the flag
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB
4 hours ago
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Washing update day 3
My friends, I feared today that the heavens would open and that it would rain. Luckily this did not come to pass. As a result, I was able to bring my washing in off the line as I got home around 8pm.
Fun times.
Fun times.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Washing update day 2
My washing has now completed a second day on the washing line - unfortunately I was busy last night and didn't get the chance to bring it in. I can confirm that it was sopping wet this morning, due to the systematic accumulation of precipitous matter during the twilight hours, or dew.
Given the sun this morning I was inclined to leave the washing out for the day, as bad choice as it turned out, given the MORE RAIN we have had today. I look forward to updating you with more information from the ground as I reach the washing later this afternoon.
Given the sun this morning I was inclined to leave the washing out for the day, as bad choice as it turned out, given the MORE RAIN we have had today. I look forward to updating you with more information from the ground as I reach the washing later this afternoon.
Monday, 27 April 2009
There has been a hanging.
I've not used a washing line in ages, you know. The last house I lived at in Bangor had a mild example, but getting to the back garden involved limboing and shimmying and moving things and tetanus top-ups, it just wasn't convenient. Thinking back through the years my mum was always more of a fan of tumble dryers - you know, back before we cared about the planet and microwaves were still cool. Myself, I've always been a fan of that damp smell in the air and you open a window to let the fresh air come flooding through - radiators and racks that go endlessly up and skim the ceiling, hanging so many clothes out that it looks like someone has left a bomb in a Punch and Judy show. That's the way to do it.
I say this as a short preamble - a wee introduction to the fact that I PUT MY WASHING OUT AND IT RAINED.
Later: I pedalo the Serpentine.
I say this as a short preamble - a wee introduction to the fact that I PUT MY WASHING OUT AND IT RAINED.
Later: I pedalo the Serpentine.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
The first rule about men's gym...
I currently have the mobility of a recovering heart attack victim - yesterday evening I engaged in what can only be described as exercise, although not having done it in so long I'm not entirely confident in the expression. This little session greatly comprised my human rights, not to mention my fundamental dignity, and stopped just short of water-boarding on the scale of good torture versus the bad kind which you're not allowed to do. Anymore.
I took part in "men's gym", a new initiative at church. It's a peculiarly Christian thing - basically you put 'men's' in front of anything and it suddenly becomes a good thing. All the chaps can come along and be spiritual and manly and talk about stuff. You have men's days, men's breakfasts and men's crafts.
Actually that last one I made up, although it would be nice for us all to get together occasionally to make cards and suchlike.
At any rate, in Bangor we had breakfasts, which were only traumatic in as much as you had to get up early. In London it's much more hardcore - circuits and weights and punchbags and running and screaming and crunching and pain. So much pain.
I could barely walk this morning, I had to crawl up the stairs to bed last night. I'm going again Monday if I can do it.
I took part in "men's gym", a new initiative at church. It's a peculiarly Christian thing - basically you put 'men's' in front of anything and it suddenly becomes a good thing. All the chaps can come along and be spiritual and manly and talk about stuff. You have men's days, men's breakfasts and men's crafts.
Actually that last one I made up, although it would be nice for us all to get together occasionally to make cards and suchlike.
At any rate, in Bangor we had breakfasts, which were only traumatic in as much as you had to get up early. In London it's much more hardcore - circuits and weights and punchbags and running and screaming and crunching and pain. So much pain.
I could barely walk this morning, I had to crawl up the stairs to bed last night. I'm going again Monday if I can do it.
It's time to reach out and stop pretending...
Hello there, cruel world. I'm still here.
It's not that I haven't had anything to say - it's just that I haven't had the time to transfer those thoughts from my little brain synapses to my nervy bits, down my weirdly long neck, winding through the complicated sinews of the shoulder area, along my arms and out my fingertips onto keys that have seen better days.
When you think about it, it's a lengthy process - it's simply not for the faint-hearted. Just coming up with that sentence has cost me at least a piece of toast and a slurp of tea. Due to the unique way in which my body is funded...yeah, it's amazing how these things ever get done - what if your elbow gets closed for maintenance works? What happens then? It's not like they can have a diversion via your hip.
Me, I follow the same principle as London Underground, I close down on Saturdays. Nothing, nada, zippo. It may be a glorious thing to die for one's country, but having a good lie-in and a couple of DVDs on a Saturday morning must come in a close second.
I was involved in some sort of conversation the other day - I say involved, I mean I was there, perhaps not concentrating fully on the matters at hand. Someone mentioned Joe Bloggs - I thought 'does he? What's his URL?' I'm too funny to be cooped up in my head, it's wasted, it's a waste, it's a travesty, that's what it is.
Wasted. Like pearls among swine. Except that makes me both the pearl and the swine. That's about it, I'd say.
It's not that I haven't had anything to say - it's just that I haven't had the time to transfer those thoughts from my little brain synapses to my nervy bits, down my weirdly long neck, winding through the complicated sinews of the shoulder area, along my arms and out my fingertips onto keys that have seen better days.
When you think about it, it's a lengthy process - it's simply not for the faint-hearted. Just coming up with that sentence has cost me at least a piece of toast and a slurp of tea. Due to the unique way in which my body is funded...yeah, it's amazing how these things ever get done - what if your elbow gets closed for maintenance works? What happens then? It's not like they can have a diversion via your hip.
Me, I follow the same principle as London Underground, I close down on Saturdays. Nothing, nada, zippo. It may be a glorious thing to die for one's country, but having a good lie-in and a couple of DVDs on a Saturday morning must come in a close second.
I was involved in some sort of conversation the other day - I say involved, I mean I was there, perhaps not concentrating fully on the matters at hand. Someone mentioned Joe Bloggs - I thought 'does he? What's his URL?' I'm too funny to be cooped up in my head, it's wasted, it's a waste, it's a travesty, that's what it is.
Wasted. Like pearls among swine. Except that makes me both the pearl and the swine. That's about it, I'd say.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Was ich am Wochenende tat.
It was a bit of a shame the big girls couldn't do a proper start, but the race was fun this morning. We've only got next week and there's no more getting up at ridiculous hours until October. A nice, genteel, every two weeks summer Formula 1 season.
Fun weekend, though - spent Friday evening with Carolan and Andy for our weekly Heroes/Big Bang Theory/Inbetweeners festival of comedy and thriller. Just like old times, sat on the sofa together watching the telly. Actually, I don't think we watched that much television all together when we lived together last year, but it's nice to think that we did.
Saturday I had a look round the Victoria and Albert (fashion, photographs and furniture - my favourite parts) and then I met Simon and Andy off the programme I'm on this year to go and have a look round the Wildlife Photography exhibition at the Natural History Museum. I think you've still got a week left to go and have a look round it - it was really terribly good. I can't quite understand the mentality of all these chaps who spend 5/6/7 hours at a time hiding from lesser spotted snow squirrels in the tundras of northern Europe in order to catch their triennial copulating rituals in black and white, but whatever - the end result is a fairly sexy collection of images.
This morning, after watching the first three-quarters of the grand prix I had to dash out of the house and over to Wimbledon to avail myself of a free ticket to go and see a preview screening of 'State of Play', a new Russell Crowe vehicle that turned out to be really rather good. It's a fairly suspenseful film, quite exciting and Helen Mirren kicks some arse, she steals every scene she's in.
So there you go - I feel the need to try and include some sort of pensive moral message within my post, perhaps try and end with a pithy one-liner that might set the whole piece just nicely - lest you might think that I might try and pass off some mediocre whiffle about my whereabouts over the past couple of days as a viable substitute for a proper post.
And I would never do that.
Fun weekend, though - spent Friday evening with Carolan and Andy for our weekly Heroes/Big Bang Theory/Inbetweeners festival of comedy and thriller. Just like old times, sat on the sofa together watching the telly. Actually, I don't think we watched that much television all together when we lived together last year, but it's nice to think that we did.
Saturday I had a look round the Victoria and Albert (fashion, photographs and furniture - my favourite parts) and then I met Simon and Andy off the programme I'm on this year to go and have a look round the Wildlife Photography exhibition at the Natural History Museum. I think you've still got a week left to go and have a look round it - it was really terribly good. I can't quite understand the mentality of all these chaps who spend 5/6/7 hours at a time hiding from lesser spotted snow squirrels in the tundras of northern Europe in order to catch their triennial copulating rituals in black and white, but whatever - the end result is a fairly sexy collection of images.
This morning, after watching the first three-quarters of the grand prix I had to dash out of the house and over to Wimbledon to avail myself of a free ticket to go and see a preview screening of 'State of Play', a new Russell Crowe vehicle that turned out to be really rather good. It's a fairly suspenseful film, quite exciting and Helen Mirren kicks some arse, she steals every scene she's in.
So there you go - I feel the need to try and include some sort of pensive moral message within my post, perhaps try and end with a pithy one-liner that might set the whole piece just nicely - lest you might think that I might try and pass off some mediocre whiffle about my whereabouts over the past couple of days as a viable substitute for a proper post.
And I would never do that.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
What a card.
I have a little inward chuckle every time I hear mention of Clinton Cards - I mean, what sort of things are they going to stock? "Happy birthday, Mr President"? "Commiserations on losing the nomination"? "I'm sorry I slept with [this space has been left blank for your own message]"?
Cards are funny, aren't they. It's nice to let people know that you've been thinking about them. Maybe someone has started selling cards that say that you've been thinking about someone. I noticed Easter cards the other week when I was going round the shops. Easter cards? Felicitations on this joyous anniversary of the Lord's death sentence. They'll start selling so many cards soon that people will resort to legal action to get some sort of correspondence injunction out against people.
I can see that there's limited scope in the card business when there are only so many major card-sending occasions in the year and so many QVC viewers are being encouraged to make their own. I couldn't say the profession was in a similarly tremulous position to perhaps banking, or anglicanism, but still - I'm oozing empathy, I can see the rub. Maybe we do need to be more in touch. Saying it with flowers is a little much, but by the same token even a quick phone call isn't always convenient, however good it is to talk. I think I shall practice being thoughtful for a while, see how it fits me.
Cards are funny, aren't they. It's nice to let people know that you've been thinking about them. Maybe someone has started selling cards that say that you've been thinking about someone. I noticed Easter cards the other week when I was going round the shops. Easter cards? Felicitations on this joyous anniversary of the Lord's death sentence. They'll start selling so many cards soon that people will resort to legal action to get some sort of correspondence injunction out against people.
I can see that there's limited scope in the card business when there are only so many major card-sending occasions in the year and so many QVC viewers are being encouraged to make their own. I couldn't say the profession was in a similarly tremulous position to perhaps banking, or anglicanism, but still - I'm oozing empathy, I can see the rub. Maybe we do need to be more in touch. Saying it with flowers is a little much, but by the same token even a quick phone call isn't always convenient, however good it is to talk. I think I shall practice being thoughtful for a while, see how it fits me.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Some weather chat.
I've come back to London and the weather is completely overcast and dreary - there may even have been a splash of rain yesterday evening as I made my way back home from work. Which is all depressing and uselessly British, but does give me an opportunity to spend a few days nursing my ravaged arm. A load of sunburn turned up on the other arm yesterday, which led me to believe that I was being mercilessly attacked by some sort of freak skin virus that may or not have come to earth on a meteor. My face has also "caught the sun", which is a mean euphemism for "your nose and patches of your forehead are completely different colours to the rest of you". In this case, a sort of deep pinky-brown.
The reason this is all so mildly distressing (but at the same time, perversely, I'm rubbing my little hands with glee as my life is particularly dull and I have no earthly clue as to how I've managed to blog about it for nearly four years) is that I always carry sun lotion in sprayable form in my wee man-bag when it's sunny. People mock me ceaselessly for my wee man-bag - it's like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, but considerably less roomy. I tried carrying a lamp around once, but I kept tripping over it and hitting myself in the face. I wasn't carrying my sprayable sun lotion 1) because it was in an entirely different part of the country and 2) I wasn't expecting any nice weather.
Keeping on top of the weather's game in this country is a particularly insidious business, you really have to be ready for absolutely anything.
The reason this is all so mildly distressing (but at the same time, perversely, I'm rubbing my little hands with glee as my life is particularly dull and I have no earthly clue as to how I've managed to blog about it for nearly four years) is that I always carry sun lotion in sprayable form in my wee man-bag when it's sunny. People mock me ceaselessly for my wee man-bag - it's like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, but considerably less roomy. I tried carrying a lamp around once, but I kept tripping over it and hitting myself in the face. I wasn't carrying my sprayable sun lotion 1) because it was in an entirely different part of the country and 2) I wasn't expecting any nice weather.
Keeping on top of the weather's game in this country is a particularly insidious business, you really have to be ready for absolutely anything.
Monday, 13 April 2009
On the train.
Once again I most certainly had something profound to write about and I have become distracted. This time by the marvel of being able to use free wireless on the train back to London - the journey lasts about 7 minutes, so there's hardly enough time to drink my free tea and eat my free biscuits before cadging some free internet. Oops, excuse me - in first class it's 'complimentary', not free - like you've earned it, or something.
So, today was a glorious Bank Holiday. We went to our grandparents' house in Worcester, had a barbeque and I basted myself in the sun. Result: third-degree burns on my right arm that will no doubt result in it dropping off overnight. Gosh. I suspect that I may have to sleep in a bath of lavender and aloe vera mixed with crushed ice and some sort of extremely gentle moisturiser. Alternatively, I could leave it and have something to moan about for the next few days. Sorted.
And now I'm miles away from my point and seconds away from my destination, so I bid thee all farewell for now.
So, today was a glorious Bank Holiday. We went to our grandparents' house in Worcester, had a barbeque and I basted myself in the sun. Result: third-degree burns on my right arm that will no doubt result in it dropping off overnight. Gosh. I suspect that I may have to sleep in a bath of lavender and aloe vera mixed with crushed ice and some sort of extremely gentle moisturiser. Alternatively, I could leave it and have something to moan about for the next few days. Sorted.
And now I'm miles away from my point and seconds away from my destination, so I bid thee all farewell for now.
A nice cups of tea.
My mum and dad have this brilliant kettle they bought months and months ago - it's not your usual standard kettle that just boils water that you put in and that, it boils water to order. Of course, it doesn't work so well in the garden, but hooked up this is high-end, a la carte stuff, fancy boiling water as you require it sir.
Did you know that Brits overfill their kettles by 110% on average? I sort of made that up, but it's ball park, something outrageous I read somewhere. The planet will never get saved when we're all driving Priuses but boiling 4 cups more than we need.
Did you know that Brits overfill their kettles by 110% on average? I sort of made that up, but it's ball park, something outrageous I read somewhere. The planet will never get saved when we're all driving Priuses but boiling 4 cups more than we need.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Saturday, 11 April 2009
The miserable day.
Today is the miserable day of Easter - yesterday was tough, with all the beating and the killing, but it was something to do, you know? Crucifixion is quite a lengthy process, you'd take a picnic and not worry about dinner. Yesterday was painful for everyone but the desolation hadn't quite set in.
Tomorrow Jesus is all "jokes bitches, I came back to life, didn't I", and everyone else is all "we thought you were dead, what must we look like upon discovering that this is no longer the case?" Today, though, it's all about being at home and knowing that one of your best friends was murdered and you couldn't do anything about it, that your job following this chap supporting his one man show has all but vapourised and all of his promises for a better world, his faith in people - they're just empty and pointless and crap.
Tomorrow they're going to take down spices and oils and arrange a funeral and have a good old mourn, but today is just the numbness and the reality. The miserable day.
Tomorrow Jesus is all "jokes bitches, I came back to life, didn't I", and everyone else is all "we thought you were dead, what must we look like upon discovering that this is no longer the case?" Today, though, it's all about being at home and knowing that one of your best friends was murdered and you couldn't do anything about it, that your job following this chap supporting his one man show has all but vapourised and all of his promises for a better world, his faith in people - they're just empty and pointless and crap.
Tomorrow they're going to take down spices and oils and arrange a funeral and have a good old mourn, but today is just the numbness and the reality. The miserable day.
Friday, 10 April 2009
We are watching a film.
The floodlight goes on in the garden.
A rat bounds across the patio.
My mum screams.
My sister reckons they can jump up and bite your face.
My dad is sent outside to make sure it's gone.
We finish watching our film.
A rat bounds across the patio.
My mum screams.
My sister reckons they can jump up and bite your face.
My dad is sent outside to make sure it's gone.
We finish watching our film.
Spectacular collisions.
What I like about nothing to do is the chance it gives me to explore a bit - not outside, heavens no - but over the internet. I took a couple of pictures yesterday just to see if I could still do it (it's been a while since I went out properly with my camera - I must take my tripod and flash back to London), and I spent some time this afternoon just moseying around Flickr seeing what people were up to. I'd love to have been able to be a photographer, but I just don't have the nuts for it. I'm certainly no good at taking pictures of people, so that's fashion photography out, which would have been the only really fun side I could think of. I'd dearly love to pay my way through life as a writer, but I fear that I don't have the meat for that either. I'm probably quite creative when it comes down to it, but I lack the application.
I've catching up on a bit of blog reading too - it's normally just scanning rather than having a good read - I've discovered the Daily Smoke (in as much as I also discovered America in 2002 - many others had trodden before me) and some pensive observation; Cliff has been on holiday, but writes ever so eloquently about it; JonnyB goes to the village shop in the latest turn to his ever-readable (private secret) diary; it turns out my only celebrity friend Ben doesn't like onions and anonymous girl has had a bath, but I'm quite addicted to reading what she has to say - I'm in awe in the first instance of her ability to write anonymously and without interaction and edification. I'm sure she gets it from somewhere, but that's the shit I live for.
It's also nice to know that whatever's happening in my world - and mostly it's hanging around on the internet and eating stale sweets that I've found in the bottom of my bag - there are people with their own worlds, where things are happening. Isn't it nice that they all collide spectacularly on the internet?
I've catching up on a bit of blog reading too - it's normally just scanning rather than having a good read - I've discovered the Daily Smoke (in as much as I also discovered America in 2002 - many others had trodden before me) and some pensive observation; Cliff has been on holiday, but writes ever so eloquently about it; JonnyB goes to the village shop in the latest turn to his ever-readable (private secret) diary; it turns out my only celebrity friend Ben doesn't like onions and anonymous girl has had a bath, but I'm quite addicted to reading what she has to say - I'm in awe in the first instance of her ability to write anonymously and without interaction and edification. I'm sure she gets it from somewhere, but that's the shit I live for.
It's also nice to know that whatever's happening in my world - and mostly it's hanging around on the internet and eating stale sweets that I've found in the bottom of my bag - there are people with their own worlds, where things are happening. Isn't it nice that they all collide spectacularly on the internet?
A quick snoop.
Every time I come back to Coventry I have to have a little snoop around the house, a quick once-over, just to see what's different, see what's changed. My dad does little jobs here and there, my mum has little bits and pieces she puts out. It might be that the living room has changed to the summer configuration (they have that), something in the garden like a new patio set, or some fancy new lighting that's been installed to add a little ambience to the place.
A recent addition is an authentic cuckoo clock from the Black Forest, Germany, made from proper Black Forest, Germany trees and everything. Whilst authentic, it's also loud enough to wake the dead. The ticker (or is it the tocker? I don't know which is the lead partner in that particular relationship.) strikes roaring blows with ruthless metronomicefficiency and the cuckoo himself yells every hour like a maniac. I swear the little beast has a saucepan in there he likes to bash as well.
Still, it's a terribly handsome abode he has there.
A recent addition is an authentic cuckoo clock from the Black Forest, Germany, made from proper Black Forest, Germany trees and everything. Whilst authentic, it's also loud enough to wake the dead. The ticker (or is it the tocker? I don't know which is the lead partner in that particular relationship.) strikes roaring blows with ruthless metronomicefficiency and the cuckoo himself yells every hour like a maniac. I swear the little beast has a saucepan in there he likes to bash as well.
Still, it's a terribly handsome abode he has there.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
What's going on ear then.
I was going to blog to you live from on location this morning, but the NHS were unusually efficient and my visit to the walk-in centre was over in a jiffy. I have a spot of ear infection, turns out it's a viral something-or-other of the ear canal and my glands are swollen, but it's not a cold. It would have been quicker if they'd just given me the drugs, but I suspect they go into considerable detail to lend the experience a theatrical air. I certainly left happier knowing that I was suffering from something with a long, unpronounceable name.
I had a similar issue at Christmas, but in my left ear - looking through my less than extensive back catalogue I am surprised that I did not blog about this previous ailment at length, because my ear was full of pus, it was great. This time round it's a lot hurtier - I feel like someone has tried to stove my head in with a pair of nail scissors and I can't quite hear very well. My hearing isn't great at the best of times, less so when my ear is swollen shut. Nice.
Thinking about it, I may have caught it off Fernando Alonso, because he raced at last weekend's Malaysian GP with an ear infection. Can you catch bacterial infections through the television, or is it just stupidity?
I had a similar issue at Christmas, but in my left ear - looking through my less than extensive back catalogue I am surprised that I did not blog about this previous ailment at length, because my ear was full of pus, it was great. This time round it's a lot hurtier - I feel like someone has tried to stove my head in with a pair of nail scissors and I can't quite hear very well. My hearing isn't great at the best of times, less so when my ear is swollen shut. Nice.
Thinking about it, I may have caught it off Fernando Alonso, because he raced at last weekend's Malaysian GP with an ear infection. Can you catch bacterial infections through the television, or is it just stupidity?
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
I forgot.
I don't know whether you're here and you're reading because you're trying to get a sneaky update on something I might be getting up to and I've not really been on Facebook lately because the new one is stupid and I really don't understand how it works and I'm being quite narrowminded and unwilling to accept the change because I could learn how it works and enjoy it perfectly well but I'm just being stubborn because it's too much effort anyway - or, you write a wee blog yourself and you're just skirting about the place, having a read and seeing wassup with your web-peeps.
For the former - just back in Coventry for a few days, got some time off and I'm relaxing.
For the latter - bugger me if I didn't just get to that forbidding, evil draft page and I completely forgot what I was going to write about.
In fact, in Blogger (I really have misgivings about Google, but this stuff here is reliable and more easy to use than the last ALBOWIEB incarnation. Dammit.) there's just a one-word command - "create". How's that for pressure? I don't feel like I'm creating, just spewing forth crud from the innermost shallows of my mind. I'm sure I had something profound to say today, though.
For the former - just back in Coventry for a few days, got some time off and I'm relaxing.
For the latter - bugger me if I didn't just get to that forbidding, evil draft page and I completely forgot what I was going to write about.
In fact, in Blogger (I really have misgivings about Google, but this stuff here is reliable and more easy to use than the last ALBOWIEB incarnation. Dammit.) there's just a one-word command - "create". How's that for pressure? I don't feel like I'm creating, just spewing forth crud from the innermost shallows of my mind. I'm sure I had something profound to say today, though.
Monday, 6 April 2009
Questions I have
Do you think that black sheep really are shunned by their peers, or is this a societal prejudice imposed on them by us?
I've just seen a black lamb quite gaily frolicking with the other sheeps and all looked well. Perhaps they're a particularly progressive flock.
I've just seen a black lamb quite gaily frolicking with the other sheeps and all looked well. Perhaps they're a particularly progressive flock.
Did Schroedinger ever have a dog?
*I mentioned Schroedinger yesterday. I was trying out a poncey thing that I've heard of that makes you look really intelligent. You can be having a conversation with people who think themselves intelligent and just throw in something along the lines of "well, it's just like Cicero said", or "I'm sure Plato would have something to say about that!" Usually followed by a horsey guffaw of some description and you cross your fingers hoping that no-one wants to lose face by asking what exactly Cicero did say.
My shameful admission is that I have no clue about Schroedinger apart from a joke I heard the other day: 'Schroedinger gets pulled over by a policeman in his car - "Do you know how fast you were going back there?" "No, but I could tell you exactly where I was."' Horsey guffaw. Seriously, I still don't get it. And Wikipedia isn't a great help either. But Cicero, eh? What a card.
My shameful admission is that I have no clue about Schroedinger apart from a joke I heard the other day: 'Schroedinger gets pulled over by a policeman in his car - "Do you know how fast you were going back there?" "No, but I could tell you exactly where I was."' Horsey guffaw. Seriously, I still don't get it. And Wikipedia isn't a great help either. But Cicero, eh? What a card.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Oh, not the weather.
Another very exciting Grand Prix this morning - there's no point me writing about it at all, to be honest, when there are very expensive people writing about such things all over the place...and anyway, I do so like to share original thoughts with you here at ALBOWIEB, it's all I've got.
One thing I will say about the race this morning is that it tapped right into one of my pet hates - all the talk was of weather. There's weather moving in, extreme weather, watch out for the weather, when's the weather going to happen. Gah.
This does my chuffing nut in - there's always weather, it's a constant state of being. It's like saying we've got some time coming in, there's extreme time due - watch out for the time! It's rain, sodding rain, OK? You're expecting rain. There is rain moving in and it's going to be heavy. We don't like the rain, but it's a form of weather. It's the black sheep of the weather family - it likes its individuality, it gets upset when we do this. Weather is just a thing, it's just there, it's not really measurable. We can talk in abstract terms of good or bad weather, but the weather doesn't move around or swoosh about malevolently. I'm sure Schroedinger would have a thing or two to say about it.*
One thing I will say about the race this morning is that it tapped right into one of my pet hates - all the talk was of weather. There's weather moving in, extreme weather, watch out for the weather, when's the weather going to happen. Gah.
This does my chuffing nut in - there's always weather, it's a constant state of being. It's like saying we've got some time coming in, there's extreme time due - watch out for the time! It's rain, sodding rain, OK? You're expecting rain. There is rain moving in and it's going to be heavy. We don't like the rain, but it's a form of weather. It's the black sheep of the weather family - it likes its individuality, it gets upset when we do this. Weather is just a thing, it's just there, it's not really measurable. We can talk in abstract terms of good or bad weather, but the weather doesn't move around or swoosh about malevolently. I'm sure Schroedinger would have a thing or two to say about it.*
Short back and sides, please.
I went to get my hair cut yesterday - I like to find myself somewhere I trust not to try and chop my ear off (surprisingly difficult in some parts) who are in tune with a man's sartorial needs. I like a place that isn't going to take too long, but they get the details right - whether my fringe is wonky or not is neither here nor there as far as I'm concerned, but I do like a well-trimmed hairline and a nice gradation from top to bottom. These things are important. I came to the conclusion a number of years ago that I'm simply a short back and sides man - I've tried different hairstyles and even different colours in my wild early days of university (orange, pink, peroxide), but never really been able to pull them off. Thankfully there are minimal pictures and I'm not going to look back in 20 years time paralysed by paroxysms of embarrassment.
Yesterday was one of the places I'm going to consign to the scrapheap of unfulfilled potential, the decent hairdressers that never was. More than £7 for a cut and there was mould growing up the walls. A Saturday afternoon and a woman working on her own; a pile of old magazines even a dentist would turn his nose up at and holiday brochures tossed in as filler, as if someone in the place read in one of their 4-year-old newspapers that scientists discovered that no-one looks any deeper than the second publication.
When you end up waiting for two hours to sit in the hallowed chair you have enough time to dig through the crap on that cheap coffee table, to notice the curled black and white pictures on the wall that seemed to be en vogue back in the mid-nineties when they last decorated - am I supposed to be enthused by the line-up of scrawny blokes sporting curtains? You have more than enough time to notice that the snippeuse is not sweeping between punters, that the cloak thing they use is being tucked down the back of everyone's neck without change. I frequented a lovely place back in Wales that used a fresh towel to go round each chap's shoulders. Classy.
I waited two hours because the first hour was slightly on the long side but not too bad and then after that you've invested more than an hour of your life into hoping and wishing that your hair was slightly shorter - to leave at that point would be nothing less than total and utter capitulation, retreat in the face of a benign and static enemy. A fruitless quest - in fact, nothing more than an hour spent reading crap magazines. The minutes tick by and you start to get paranoid, as if everyone is in on the joke and the old guy next to you turns out to be AntorDec and that inane television show.
Eventually it's your turn and you sink into the chair and assume the position. Every time you go they do that thing with the mirror and you can't see the back of your head because you're hyper-myopic and quite obviously not wearing the thick glasses you walked in with. You nod enthusiastically and say 'that's great', because you're aware these people are still carrying sharp implements and the place is so manky it's probably a front for local organised crime. You don't even get a little tissue at this place and they don't dry your hair that they soaked without asking.
My coiffe might be one haircut shorter, but then so is my patience for the mediocre.
Yesterday was one of the places I'm going to consign to the scrapheap of unfulfilled potential, the decent hairdressers that never was. More than £7 for a cut and there was mould growing up the walls. A Saturday afternoon and a woman working on her own; a pile of old magazines even a dentist would turn his nose up at and holiday brochures tossed in as filler, as if someone in the place read in one of their 4-year-old newspapers that scientists discovered that no-one looks any deeper than the second publication.
When you end up waiting for two hours to sit in the hallowed chair you have enough time to dig through the crap on that cheap coffee table, to notice the curled black and white pictures on the wall that seemed to be en vogue back in the mid-nineties when they last decorated - am I supposed to be enthused by the line-up of scrawny blokes sporting curtains? You have more than enough time to notice that the snippeuse is not sweeping between punters, that the cloak thing they use is being tucked down the back of everyone's neck without change. I frequented a lovely place back in Wales that used a fresh towel to go round each chap's shoulders. Classy.
I waited two hours because the first hour was slightly on the long side but not too bad and then after that you've invested more than an hour of your life into hoping and wishing that your hair was slightly shorter - to leave at that point would be nothing less than total and utter capitulation, retreat in the face of a benign and static enemy. A fruitless quest - in fact, nothing more than an hour spent reading crap magazines. The minutes tick by and you start to get paranoid, as if everyone is in on the joke and the old guy next to you turns out to be AntorDec and that inane television show.
Eventually it's your turn and you sink into the chair and assume the position. Every time you go they do that thing with the mirror and you can't see the back of your head because you're hyper-myopic and quite obviously not wearing the thick glasses you walked in with. You nod enthusiastically and say 'that's great', because you're aware these people are still carrying sharp implements and the place is so manky it's probably a front for local organised crime. You don't even get a little tissue at this place and they don't dry your hair that they soaked without asking.
My coiffe might be one haircut shorter, but then so is my patience for the mediocre.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
I have moved house.
Last Saturday I moved house, to somewhere bigger, souther and easter. Moving house is a mildly traumatic experience – in fact the whole thing upset me like the time my cat died. Only joking – check out the hip cultural reference I threw in there.
Packing for a holiday is one thing – ineffably dull but with a suitably relaxing pay-off. Packing to move house is entirely another thing – ineffably dull with more ineffable dullness at the other end as you have to unpack everything you’ve only just packed up. In many ways I’d prefer to leave the boxes in storage for several months just to vindicate the whole process.
This past week I have been trying out some new ways into work – Forest Hill is undoubtedly one of the more upsetting rail routes to find yourself living next to – about as congested as a fat man with a heavy cold. Even worse is finding yourself stuck on the train next to a fat man with a heavy cold.
Unfortunately having more options means more ways to be late, which is never a good thing to me. As far as I’m concerned punctuality is good use of commas. The journey itself is about 15 minutes longer – which, added up over a 5-day week is another two and a half hours on the train. Another 10 hours over a month and although going from Blackheath this week I’ve had a seat every time, which is ridiculously exciting for me. A seat! Every time!
Packing for a holiday is one thing – ineffably dull but with a suitably relaxing pay-off. Packing to move house is entirely another thing – ineffably dull with more ineffable dullness at the other end as you have to unpack everything you’ve only just packed up. In many ways I’d prefer to leave the boxes in storage for several months just to vindicate the whole process.
This past week I have been trying out some new ways into work – Forest Hill is undoubtedly one of the more upsetting rail routes to find yourself living next to – about as congested as a fat man with a heavy cold. Even worse is finding yourself stuck on the train next to a fat man with a heavy cold.
Unfortunately having more options means more ways to be late, which is never a good thing to me. As far as I’m concerned punctuality is good use of commas. The journey itself is about 15 minutes longer – which, added up over a 5-day week is another two and a half hours on the train. Another 10 hours over a month and although going from Blackheath this week I’ve had a seat every time, which is ridiculously exciting for me. A seat! Every time!
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
A demonstration. Of international relations.
I dressed in a low-key academic sort of style this morning (light brown jacket, tank top, leather satchel - etc, etc) because of the threat of extreme violence against anyone wearing a tie, as communicated by the news outlets keen to make a big story out of anything other than MPs being a bit stupid. I was a little excited about possible rioting and extreme violence - mainly assisted by the calming knowledge that the office is bomb-proof and there is always an armed guard at the bottom of the stairs. (Although on the other hand, those things are only there because people want to blow me up and shoot me. Swings and roundabouts.)
I missed the president leaving Downing St. by mere minutes - I was crushed. And not just by the sheer amount of police there were on Whitehall this morning. Nothing short of the Chinese Army could have penetrated the overwhelming display of policular power in London today. I had been really hoping that I could catch a glimpse of someone's motorcade rushing through the capital, going about their important business of mopping up all this financial crap they started.
After I finished work I went to Buckingham Palace, with my inside political knowledge (of the BBC News website) I was aware that Her Madge was holding a reception (light canapes, bit of wine - classy, but not too expensive, there's a recession on you know) before Gordon hosted dinner at No.10. Which is a shame because the Chinese President wanted to try McDonalds. Anyway - I went to Buckingham Palace in the hope of glimpsing someone's motorcade.
And let me tell you, dear reader, I struck lucky. As well as spotting President Hu Jintao of China (sans Big Mac), Jose Manuel Barroso of the European Union, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd of Australia and whoever the PM in Japan is - get this - Angela Merkel, Germany's first female Chancellor, waved at me. I was standing next to some Germans at the time, we were all giddy. I do like Angie. Best of all, after a couple of hours of waiting around (slightly weird, I shall admit - there were sniper-types on the roof of the Palace looking around for quite strange lone figures in the crowd, I must've stood out like a sore thumb. More so given the fact that I was twittering my brains out. "Look at that strange lone figure at 12 o'clock." "No, he's alright - look at his low-key academic sort of style, he's clearly a banker.") - I actually got to see The Beast in action. Not only that, but I managed to snap off a crappy photo as The Beast approached.
As the cavalcade of fancy American automobiles approached - that long snake of authority, that imperious row of units compiled not for practicality but simple intimidation, as the cavalcade approached and moved past - Michelle Obama waved at me. This wasn't as excitable as Angie's waving and grinning, lost in the moment - this was an elegant swoosh extending from the elbow. And I can tell you, knowing that Baz isn't watching, that me and Michelle shared a little moment there. Never mind the two inches of laminated plate glass and the hermetically sealed interior, there was a look, a connection. As vacuous and shallow as you may think I am (and if I'm honest with myself I'm whatever you think I am and worse) I actually like Baz and Michelle now that I've seen them, now that they exist.
This could have been the closest brush I'll ever have with political greatness. Or even just political. And strangely enough, I got more excited when I saw Angela. Do you know what? I think that simple test makes me pro-European.
I missed the president leaving Downing St. by mere minutes - I was crushed. And not just by the sheer amount of police there were on Whitehall this morning. Nothing short of the Chinese Army could have penetrated the overwhelming display of policular power in London today. I had been really hoping that I could catch a glimpse of someone's motorcade rushing through the capital, going about their important business of mopping up all this financial crap they started.
After I finished work I went to Buckingham Palace, with my inside political knowledge (of the BBC News website) I was aware that Her Madge was holding a reception (light canapes, bit of wine - classy, but not too expensive, there's a recession on you know) before Gordon hosted dinner at No.10. Which is a shame because the Chinese President wanted to try McDonalds. Anyway - I went to Buckingham Palace in the hope of glimpsing someone's motorcade.
And let me tell you, dear reader, I struck lucky. As well as spotting President Hu Jintao of China (sans Big Mac), Jose Manuel Barroso of the European Union, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd of Australia and whoever the PM in Japan is - get this - Angela Merkel, Germany's first female Chancellor, waved at me. I was standing next to some Germans at the time, we were all giddy. I do like Angie. Best of all, after a couple of hours of waiting around (slightly weird, I shall admit - there were sniper-types on the roof of the Palace looking around for quite strange lone figures in the crowd, I must've stood out like a sore thumb. More so given the fact that I was twittering my brains out. "Look at that strange lone figure at 12 o'clock." "No, he's alright - look at his low-key academic sort of style, he's clearly a banker.") - I actually got to see The Beast in action. Not only that, but I managed to snap off a crappy photo as The Beast approached.
As the cavalcade of fancy American automobiles approached - that long snake of authority, that imperious row of units compiled not for practicality but simple intimidation, as the cavalcade approached and moved past - Michelle Obama waved at me. This wasn't as excitable as Angie's waving and grinning, lost in the moment - this was an elegant swoosh extending from the elbow. And I can tell you, knowing that Baz isn't watching, that me and Michelle shared a little moment there. Never mind the two inches of laminated plate glass and the hermetically sealed interior, there was a look, a connection. As vacuous and shallow as you may think I am (and if I'm honest with myself I'm whatever you think I am and worse) I actually like Baz and Michelle now that I've seen them, now that they exist.
This could have been the closest brush I'll ever have with political greatness. Or even just political. And strangely enough, I got more excited when I saw Angela. Do you know what? I think that simple test makes me pro-European.
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