, fortunately the screw landed in plain sight on the desktop, my luck had obviously changed.

Moral: If you decide not to wear your helmet, make sure that you take out the keys that live inside it so that you don't forget them. If wearing your cycling shorts, remember to transfer the keys that live in the back pocket of your other shorts to your cycling shorts. If your Brother has been for a visit, remember to take the spare set of keys that live in work (so you'll have a stopgap plus a set of keys to lend to people) back to work. Do not rely on your neighbours being in, and do not rely on "Auntie" to be psychic. 'Phones can be quite handy (as can address books) when they're not closeted behind locked doors. The people in Directory Enquiries are pants and cannot be relied upon, neither can spectacles but if you have the bits you can repair them with a penknife using a coffee-sachet strip with a hole in it as a pair of makeshift tweezers. London hotels are not cheap. The beer at the Marksman is just about alright - but only just.


I got in the next day, and sulked for the afternoon.

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like the fact that if you're unlucky - you're stuffed!

I had forgotten that there is no intonation in text or e-mail, perhaps there should be a "tic" for tongue-in-cheek or similar icon. Sadly there isn't, so I have been hoist by my own petard on a couple of occasions now, by the simple fact that after I'd pressed the "send" button, the receiver took me seriously. My Father never had these problems, he was limited to full-frontal conversations, 'phone conversations and (the closest) letter writing, though I doubt that, "Here I am surrounded by bluebells, now all I need is a naked girl. Volunteer?" is anything that would have (overtly) crossed his mind, let alone stopped and jumped up and down in front of it.

Those that know me well replied, "No, what you need is a cold shower." those that didn't know me quite as well as I thought they did lapsed into a stunned and lengthy silence. That's the other thing about texts, they don't come with anything that says, "Oh by the way, I sent this to five other people which might lead you to believe that I wasn't being serious.

My last gaffe read, "I'm lying in bed naked. Wish you were here?", perhaps not the most sensible of things to send, I could plead Saturday morning leftovers of Friday night's alchohol - but I won't. Suffice it to say that I haven't heard from several recipients since (apart from one outraged reply). Golly, in my bonhomminous state I thought the question mark (and ancillary punctuation) might make it obvious but sadly no - apologies.

I am sort of reminded of the pilot who inadvertently texted the stewardess with a message to his wife, "I can't wait for you to go down on me." Thank God it was not from his wife to him, the implications could be catastrophic.

Moral: don't be an arse and keep salacious texts to yourself.

Seen outside a cinema in Clapham:

HANCOCK

WANTED

SEX AND THE CITY

NARNIA

FEMALE AGENTS

Almost haiku like

A contribution from Liz in exchange for me writing her presentation on bottoms:


Nick says:
so what are you putting in my blog
Ed Balls says:
i don't know yet
Ed Balls says:
something about nakedness
Nick says:
k
Nick says:
off you go
Ed Balls says:
k
Ed Balls says:
Yesterday was my day off, and, as the weather was particularly fine, I decided to pay a visit to Epping Forest
So, mounting my trusty steed, I set off down the road with a happy song going through my head
Nick says:
good so far
Ed Balls says:
I arrived at the forest in good time, and tripped off down the nearest path, which was actually quite unfamiliar to me
Suddenly, in a clearing, I espied a group of people
Upon closer inspection, they were completely naked
As I got closer, I realised to my joy that they were all of the female persuasion
Blah blah
Nick says:
ta
Ed Balls says:
someone at work was looking
Ed Balls says:
will continue in a sec
They seemed to be performing some kind of ritualistic dance
'What the hell' I thought, and flung off my raiments
Joining them in the clearing
But something was wrong
They were looking at me with their bleary eyes, and cackling under their breath
So I legged it out of there before they could chop my balls off
THE END

TMFFFTTM 15

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, like not counting your sausages before they're in the bag. On Tuesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared gloomily into the rain, as it descended like a sheet of frosted plastic in a cheap shower. After rummaging through the pannier, I retrieved my waterproofs, put on some waterproof shoes (ones without a webbing upper and cracked soles) and put my overtrousers on..... took off my overtrousers, took off my shoes, put on my overtrousers and then put on my shoes. Jacket. At the bottom of the stairs I ventured into the steady downpour and headed off for work, halfway there the jacket started to let in the rain, and dampness crept down from my shoulders with all the determination of snot leaking from the nose of a two year old. As I arrived at work, literally at the front door, the rain stuttered, then stopped. I stabled the bike, dripped my way to the office, and dug out the spare trousers and socks, the office festooned with drying garments like a laundry Christmas.
On Tuesday night I washed the jacket to within an inch of its life and then treated it to a liberal douching of waterproofing.

On Wednesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared suspiciously out at the banks of cloud scudding overhead. I compromised and donned the jacket leaving the overtrousers in the pannier. Five minutes later it started to rain. This time it did not stop as arrived at the front door. Once again the office looked like Primark on a Saturday afternoon.

On Wednesday evening, I released my trusty steed from its stable and approached the front door of the building, outside people walked with umbrellas, the puddles were dotted with bullseyes. I returned to dig out the overtrousers, which I donned with much swearing. I reemerged, people were furling their umbrellas, the puddles displayed a mirror-like surface. Disdaining to profane the air of the sacred halls of academe any further, I set off, still sporting my torture trousers. As I approached home, I looked to the south and west, a bank of cloud was rolling in like a tsunami on a hapless fishing village, under normal circumstances this sight would have filled me with joy, sadly I had to buy some bread.

As I left the supermarket, the heavens, as they say, opened, the sort of deluge that would have warmed the cockles of General De Gaulle's heart, luckily I was wearing my freshly waterproofed waterproofs. As I turned into the drive of the flats a few minutes later, the run-off from my waterproof trousers filled my trainers, running out through the crack in the sole. The run-off through my helmet trickled down my brow after dissolving all the salt accumulated since the last monsoon, the resultant brine putting the Dead Sea to shame, the sort of brine that could pickle a herring at forty yards, or slough off a grown man's cornea in under a minute. So it was I carried the bike up the four flights of stairs by Braille, and then sat down to my bruschetta, admiring the way that my hair had been sucked up through the vents in my helmet by my speedy passage and had then set into the trichological equivalent of the enchanted forest, the Sleeping Beauty one as opposed to Smurfland.

Moral: Some people are lucky and some are unlucky, if you're the latter you're fuc..... not in for a great time.