************************************************
I should say that it is not Christmas eve, nor am I in the drunk-tank. I just love The Pogue's "Fairytale..."
I have had two falls. The first was off a mountain – sort of. And I bashed my right knee.
The second was in a dark car park. I tripped and fell, over a place where a tree had been, but was no longer there, causing injury to my left knee. As I hit the ground a woman who was passing stopped and enquired, solicitously, if I was ok. From a kneeling position I answered in the affirmative. But a man came and picked up my car keys, which had landed some distance away, and asked if I was alright. He was quickly followed by a boy on crutches, and a woman in a wheelchair, pushed by a dwarf.
(I lied about the crutches and the wheelchair people).
But it just shows how close one is to unforeseen trauma. I blame both accidents on wearing boots. But Freud said there is no such thing as an accident. Or was that Jung? Anyway, it was one of them – and if it wasn’t, it ought to have been.
That settles it: I am going back to skating. Clearly I am safer on the ice that on the ground.
As for this Tai Chi I have been trying – well it is ok, and I am sure it will do me some good, but I miss the atmosphere of the rink. Last night I dreamt I was skating. Skating really well, with skill and confidence – even though the ice had turned to slush.
I am eating bread made from spelt and rye. This is because I have a slight intolerance to wheat.
I’ve a slight intolerance to wheat:
When I eat it, it flies to my feet,
And little brown roots
Sprout out of my boots,
And anchor my legs to the street.
Somebody said I should try goats’ milk. So I did – and it’s ok. Also sheep’s cheese. But that is hard to come by. I asked the man in the place where I get my funny bread, and he said the sheep around here tend to yield wool rather than cheese. I wonder if he is trying to wind me up.
I went to a meeting to the MDF last night. That is the ‘Manic Depressive Fellowship’. Not that I am Bi-polar – I don’t think so, anyway. I just went along for the eats. My friend runs the group, and as it was Christmas they were having a sort of buffet. I enjoyed it.
Incidentally, I think the term ‘Bi-polar’ is much better, because people (lay people, that is) confuse ‘manic’ with ‘maniac’.
Anyway, they have invited me to their proper Christmas meal, in January.
I have suffered from depression, as readers of this column will know, and with OCD thrown in for good measure. But I am working on that.
When I fell off the mountain (sort of) I bust my digital camera. Perhaps someone will buy me one, as a Christmas present. I used to quite enjoy photography – perhaps I could do so again.
Anyway, I have used 44 minutes of my 1 hour allocated time on this computer in Widnes library (I could ask for extra time, but I might feel like little Oliver, asking for more
So I will stop there.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
GENESIS II
************************************
In the Beginning was the End. And in the End was the Beginning. And there was no end to the Beginning, nor yet was there any beginning to the End. For the Beginning was the End. And the End was the Beginning. Beginning and End were as one. And there was no separation between the two. And it was right that it was so.
Then, from out of the darkness of the void, from the very heart of that great nothingness, there arose a mighty whirlwind: a vortex from which did spring Gravity. And this force, this Gravity, did cause the bending of Space. The very Space in which did exist Beginning and End
And the bending of this Space did cause Beginning and End to be rent asunder. And, from this split, this tear, was born, Time. And the infant Time did grow. And as he grew he pushed Beginning and End further and further apart. Until it was as if they had never been one.
And thus was born Separateness.
(to be continued)
In the Beginning was the End. And in the End was the Beginning. And there was no end to the Beginning, nor yet was there any beginning to the End. For the Beginning was the End. And the End was the Beginning. Beginning and End were as one. And there was no separation between the two. And it was right that it was so.
Then, from out of the darkness of the void, from the very heart of that great nothingness, there arose a mighty whirlwind: a vortex from which did spring Gravity. And this force, this Gravity, did cause the bending of Space. The very Space in which did exist Beginning and End
And the bending of this Space did cause Beginning and End to be rent asunder. And, from this split, this tear, was born, Time. And the infant Time did grow. And as he grew he pushed Beginning and End further and further apart. Until it was as if they had never been one.
And thus was born Separateness.
(to be continued)
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
In the family way
****************************************
He’s breached the conditions of the injunction – Hector, I mean: he wasn’t supposed to go within 2 miles of old thingy - his partner, or whatever.
He was so agitated on the phone I could scarcely make out what he was going on about. I thought he said he’d gone round to get his jig-saw. ‘I didn’t know you were into woodwork’ I interjected.
‘No, you fool – I mean my jigsaw puzzle. It’s a picture of Tower Bridge - 1000 pieces, and I’d only got the sky to do.’
Anyway, when he got there he discovered that thingy had broken it up and shoved all the pieces back in the box. Said she wanted to use the dining room table as her family was coming to tea.
Hector went berserk. Well, wouldn’t you, if you’d only got the sky to do?
Anyway, she rang the police, and four coppers came round and dragged him off to the station. He was allowed one phone call, so he rang me.
‘Why ME?’ I expostulated. (We haven’t spoken since that business with the Swedish tart.)
He only wanted me to go round and bail him out! It’s a good 40 miles, and anyway, police stations bring on my Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And like I said, he’s not my real brother: I don’t know who his father is – and neither did my mother.
I’ll go though, I suppose. Don’t know why. Bit of a soft touch, I suppose.
You know, you get more trouble from your own family than you do from strangers. You are 85% more likely to be assaulted by a member of your own family than a stranger – now isn’t that a sad statistic? Also, the two most dangerous rooms in the house are the kitchen and the bedroom. Talk about ‘safe sex’… if you don’t go one way, you go the other.
He’s breached the conditions of the injunction – Hector, I mean: he wasn’t supposed to go within 2 miles of old thingy - his partner, or whatever.
He was so agitated on the phone I could scarcely make out what he was going on about. I thought he said he’d gone round to get his jig-saw. ‘I didn’t know you were into woodwork’ I interjected.
‘No, you fool – I mean my jigsaw puzzle. It’s a picture of Tower Bridge - 1000 pieces, and I’d only got the sky to do.’
Anyway, when he got there he discovered that thingy had broken it up and shoved all the pieces back in the box. Said she wanted to use the dining room table as her family was coming to tea.
Hector went berserk. Well, wouldn’t you, if you’d only got the sky to do?
Anyway, she rang the police, and four coppers came round and dragged him off to the station. He was allowed one phone call, so he rang me.
‘Why ME?’ I expostulated. (We haven’t spoken since that business with the Swedish tart.)
He only wanted me to go round and bail him out! It’s a good 40 miles, and anyway, police stations bring on my Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And like I said, he’s not my real brother: I don’t know who his father is – and neither did my mother.
I’ll go though, I suppose. Don’t know why. Bit of a soft touch, I suppose.
You know, you get more trouble from your own family than you do from strangers. You are 85% more likely to be assaulted by a member of your own family than a stranger – now isn’t that a sad statistic? Also, the two most dangerous rooms in the house are the kitchen and the bedroom. Talk about ‘safe sex’… if you don’t go one way, you go the other.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Do they still sell tripe by the yard?
*******************************************************
It sounds like Kabul out there tonight: bonfire night, a peculiarly English festival, when we celebrate Guy Fawkes almost succeeding in blowing up the Houses of Parliament. If he really had succeeded we would probably celebrate for a whole week.
I have told Gwen to keep Miles indoors. Not that she needs telling – he almost never goes out. And when she takes him for a walk he has to be muzzled: he’ll go for anything that moves. I suggested she donate him to a zoo. But she wouldn’t hear of it.
Talking of fireworks: I think the kids round here must have a supplier in the SAS: what I can hear, as I type this, are not bangs but explosions. Of course they have too much money (the kids, not the SAS). When I was a lad things were different. If our dad was in work – and he mostly wasn’t – our mam would say: you can have a firework this year. And she would take me down to the local grocer and allow me to choose one firework out of a big tub. I usually chose a rocket – because I dreamt of going to the moon one day. The other kids would laugh at me, and say: don’t be daft, the moon is made of green cheese. But how wrong they were. I hated Grammar School.
Our grocer’s was called Nevins, and I used to pass it every day as I walked to school (no school-runs in 4x4s in them days). The door was always open in the summer, and I loved the smell of the sawdust on the wooden floor. And they had a huge ginger cat that was always sitting on the counter, next to the bacon-slicer.
I was thinking – in fact I said to Gwen – that this country, this nation of ours, started going downhill when they began making shirts that buttoned all the way down the front. The shirts that I grew up in, you had to pull them over your head because you only had about four buttons – the rest was all shirt.
Of course we had no central heating. Just a coal fire in one room. And when it was time for bed you had to psyche yourself up and then dash up the stairs and jump straight into bed. The bedroom was an ice-box. In fact, Gwen’s fridge is a few degrees warmer than the room I used to sleep in throughout the winter.
In the summer the bedroom was so stuffy that I couldn’t sleep. I should have said ‘we’ couldn’t sleep, because fifteen people in a ‘two up – two down’ meant some sharing was necessary.
There was another reason I couldn’t sleep – but I don’t want to dwell on my childhood. In any case that is covered in my autobiography. Gwen suggested serialising it, here on this blog, but I don’t think that is a good idea.
Anyway, I have enough going on in the present. My brother, Hector (well, he's not really my brother) has been arrested again.
It sounds like Kabul out there tonight: bonfire night, a peculiarly English festival, when we celebrate Guy Fawkes almost succeeding in blowing up the Houses of Parliament. If he really had succeeded we would probably celebrate for a whole week.
I have told Gwen to keep Miles indoors. Not that she needs telling – he almost never goes out. And when she takes him for a walk he has to be muzzled: he’ll go for anything that moves. I suggested she donate him to a zoo. But she wouldn’t hear of it.
Talking of fireworks: I think the kids round here must have a supplier in the SAS: what I can hear, as I type this, are not bangs but explosions. Of course they have too much money (the kids, not the SAS). When I was a lad things were different. If our dad was in work – and he mostly wasn’t – our mam would say: you can have a firework this year. And she would take me down to the local grocer and allow me to choose one firework out of a big tub. I usually chose a rocket – because I dreamt of going to the moon one day. The other kids would laugh at me, and say: don’t be daft, the moon is made of green cheese. But how wrong they were. I hated Grammar School.
Our grocer’s was called Nevins, and I used to pass it every day as I walked to school (no school-runs in 4x4s in them days). The door was always open in the summer, and I loved the smell of the sawdust on the wooden floor. And they had a huge ginger cat that was always sitting on the counter, next to the bacon-slicer.
I was thinking – in fact I said to Gwen – that this country, this nation of ours, started going downhill when they began making shirts that buttoned all the way down the front. The shirts that I grew up in, you had to pull them over your head because you only had about four buttons – the rest was all shirt.
Of course we had no central heating. Just a coal fire in one room. And when it was time for bed you had to psyche yourself up and then dash up the stairs and jump straight into bed. The bedroom was an ice-box. In fact, Gwen’s fridge is a few degrees warmer than the room I used to sleep in throughout the winter.
In the summer the bedroom was so stuffy that I couldn’t sleep. I should have said ‘we’ couldn’t sleep, because fifteen people in a ‘two up – two down’ meant some sharing was necessary.
There was another reason I couldn’t sleep – but I don’t want to dwell on my childhood. In any case that is covered in my autobiography. Gwen suggested serialising it, here on this blog, but I don’t think that is a good idea.
Anyway, I have enough going on in the present. My brother, Hector (well, he's not really my brother) has been arrested again.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."
Greetings to all Americans (and un-naturalised Americans) on this momentous day in your history - and therefore the history of the world.
I am not a political animal, but that lady from Alaska seems quite nice, and since her house is so close to Russia, perhaps it could be used as an embassy, and therefore save money.
It is 9.50pm here in Britain (which of course is the proper time), so I imagine you will all be sitting down to your evening meal: do you call it dinner? Or supper? (I am sure you do not call it ‘tea’)
Anyway, I guess it is all over now (the election), bar the shouting. And judging from what I have seen on the news, there will be plenty of shouting, whoever wins.
I have spent some time with my financial adviser today - A nice chap called Ron - about the possibility of raising (sorely needed) cash. Please don’t misunderstand me – I am not touting for food parcels or anything like that. But to go on living the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, I need money.
Nothing coming in from my writing, and Tony Blair seems to have cornered the market in lecture tours.
I have tried to discuss this state of fiscal disarray with Gwen, but she does not seem interested – as long as I go on paying the rent.
I have had a touch of the diarrhoea this evening. I don’t know whether this is caused by the uncertain financial situation or whether it is something I have eaten. There is a close connection between body and mind. (Have you read Deepak Chopra?).
Anyway, I have a large Grouse at my elbow. Not the bird – the whisky. I am hoping this will kill or cure.
I am not going to stay up all night to get the election results. I will force myself to wait until morning.
I have been thinking of getting a job, to ease the money situation – the problem is, I am over-qualified for almost everything. So what can I do?
Any suggestions (clean of course) would be welcome.
I have to go now, because one of the chores I have to do (in return for the little extras Gwen provides) is to wash the dog. ‘Miles’ is a cross between a Greyhound and a Rotweiler (have I spelt that right?) and so he is bloody hard to catch – and when you do catch him you wish you hadn’t.
Actually, I am a bit worried about Gwen’s relationship with that dog… Is it normal for a dog that size to sleep in your bed? And also, he farts.
I am not a political animal, but that lady from Alaska seems quite nice, and since her house is so close to Russia, perhaps it could be used as an embassy, and therefore save money.
It is 9.50pm here in Britain (which of course is the proper time), so I imagine you will all be sitting down to your evening meal: do you call it dinner? Or supper? (I am sure you do not call it ‘tea’)
Anyway, I guess it is all over now (the election), bar the shouting. And judging from what I have seen on the news, there will be plenty of shouting, whoever wins.
I have spent some time with my financial adviser today - A nice chap called Ron - about the possibility of raising (sorely needed) cash. Please don’t misunderstand me – I am not touting for food parcels or anything like that. But to go on living the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, I need money.
Nothing coming in from my writing, and Tony Blair seems to have cornered the market in lecture tours.
I have tried to discuss this state of fiscal disarray with Gwen, but she does not seem interested – as long as I go on paying the rent.
I have had a touch of the diarrhoea this evening. I don’t know whether this is caused by the uncertain financial situation or whether it is something I have eaten. There is a close connection between body and mind. (Have you read Deepak Chopra?).
Anyway, I have a large Grouse at my elbow. Not the bird – the whisky. I am hoping this will kill or cure.
I am not going to stay up all night to get the election results. I will force myself to wait until morning.
I have been thinking of getting a job, to ease the money situation – the problem is, I am over-qualified for almost everything. So what can I do?
Any suggestions (clean of course) would be welcome.
I have to go now, because one of the chores I have to do (in return for the little extras Gwen provides) is to wash the dog. ‘Miles’ is a cross between a Greyhound and a Rotweiler (have I spelt that right?) and so he is bloody hard to catch – and when you do catch him you wish you hadn’t.
Actually, I am a bit worried about Gwen’s relationship with that dog… Is it normal for a dog that size to sleep in your bed? And also, he farts.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The wisdom of the ancients
******************************************
People are always puzzling about things. Like the pyramids. How did they build them? Do they have some links to aliens. And, coming closer to home, the mystery of Stonehenge. Who built it? Why? What is its religious significance?
And before you know it you’ve got a whole industry built around a couple of stone circles.
Well, there’s no mystery. I’ll tell you who built it: a bunch of lads from Amesbury. Why? Because they had nothing else to do: they had no tellies in them days, no iPods, mobile phones, no books, even.
I can imagine a conversation one Friday night, a long, long time ago.
What you doing this weekend, then?
Nothing, as usual. There’s bugger all to do in Amesbury now they’ve demolished the community centre.
Why don’t you come out with me and our Alan, and a few of his mates – we’re going to build a stone circle.
A stone circle? What for?
Well, exercise for one thing. And it gets us out in the fresh air.
No thanks.
There’ll be some maidens coming. Possibly virgins.
What time you startin’?
Depends on our Alan’s leg. It’s been playing up lately – all this fog and damp.
Well if he’s got a bad leg, what’s he want humping bleedin’ great stones around?
He has a vision.
Come to think about it, where are you going to get the stones from?
The old community centre of course.
The council won’t stand for it – you’ll need planning permission.
Ah, our Alan’s sorted all that out. The council’s only too glad to get someone to clear the site, and it fits in with their new initiative: getting the yobs off the streets.
Well, I might come, but no heavy lifting, mind. You know I done my back in with that plough-girl from over Emsley way.
Friday night – one year later.
Comin’ up Stonehenge tomorrow, then?
Another booze up? Nah – the wife won’t let me. And besides, haven’t the council put the block on all that after hours drinking?
Ah, but our Alan’s come up with a brilliant idea. He’s startin’ a new religion?
A new religion?
Yeah, you can get away with murder (literally) if you say it is the name of religion.
So what’s this new religion involve then?
Well, we all meet up at the circle, around closing time, with a few crates.
And then what?
Our god demands that we all take our clothes off (when we’ve finished the beer of course) and dance naked around the circle.
What, the virgins an’ all?
Well, obviously the virgins. They’re an important part in our worship – we have to sacrifice them.
What kill them?
Nah – that was in the bad old days. It’s like… more like their virginity that gets sacrificed.
You’ll never get away with it.
We will. It’s a religion, innit.
And where you gonna get all your virgins from? There’s precious few of them left in Amesbury.
Our Alan’s put flyers out – all over the county.
You’ll be lucky!
Anyway, when we say virgins – we’re prepared to be a bit flexible.
I should think you’ll have to be. Some of them I’ve seen your Alan out with, have been round the block a few times – or should I say circle.
You may mock. We have our faith.
And have you got a name for this religion, then?
We’re going to call ourselves the ‘Fluids’
The council will twig it – from the name – you’re just a load of drunkards.
Ok, so we may have to change the name, slightly.
It’ll never catch on.
You watch. Our Alan says that in centuries to come, tourists will flock to Stonehenge, especially at the solstice (whatever that is) and blokes will write books, full of bullshit about this being a sacred site an’ all that.
In your dreams.
I’m a bit glum tonight. And I’ve got pains in my neck and shoulder. On top of that it’s freezing cold. I hate the cold weather. It’s the only thing that stopped me becoming a lumberjack.
Anyway, I called at the pub on the way back. The Eight Towers – it’s named after a nearby power station that has eight cooling towers. Tonight I had a baked potato with cheese and bacon, plus a couple of pints of lager.
I know how to live
People are always puzzling about things. Like the pyramids. How did they build them? Do they have some links to aliens. And, coming closer to home, the mystery of Stonehenge. Who built it? Why? What is its religious significance?
And before you know it you’ve got a whole industry built around a couple of stone circles.
Well, there’s no mystery. I’ll tell you who built it: a bunch of lads from Amesbury. Why? Because they had nothing else to do: they had no tellies in them days, no iPods, mobile phones, no books, even.
I can imagine a conversation one Friday night, a long, long time ago.
What you doing this weekend, then?
Nothing, as usual. There’s bugger all to do in Amesbury now they’ve demolished the community centre.
Why don’t you come out with me and our Alan, and a few of his mates – we’re going to build a stone circle.
A stone circle? What for?
Well, exercise for one thing. And it gets us out in the fresh air.
No thanks.
There’ll be some maidens coming. Possibly virgins.
What time you startin’?
Depends on our Alan’s leg. It’s been playing up lately – all this fog and damp.
Well if he’s got a bad leg, what’s he want humping bleedin’ great stones around?
He has a vision.
Come to think about it, where are you going to get the stones from?
The old community centre of course.
The council won’t stand for it – you’ll need planning permission.
Ah, our Alan’s sorted all that out. The council’s only too glad to get someone to clear the site, and it fits in with their new initiative: getting the yobs off the streets.
Well, I might come, but no heavy lifting, mind. You know I done my back in with that plough-girl from over Emsley way.
Friday night – one year later.
Comin’ up Stonehenge tomorrow, then?
Another booze up? Nah – the wife won’t let me. And besides, haven’t the council put the block on all that after hours drinking?
Ah, but our Alan’s come up with a brilliant idea. He’s startin’ a new religion?
A new religion?
Yeah, you can get away with murder (literally) if you say it is the name of religion.
So what’s this new religion involve then?
Well, we all meet up at the circle, around closing time, with a few crates.
And then what?
Our god demands that we all take our clothes off (when we’ve finished the beer of course) and dance naked around the circle.
What, the virgins an’ all?
Well, obviously the virgins. They’re an important part in our worship – we have to sacrifice them.
What kill them?
Nah – that was in the bad old days. It’s like… more like their virginity that gets sacrificed.
You’ll never get away with it.
We will. It’s a religion, innit.
And where you gonna get all your virgins from? There’s precious few of them left in Amesbury.
Our Alan’s put flyers out – all over the county.
You’ll be lucky!
Anyway, when we say virgins – we’re prepared to be a bit flexible.
I should think you’ll have to be. Some of them I’ve seen your Alan out with, have been round the block a few times – or should I say circle.
You may mock. We have our faith.
And have you got a name for this religion, then?
We’re going to call ourselves the ‘Fluids’
The council will twig it – from the name – you’re just a load of drunkards.
Ok, so we may have to change the name, slightly.
It’ll never catch on.
You watch. Our Alan says that in centuries to come, tourists will flock to Stonehenge, especially at the solstice (whatever that is) and blokes will write books, full of bullshit about this being a sacred site an’ all that.
In your dreams.
I’m a bit glum tonight. And I’ve got pains in my neck and shoulder. On top of that it’s freezing cold. I hate the cold weather. It’s the only thing that stopped me becoming a lumberjack.
Anyway, I called at the pub on the way back. The Eight Towers – it’s named after a nearby power station that has eight cooling towers. Tonight I had a baked potato with cheese and bacon, plus a couple of pints of lager.
I know how to live
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Taking the biscuit
***********************************************
I don’t really like Hobnobs. Gwen thinks I do. But I prefer Fox’s Butter Crunch. I’m sure I’ve told her. But she goes on buying Hobnobs. I like to have a biscuit – sometimes two – with a cup of tea. I don’t have sugar in my tea – or milk. But I do like a biscuit.
Anyway, I went for my flu jab this morning, and on the way back I bought a packet of Butter Crunch. I also bought myself a packet of Ryvita and two cans of soup
I’m watching my weight. I’m not obese, but I am heavier that I would like to be. I think I need to take some exercise. Apart from anything else I think it would help my glumness (I refuse to use the word ‘depression’). You know, get the old endorphins going. It comes and goes. Like Winston Churchill’s ‘Black Dog’. He would come downstairs in the morning and say to his wife “Black Dog’s here again.”
Of course Winston had a war to take his mind off his depression. I don’t have anything like that. Do you know that the suicide rate drops dramatically in times of war? Of course I am not advocating war – but it makes you think.
Oh, something that cheered me up this morning: a letter from Anastasia. They forwarded it on from Wynorin. Of course it had been steamed open, but at least Norah had the decency to forward it to me.
I am reproducing here – unabridged. I am not included her address because I don’t want any of you perverts out there stalking her
My Dearest Georgie
Hoping this letter finds you as I send your house WYNORIN where we spend such happiness times until spoiled by that bitch – you know who.
Of course you may be domiciled (note big word) in other parts but should not be difficulty for postal services finding you, such is the smallness of your little cramped island.
Things not going too well for your little Anna. This credit crunching with the banking loans not happening have hit hard our Swedish Porn Industry. (Always is essential services suffering in times such as these). Anyway, Anna has been reduced in her circumstances – to working in sweat shop. You have such thing in England? Is little shop selling sweats and chocoletz plus Coke – which is not stuff for sniffing up nose, but American fizzy drink. This also is getting up nose but not having same effect (Little Swedish joke)
Busy times is when little kiddiwinkles coming home from school and buying the MARS BAR and other such shit what is bad for their bodies. And also little buggers looking at Anna’s bottom as she bend down for liquorice torpedo.
Lady what owns shop has dead husband. So is lonely. Sometimes when we shut shop she invite me to flat upstairs for glass of gin, and discuss economic crisis – and other activities.
Anna miss you terrible. How about slipping over on Stenna ferryboat and we make hay while moon shines? I have not had sexual proclivities filled for long time – well, not by male person.
Hoping letter finding you well, as is leaving me. (Little trouble now has cleared up. Thanks I am thinking to the anti-bioptics. Was getting nowhere with live yoghurt although I eat many tubs of this shit.
Thinking of you always as I dish out gob-stoppers.
Your little playmate
Anna
I miss her. I would go over there like a shot, but it is the money – or lack of it! You may ask, what about the money from the house? Well, I was stitched up good and proper by old Sponce; I didn’t get anywhere near its true market value (even allowing for the downturn in the housing market.) And by the time the lesbian had taken her cut, and I had paid legal fees and a few other bills, I had hardly anything left. Which is why I am living in this Bed and Breakfast establishment – subsisting on Gwen’s Hobnobs.
BUT I HAVE A PLAN
I don’t really like Hobnobs. Gwen thinks I do. But I prefer Fox’s Butter Crunch. I’m sure I’ve told her. But she goes on buying Hobnobs. I like to have a biscuit – sometimes two – with a cup of tea. I don’t have sugar in my tea – or milk. But I do like a biscuit.
Anyway, I went for my flu jab this morning, and on the way back I bought a packet of Butter Crunch. I also bought myself a packet of Ryvita and two cans of soup
I’m watching my weight. I’m not obese, but I am heavier that I would like to be. I think I need to take some exercise. Apart from anything else I think it would help my glumness (I refuse to use the word ‘depression’). You know, get the old endorphins going. It comes and goes. Like Winston Churchill’s ‘Black Dog’. He would come downstairs in the morning and say to his wife “Black Dog’s here again.”
Of course Winston had a war to take his mind off his depression. I don’t have anything like that. Do you know that the suicide rate drops dramatically in times of war? Of course I am not advocating war – but it makes you think.
Oh, something that cheered me up this morning: a letter from Anastasia. They forwarded it on from Wynorin. Of course it had been steamed open, but at least Norah had the decency to forward it to me.
I am reproducing here – unabridged. I am not included her address because I don’t want any of you perverts out there stalking her
My Dearest Georgie
Hoping this letter finds you as I send your house WYNORIN where we spend such happiness times until spoiled by that bitch – you know who.
Of course you may be domiciled (note big word) in other parts but should not be difficulty for postal services finding you, such is the smallness of your little cramped island.
Things not going too well for your little Anna. This credit crunching with the banking loans not happening have hit hard our Swedish Porn Industry. (Always is essential services suffering in times such as these). Anyway, Anna has been reduced in her circumstances – to working in sweat shop. You have such thing in England? Is little shop selling sweats and chocoletz plus Coke – which is not stuff for sniffing up nose, but American fizzy drink. This also is getting up nose but not having same effect (Little Swedish joke)
Busy times is when little kiddiwinkles coming home from school and buying the MARS BAR and other such shit what is bad for their bodies. And also little buggers looking at Anna’s bottom as she bend down for liquorice torpedo.
Lady what owns shop has dead husband. So is lonely. Sometimes when we shut shop she invite me to flat upstairs for glass of gin, and discuss economic crisis – and other activities.
Anna miss you terrible. How about slipping over on Stenna ferryboat and we make hay while moon shines? I have not had sexual proclivities filled for long time – well, not by male person.
Hoping letter finding you well, as is leaving me. (Little trouble now has cleared up. Thanks I am thinking to the anti-bioptics. Was getting nowhere with live yoghurt although I eat many tubs of this shit.
Thinking of you always as I dish out gob-stoppers.
Your little playmate
Anna
I miss her. I would go over there like a shot, but it is the money – or lack of it! You may ask, what about the money from the house? Well, I was stitched up good and proper by old Sponce; I didn’t get anywhere near its true market value (even allowing for the downturn in the housing market.) And by the time the lesbian had taken her cut, and I had paid legal fees and a few other bills, I had hardly anything left. Which is why I am living in this Bed and Breakfast establishment – subsisting on Gwen’s Hobnobs.
BUT I HAVE A PLAN
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Bravely struggling on
**********************************************8
Yesterday, Gwen made me a trifle. It was a trifle unexpected.
I think she did it because she felt sorry for me: I have had a stinking cold for the past week and have been quite depressed, what with one thing and another.
And I had been to the hospital to collect my hearing aid. (Yes, I know: what a sad state of affairs, that one so young should require artificial aids to living. I’m not complaining though; Gwen’s brother has just been fitted with… no, I can’t – it is just too awful.)
As I approached the main entrance, my spirits were briefly lifted as a ray of sunlight broke through a cloud, and glanced off the corrugated iron roof of the consultants’ bike-shed.
The Audiology department is at the end of a long corridor. On the way I passed the various clinics: Orthopaedic, GUM, Dental, Dermatology, Gynaecology, Oncology (and various other sinister sounding ‘…ologies). On past Paediatrics, Podiatry (that’s a posh name for chiropody, isn’t it?)
I never knew it was possible to have so many things wrong with you.
And in the open waiting areas (all seats taken), anxious faces, staring straight ahead or at the floor. No one talking.
People shuffled, hobbled, limped, crutched, wheel-chaired their way past me, many bent and twisted grotesquely. Faces floated by: pale faces, purple faces, scarred and bruised faces, bandaged faces. Faces balanced on top of fearsome neck braces, like an egg in an eggcup. And I thought: we go and build this lovely new hospital, and in no time at all it’s full of sick people.
Does this mean that if you really want to improve the nation’s health you should build fewer hospitals? But seriously folks, I am a real champion of the National Health Service. Perhaps if Mr Obama gets elected you may get one in America
Anyway, if you must have something wrong with you, try and make it in the region of the ‘earoles: the clinic is much smaller, and they have some very pretty young ladies who treat you so nicely.
My hearing aid has cured my paranoia: now I can actually hear people talking about me. No, really it is brilliant. It is like rejoining the world, with the advantage that you can switch of the aid - and therefore the world – when things get too much.
And another strange thing is that I seem to be able to see people more clearly when I am wearing it – no, I really do. Perhaps it’s an illusion but people’s faces seem sharper, more vivid, a bit like those new High Definition tellies – though I haven’t got one myself.
Oh, and this morning Gwen caught me talking to the animals. They’re not real animals, they’re stuffed. There are two bears and two dogs. They really belong to the grandchildren but they have grown too old now to play with them. They just sit there in the bedroom – the animals not the children – and I sort of feel sorry for them. They look so lonely. So I often have a quick word as I am passing.
Gwen said to me “What are you doing?”
“I’m talking to the animals” I replied.
“Well they won’t answer you back.”
“You never know.” I retorted, “One of these mornings… they just might.”
She just looked at me, and left the room.
(Oh and by the way, RJ - I tried that vinegar stuff you recommended. It's horrible. I ate a packet of strong mints and still couldn't get rid of the taste.)
Yesterday, Gwen made me a trifle. It was a trifle unexpected.
I think she did it because she felt sorry for me: I have had a stinking cold for the past week and have been quite depressed, what with one thing and another.
And I had been to the hospital to collect my hearing aid. (Yes, I know: what a sad state of affairs, that one so young should require artificial aids to living. I’m not complaining though; Gwen’s brother has just been fitted with… no, I can’t – it is just too awful.)
As I approached the main entrance, my spirits were briefly lifted as a ray of sunlight broke through a cloud, and glanced off the corrugated iron roof of the consultants’ bike-shed.
The Audiology department is at the end of a long corridor. On the way I passed the various clinics: Orthopaedic, GUM, Dental, Dermatology, Gynaecology, Oncology (and various other sinister sounding ‘…ologies). On past Paediatrics, Podiatry (that’s a posh name for chiropody, isn’t it?)
I never knew it was possible to have so many things wrong with you.
And in the open waiting areas (all seats taken), anxious faces, staring straight ahead or at the floor. No one talking.
People shuffled, hobbled, limped, crutched, wheel-chaired their way past me, many bent and twisted grotesquely. Faces floated by: pale faces, purple faces, scarred and bruised faces, bandaged faces. Faces balanced on top of fearsome neck braces, like an egg in an eggcup. And I thought: we go and build this lovely new hospital, and in no time at all it’s full of sick people.
Does this mean that if you really want to improve the nation’s health you should build fewer hospitals? But seriously folks, I am a real champion of the National Health Service. Perhaps if Mr Obama gets elected you may get one in America
Anyway, if you must have something wrong with you, try and make it in the region of the ‘earoles: the clinic is much smaller, and they have some very pretty young ladies who treat you so nicely.
My hearing aid has cured my paranoia: now I can actually hear people talking about me. No, really it is brilliant. It is like rejoining the world, with the advantage that you can switch of the aid - and therefore the world – when things get too much.
And another strange thing is that I seem to be able to see people more clearly when I am wearing it – no, I really do. Perhaps it’s an illusion but people’s faces seem sharper, more vivid, a bit like those new High Definition tellies – though I haven’t got one myself.
Oh, and this morning Gwen caught me talking to the animals. They’re not real animals, they’re stuffed. There are two bears and two dogs. They really belong to the grandchildren but they have grown too old now to play with them. They just sit there in the bedroom – the animals not the children – and I sort of feel sorry for them. They look so lonely. So I often have a quick word as I am passing.
Gwen said to me “What are you doing?”
“I’m talking to the animals” I replied.
“Well they won’t answer you back.”
“You never know.” I retorted, “One of these mornings… they just might.”
She just looked at me, and left the room.
(Oh and by the way, RJ - I tried that vinegar stuff you recommended. It's horrible. I ate a packet of strong mints and still couldn't get rid of the taste.)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A pilchard is a grown-up sardine
***********************************************8
I woke up this morning feeling like shit. But now, I own a bank – two, actually. Alistair and Gordon bought them for me. And it isn’t even my birthday.
Fancy me, a merchant banker!
Nice to get a comment from Matilde Bonaparte. It’s a bit like that tree falling in a forest: if there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Well, how do I know if my writing makes a sound unless someone hears it, and tells me.
I haven’t heard from that fellow Adams, although I follow his blog (I still dial www.sparrowchat.blogspot.com) with interest. I guess he is too busy campaigning on behalf of John McCain. Personally I don’t think it matters who gets in – I doubt either of them could measure up to Mr Bush.
I accessed Matilde’s blog: www.thebipolarexpress.blogspot.com and read her post where she talks about the word ‘cunt’. A friend of mine once told me that the test of a really good dictionary is if it gives the origin of that wonderful Anglo-Saxon word as a sheath for a shepherd’s knife.
Well, I have not yet found one that gives this definition – and when I asked a shepherd he told me to fuck off.
I haven’t been well this past week but I am feeling a bit better now, although the weather doesn’t help: rainy, gloomy, miserable – enough to depress anyone – especially someone with a stinking cold.
Recently I sought help from the medical profession, in a couple of areas - one of which I will make the subject of a separate post. I have suffered for some time from the itchy legs; there is no rash, no dry skin, nothing visible that one might think would warrant the attention of a dermatologist. It just comes and goes, for no apparent reason.
I saw my doctor some time ago and he said he thought it could be ‘nerves’. But the doctor I saw last week, after having a good look, said that the itching was caused by very close veins. Well that's what it sounded like. When I realised he meant varicose veins I was astonished. 'What, you mean I have varicose veins?' I said.
'Oh yes' he replied.
Anyway he prescribed some capsules called PAROVEN, which apparently help stop blood leaking into the tissues from faulty one-way valves in the veins. They seem quite successful but I have stopped taking them for the moment; I want to find out exactly how they do this.
Enough for now. It is my lunchtime, and I must rise from where I lie supine in this chair, and open a tin of pilchards.
You’re never alone with a pilchard.
I woke up this morning feeling like shit. But now, I own a bank – two, actually. Alistair and Gordon bought them for me. And it isn’t even my birthday.
Fancy me, a merchant banker!
Nice to get a comment from Matilde Bonaparte. It’s a bit like that tree falling in a forest: if there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Well, how do I know if my writing makes a sound unless someone hears it, and tells me.
I haven’t heard from that fellow Adams, although I follow his blog (I still dial www.sparrowchat.blogspot.com) with interest. I guess he is too busy campaigning on behalf of John McCain. Personally I don’t think it matters who gets in – I doubt either of them could measure up to Mr Bush.
I accessed Matilde’s blog: www.thebipolarexpress.blogspot.com and read her post where she talks about the word ‘cunt’. A friend of mine once told me that the test of a really good dictionary is if it gives the origin of that wonderful Anglo-Saxon word as a sheath for a shepherd’s knife.
Well, I have not yet found one that gives this definition – and when I asked a shepherd he told me to fuck off.
I haven’t been well this past week but I am feeling a bit better now, although the weather doesn’t help: rainy, gloomy, miserable – enough to depress anyone – especially someone with a stinking cold.
Recently I sought help from the medical profession, in a couple of areas - one of which I will make the subject of a separate post. I have suffered for some time from the itchy legs; there is no rash, no dry skin, nothing visible that one might think would warrant the attention of a dermatologist. It just comes and goes, for no apparent reason.
I saw my doctor some time ago and he said he thought it could be ‘nerves’. But the doctor I saw last week, after having a good look, said that the itching was caused by very close veins. Well that's what it sounded like. When I realised he meant varicose veins I was astonished. 'What, you mean I have varicose veins?' I said.
'Oh yes' he replied.
Anyway he prescribed some capsules called PAROVEN, which apparently help stop blood leaking into the tissues from faulty one-way valves in the veins. They seem quite successful but I have stopped taking them for the moment; I want to find out exactly how they do this.
Enough for now. It is my lunchtime, and I must rise from where I lie supine in this chair, and open a tin of pilchards.
You’re never alone with a pilchard.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
The American Economic Crisis
*******************************************************
A possible solution
$700bn sounds a lot, but it goes nowhere these days. I suggest George Bush appeals to the Third World for help. After all, look at the money America has poured into these countries over the years. Well, it’s pay-back time – that’s what I say. And food parcels are not enough.
Why not organise a mail-shot to the likes of Ethiopia, Rwanda and all those other foreign places that have benefited from American aid. OK, so America does not need a fresh-water supply – or a regime change (perhaps that’s not a good example), but what it does need is money.
A mail-shot then, on the lines of the stuff that drops regularly through my letterbox. Something like this:
Photograph of an emaciated banker –
(Obviously you would have to use some unemployed actor, but there must be plenty of those about).
“Just $50000 would renew this man’s golf-club subscription AND pay his Filipino au pair’s wages for the next 5 years… etc etc”… you get the idea.
Then you would have the usual tear-off strip on the bottom –
“My donation is $10000……. $5000…… or $………
Please return in the enclosed envelope. A stamp is not necessary but it would help us to keep costs down.”
I think this is a brilliant idea and I wonder why George has not thought of it.
A possible solution
$700bn sounds a lot, but it goes nowhere these days. I suggest George Bush appeals to the Third World for help. After all, look at the money America has poured into these countries over the years. Well, it’s pay-back time – that’s what I say. And food parcels are not enough.
Why not organise a mail-shot to the likes of Ethiopia, Rwanda and all those other foreign places that have benefited from American aid. OK, so America does not need a fresh-water supply – or a regime change (perhaps that’s not a good example), but what it does need is money.
A mail-shot then, on the lines of the stuff that drops regularly through my letterbox. Something like this:
Photograph of an emaciated banker –
(Obviously you would have to use some unemployed actor, but there must be plenty of those about).
“Just $50000 would renew this man’s golf-club subscription AND pay his Filipino au pair’s wages for the next 5 years… etc etc”… you get the idea.
Then you would have the usual tear-off strip on the bottom –
“My donation is $10000……. $5000…… or $………
Please return in the enclosed envelope. A stamp is not necessary but it would help us to keep costs down.”
I think this is a brilliant idea and I wonder why George has not thought of it.
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