We’ve got SNOW! Winter has arrived – albeit very briefly as it’s melting already – and the traffic is queuing from here to everywhere, kids are pumelling each other with snowballs and well dressed people are sliding down the road on their arse. I am SO GLAD I am working at home today because the option would probably be spending most of it trying to get to the office and the rest getting home again.

Here’s a picture to show that it really did snow.

Notice my new experimental technique at deicing the car. Early results are promising but I accept it needs work.

Growing up a lot further north meant that snow was something you lived with for about three months and barely a morning went by with having to shovel your way out of the door.

Still it’s better than nothing.

Are you familiar with Hypertension” the Doc asked. I gave this a few seconds of serious consideration before confirming that as a specky student of Battlestar Galactica, intergalactic space travel held no secrets from me. That’s hyperspace” she sighed wearily belying the fact that she was about fifteen years my junior and it was I who should be doing the weary sighing. On the not unreasonable grounds that I was the patient with a diagnostically troubling condition and she was the twenty something on a 100k per year.

There could be something in it though; I was feeling significantly tense having booked at 8:30 appointment which some fifty minutes later showed no sign of ever actually occurring. How can a surgery “ sorry health centre like there’s ANYBODY healthy in there “ open at 8am and be running an hour late an hour later? And, later that same day veins were significantly raised on my forehead as two thousand years of generic stupidity played out in front of me.

The women responsible for my blood pumping angst was an uncanny ringer for Mrs. Overall of Acorn Antiques fame. Three times she stooped to punch in a mathematically troubling four digit pin code and three times she hit cancel instead. Each time accompanied by a little oh get me, aren’t I silly” laugh clearly unaware of six potential bypass operations steaming in the queue behind here.

On finally cracking the Chip’n’Pin code, she then tweaked my own personal irritomitor by chattily extending her stay at the counter. She wondered if it would be ok to have her cash dispensed in unmarked small notes, brown coins and ration coupons. Why this wonderment had to wait until she’d painstakingly opened her cavernous bag, rooted round the boiled sweets for an ancient purse and deposited the money in its’ black heart I shall never know. And neither shall she, because I was forced to beat her senseless with a rolled copy of the banking charter before the NHS had six emergency heart operations on their hands.

Since the doctor was unimpressed with both my phantom symptoms and a treatment regime based on the healing power of beer, it seemed a good time to try something else. But that’s not going to be the Turbo Trainer on which five sessions has convinced me that only people with a boredom threshold of “ say “ a goldfish can endure them.

I tried spinning to MTB DVDs, favourite films, interesting porn sent to me by people I hardly know and finally staring at the wall. At the end of each session my worthiness at a personal creation of an inland lake palled in the face of such intense boredom. I was forced to down about 10 beers to compensate which someone bypassed the benefit.

So instead I’ve abandoned food and eaten the turbo.

But something must be done and in the dusty recesses of my DVD collection is a pirated copy of a horror cringingly entitled Beach Body“. It’s made up of pain segments focusing on abdominals, muscle sculpture and aerobics which could be better described as you’ll never sit up again“, you’ll never walk again” and you’ve died horribly“

The main protagonist is an ridiculously healthy American named Tony ably assisted by Dan and Julie both of whom are only slightly less honed than our Tone. Never will you see any three people so desperately in need of a good pie and a few pints. They don’t need exercise, they need framing with their cheesy smiles and perfect form. Tony performs a million arm curls before “ with not a hair out of place or a bead of sweat on his brow “ demanding that you feel the burn“.

I am not only feeling the burn but also the possible permanent damage of an old bloke attempting complex exercise routines. Honestly the aerobic section is lethal “ already the computer has felt the power of my vigorous arm rotation and a couple of times I’ve over rotated out of control and dangerously spun into the next room. I shall let your imagination roam free as you consider my wife’s response to a gasping, twirling beachbody wannabee as he crashes elegantly into something fragile and expensive.

Maybe it’s time for a stomach staple and a friend recommended that they staple it to my head so at least it’d improve the level of thatch. Kind words indeed.

I think I’ve glimpsed the future and it has cardigans in it.

And it’s a wonderful place. After taking my lunch in what we’ve started to call “Meeting Room 5” should anyone ask awkward questions, I returned to this missive from Corporate Services:

“I am very sorry that this has taken so long but am pleased to inform you the shower on the RH side has been repaired and is now operational.”

So an apology AND a working shower – surely not in my lifetime? I ran downstairs to see if this could possibly be true and stunningly it was.

My life of cynicism is over. After a mere three months of asking, the vast engineering undertaking of repairing a single shower has been successfully completed.

I have had quite alot to say about showers so this development has done much to restore my faith in uncaring, faceless bureaucracy.

That is all 🙂

Some pointlessly funded research tells us that January the 24th is the most depressing day of the year. This so called extensive analysis of all things that makes you scream “aaarrrgghhhhh, I can take no more” and switch your diet to any liquid best shown off by a brown bag, has clearly been nowhere near our house when the relatives pitch up. That’s a day which starts with a downer and is grimacingly subterranean by the time some twisted individual suggests a game of Charades. An entertaining pastime, I’ve come to think of as a cheery alternative to disemboweling yourself with a blunt soup ladle.

And back in 2006 that research was wasted once an unwanted pantarectemy reminded me of the huge importance of packing items to clothe your nether regions. Since then, not a day has passed without a frission of excitement as the commuting bag of doom gives up its’ bounty of hastily packed laundry.

Not that I’m actually doing much commuting at the moment what with the medical predicament that only I can see, and a plethora of fine reasons to avoid travelling to London. Last of these was a fun packed two days with those suppliers of computer software whose corporate motto goes something like “fuck the competition laws, we’ve got better lawyers“. These may not be the actual words but I think I’m pretty much at the heart of it there.

I cannot begin to discuss what we talked about; firstly because under the Non Disclosure Agreement they get to do the ladle/internal organ thing if we do, but more importantly because it’s of similar interest to a slideshow I was once forced to endure cheekily entitled “Tomato Propagation – the Inter War Years“.

But I can tell you about the Hotel although that’s a word I’d not normally bestow on a glorified B&B trading expensively on faded glories. Located in a twee village itself rather interested in permanently staring up its’ own fundament, this rambling collection of drooping buildings appears to have expanded through the simple expedient of buying up the neighbouring houses. And then doing almost nothing to them other than polishing up some naff brass fittings and changing the locks.

My room was just about within the blast zone of the steaming kitchen although reaching it did involve a suicidal road crossing and an extended battle with an entry system dreamt up by a man understanding neither Entry or System. A dark and dank corridoor closed in around me and only the dirty light cast by the emergency signs provided any distinction between door and wall. Passing through ever reducing doorways, it took an audacious limbo move to crash through my door crazily swinging my luggage for balance.

Continue reading “Depressed. You damn well should be.” →

Hot news on the rumour mill just in. The supposedly inseparable trio of Wind, Rain and Cold have sensationally split only a month into their Winter tour. Wind and Rain have formed a new group going under the working title of “Global Warning” citing meteorological differences. Cold is looking to pursue a solo career by leaving the UK and retreating to the shrinking markets of the poles where there’s still an icepack to freeze.

It’s been a balmy week in more ways that one. The wind yesterday ripped through leafy Bucks like a wife through a joint account. We’re calling it the day of a million splinters as trees, fence panels and entire sheds have rolled down the road with barely a nod to the highway code. Driving back from Reading last night was rather more bark-y and diversionary than I remembered, and the car has suffered a light battering from low hanging branches and previously earth bound garden products. As the fifth watering can crashed against the windscreen forcing me to emit a small scream of terror, it was clear this was no ordinary storm.

I was relating – in detail – my long and event filled journey home to my friend who stopped me mid flow to explain he’d never even got home last night. That epic Pennine crossing from Reading to Leeds terminated abruptly in London which was both the wrong direction and logistically tedious. I sympathised as much as possible for a man facing the prospect of ordering eleven new fence panels. This makes me feel partially responsible for the deforestation of the what remains of the Amazon rainforest.

Aside from the gaping holes in what used to be a structurally sound, if rather weathered, fence, further evidence of the storm can be seen on the roof of the barn. Or – to be more accurate – not to be seen since some vital weatherproofing component (flashing? Tiles? Cosmic Filter? I dunno, something like that) has not only left the building, but seemingly was last seen accelerating over the county boundary.

There was a very real prospect of yours truly having to scale a rickety ladder and have a painful accident whilst attempting to fashion a repair. I considered instead sending the kids up tied to a very long pole but once my wife had applied the power of veto, we called in a professional. Which considering the fact that ownership of a chainsaw and a mobile phone is a three day route to permanent financial security is likely to cost me more than the arm and leg I’d have lost, had I attempted it myself.

Still, could be worse. I was intensely gratified to discover that the beer fridge has been undamaged during these worrying times. And after a hotel experience broadly in line with Psycho, the contents of that fridge were in great demand.

But that’s a story for another day until which I shall leave you with this: Considering the chaos dispatched to all corners of the UK by it being a little blowy outside, what do you think will happen if the forecasted snowfall (or “Cold Revival Tour” as I’m thinking of it) dumps a couple of inches next week?

I’m formulating a strategy around a good book and hiding under the duvet until spring.

The aftermath of a complex transaction involving my bike lock keys, my wife driving to the station with two sleepy kids and my inability to navigate around brain fade saw me on kid duty this morning.

Springing out of bed like a coiled sponge, I woke the kids through the simple medium of walking into their door. The whole light switch / door handle/ spatial awareness thing is way beyond my meagre cerebral resources before an infusion of spicy Java. A single step into their room was rewarded by a shooting leg pain triggered by a cruelly abandoned spiky toy selection.

The carpet had been properly mugged by every toy they own and “ unless I missed a Christmas “ quite a few they don’t. Only the occasional flash of purple reminds me that we paid good money for a bloke to cover the nail ridden floorboards. Hard to see why we bothered. Tidy your room” has about as much chance of success as opening the door and shouting World Peace, Today” at next doors dog.

The morning routine of making breakfast, preparing lunch, retrieving lost story books and weaving complex Mandelbrot hair patterns generally passes me by. Either I’ve left hours ago to go and play with the London traffic or I’m safely ensconced in the barn with a steaming cup of coffee and an aspirational to do list. A sidebar here: this to-do-list may as well be carved in stone such is its’ intransigent nature. At the end of each day, I hopefully circle it with the red pen of task completion but it’s nothing more than a weary gesture. I may as well append Put your toys away and don’t hit your sister” to the bottom of this fantasy list. Still if Finish Christmas Cheese” doesn’t see some action soon, I fear for the fridge.

But today this was my routine and easy as that may sound, without the navigational map of motherhood, it proved rather more troublesome. I managed to make Carol’s breakfast although risked the wrath of the Mumminator” -as we like to think of her when she’s in full Arnie mode “ when enquiring to the possible location of sealable lunch bags. Of course they’ll be under the stairs behind a poster warning beware of the leopard“. How silly of me not to realise.

The ticking clock spurred me into action. I shouted upstairs Are you dressed yet” to which the pleasing response was Yep, got my trousers on“. And then a pause. And then on my head¦.”

Barge upstairs, sort inappropriate headgear, shoo children downstairs, endure brief argument over appropriate breakfast ingredients. Refuse to accept that Mummy feeds them chocolate and smoothies regardless of innocent pleading. Dispatch them back upstairs for teeth cleaning and hair tidying “ a job so far beyond me it’s whooshed by and is accelerating towards desperate haircut with kitchen scissors“

Finally co-locate children, schoolbags, shoes, hats, gloves, lunch, reading books, essential furry animals and front door. The rain is lashing down but I ignore the wistful glances at the car from all those under the age of eight. Waiting for the school bell, I’m surrounded by people I sort of know who look even colder and more damp than I. Kids don’t seem to notice at all which is clearly unfair.

Eventually, they become someone elses problem and I stride home at top speed to deal with some important e-mail. Or to put it another way to get back to what I’m meant to be good at.

I’m pretty sure I’m not alone on this – morning multitasking does not come easily to the ball scratching side of the genome.

The problem with beer (and that’s a phrase that I’d wager you never expected me to utter) is that it’s not a socially appropriate beverage at 8am. Except in Scotland, where I’d stumble off the first flight from Heathrow to see some jolly jocks quaffing a couple of pre-breakfast McEwans. Outstanding effort there fellas.

So my pain management regime has been downgraded to Nurafen with every meal and not making any sudden moves. Actually it’s almost been a disappointment that the post crash injuries don’t really hurt at all. It was a pretty big off at a fairly high speed and aside from a neck with articulates about twenty degrees either side, nothing really hurts much. I realise this is twisted logic but even I’m struggling to offer myself any sympathy.

Still the ongoing chest infection / head cold / unknown virus / Spanish Flu Mutation has robbed me of my voice. Wages of Sin probably but while I start the day in fine voice, by the close of play I’ve been reduced to punching people to get my point across. A cross between Joe Cocker and a constipated poodle represents the most printable description of my current vocal output.

If it doesn’t get better soon, I’m going to open myself up with a spoon and have a good root round. Honestly I give up smoking and this is my reward ? Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour.

I’ve told my wife for my Birthday present, I’d like a CAT scan 😉