Just plane solvent

There is a period of time between the child and teenage years that until recently never had a name. It was a bit of an anomaly that marketing departments chose to label the tweens. If I could capture that era of semi this and half that and give it a physical presence. If this could then be molded and cast in to plastic, broken down in to its constitute parts that had the ability to be reassembled at a later date. If we could then give them a set of assembly instructions and package the whole lot in a box with an incredible gloriously coloured and highly dramatised illustration on the front you would have the an Airfix model kit, the embodyment of my tweens.  

There was always a sense of excitement when going to the model shop almost as if the possibilities were endless, tanks, planes, cars, boats, they were all there. Models of vehicles you never knew existed and some that never did. The boundaries of reality no longer mattered, panzer tanks would comfortable sit next to a star wars battleship each and every one dramatised in technicolour with a picture of your model flying in to battle or sailing the high seas. If you had spent most of your pocket money you could still afford a spitfire or you could save up a little and get a formula one car. Some were easy and others took days to construct, requiring multiple construction areas and time allowed for drying. Everything would then combine in a few pages time and all make sense at the end. Models kits required responsibility they came with warnings of small parts and choking hazards, they were not suitable for small children. They required the use of solvents and oil based paint both of which had skull and cross bones triangles which laughed in the face of toys. These paints could not simply be washed down the sink like the water based ones in school, they required the use of yet more chemicals to clean the brush. To this day I have the words of my Dad at the back of my head every time I go near a tube of glue, warning me not to stick my fingers together. I learned quickly that this was an empty promise and not in the slightest bit possible with poly cement, which despite my best efforts not to I had on every finger in less than 2 minutes flat and which dried in to a harmless flake leaving a preserved copy of my finger prints. I had a tray on which I kept the various chemical solvents needed for construction. It was my mothers was of trying to preserve the carpets and it worked to an extent but an extent can only stretch so far after that a piece of furniture has to be put over the top to hide the blob. Sometimes the models lasted and other times they fell apart after a month or so. I am not quite sure what happened to all my models they just seemed to disappear over time. I am can only imaging a lot had unfortunate accidents in the garden or fell foul to the destructive tendencies that a young boy possess. I should think a good number are sitting in my parents attic in an unmarked box amongst the great mountain of other outgrown items. I am sure I will uncover them some day and admire the sloppily glued edges and the colours painted in shades just close enough, because I did not have the exact one listed in my collection. And I will remember the happy hours spend blissfully unaware that I was high as a kite off a mixture of Poly resin and solvent based paint fumes in my unventilated bedroom.

A shark in Brighton

It is odd how quickly one becomes accustom to walking around Brighton wearing all the necessary aids and equipment for a non swimmers day at the beach topped off with a man being eaten by a shark costume for good measure. Children stopped and pointed as we walked down the street, asking their mothers why and what those odd people were doing. Others laughed and there were more than a few compliments on the choice of bikini, and so began the long standing and sacred tradition among men involving the ritual humiliation of the stag.

I have to hold my hands up and say that it was a just a little late, but in agreement with all concerned we came to the conclusion that it probably fell under similar legislation to the stature of rights and that a years guarantee was applicable. The deadline for that voucher was fast approaching so I sketched out the frame of a plan and left the guys to get on with the stitch up. They did well and Saturday afternoon we headed off to Brighton dressed like idiots with me at the helm. There were challenges and drinking fines for all number of minor incursions, we talked the nonsense men do when oiled with beer and laughed at things of the past. There are pictures and probably video footage too captured in glorious HD which I am sure is being primed for upload to Facebook as I type. We hit a couple of pubs on the way to the venue and turned up to the comedy club all members still accounted for. Unlike the movies I did not wake up in the morning to find Mike Tyson's tiger in the bathroom and I think that in general other than drinking way too much I do not have that many skeletons waiting to break out of the closet. Right before the haziness of alcohol set in and the details became blurred I looked around at the faces before me filling in a few regretfully empty metaphorical chairs. It is humbling to know that people have turned up for you. At this point of our lives when our responsibilities out weigh the time we have for ourselves and there are never enough hours in any given day, time is by far our most precious asset. To travel from the other end of the country, spending hours on the road or train, giving up cherished time that could be lavished on a young family or partner over the weekend you hoped all week would get here one day sooner, to spend money hard earned on ensuring someone else has one of the best night out ever are just the tip of the iceberg that makes these guys so special. Some I have known for many many years and together we have watched one another grow through to the people we have become today. Others I have known for less time but I value just as much having more than earned the moniker friend in too many ways to mention.

Sitting there half eaten by my shark costume I concluded what I already knew, that friends do not come any better than these guys. For I count myself a lucky man to know these people and see no reason that should ever stop being the case. It is well said that if you can count your very good friends on one hand then you are a lucky man. In which case I have more than twice the luck of most.

Thank you guys for making it a very special night that I shall never forget.

Fools Gold

Long forgotten about at the back of a draw I finally found what I had been searching nearly an hour for. A small plastic box, square and black, inside cotton wool and laying on top of that a gold ring. I had bought the ring many years ago whilst on holiday in Greece with my family. I wore it for a while but then got bored, took it off placed it at the back of this draw for safe keeping and here it lay untouched till now. I now have a far more important ring on my finger so could see no point in keeping the other. It held no sentimental value, a little extra cash to spend on holiday would be nice and with the gold price currently at a 20 year high it seemed like an opportune time to liquidate.

The obvious place to start seemed to be the internet and true to form good old internet came up trumps again. With the help of my kitchen scales I weighed the ring, typed in the numbers and out came the figure. I figured that this was probably a best you can get figure and in reality would turn out to be some what smaller but it was a start and everyone needs a start. Hearing too many bad stories about people sending things through the post to shonky companies and not entrusting Royal mail to safely deliver anything other than a circular I decided the best thing was to head to Londons gold epicenter of Hatton Gardens and try my luck there. The big cheese and I had been a while ago to get our aforementioned rings, at the time I had not noticed but now the words sore and thumb sprang to mind. Even the guys without women had guys with them, maybe for moral support or maybe to bare witness to the price tag. Either way I had to walk the gauntlet of leaflet touts trying to show disinterest but at the same time ascertain which might give me the best price with the least amount of hassle. In the end it came down to nothing more scientific than judging books from their covers and having seen a window display that looked similar to the ring I had I went in only to be handed another leaflet.
"Are you looking to buy anything specific today" said the woman brandishing the leaflets
"I have an item that I might want to sell" I said trying to play it cool
"SAINF.........SAINF" the young woman shouted up a large stairwell.
A head popped over the railing
"Can you show this gentleman to the office please"
So Sanif came down and we set off up 10 flights of stairs to their fifth floor office. Apparently the lift was out of service. At this point I should have seen the omen and made my excuses but at that point the non descript door in front of us buzzed open and the moment of flight had gone.

Inside, the office was tiny and this was made all the more apparent by the plentiful supply of people employed there. The whole place had the aroma of a fish curry recently consumed at ones desk but trapped in a tiny space by the lack of circulating air the smell was completely numb to the curry's consumers. A fat man sitting fully reclined in a cheap swivel chair motioned me from the door over the one and half meter distance to his desk. He had a neck brace on and looked one cat short of a Bollywood bond super villain fallen on hard times. I produced the box and gave him the ring which he tossed from hand to hand for a while then held aloft his free hand open palmed and without a word being said a loupe was placed in it by one of the employees standing through lack of space less than a meter away. His face screwed up a bit and then someone else entered the room came over sat in a chair next to gold finger's less fortunate brother, at which point I became completely invisible. For a full 3-4 minutes I no longer existed in that room, no manner of attempted eye contact, shuffling in my chair or huffing could make me reappear. It was clear they had plans for world domination to formulate, probably involving the use of a satellite and big lazer as it became apparent all business had been suspended. I had to grab an assistant who was, due to the rooms dimensions, situated just over a meter from me to try and prize my item from gold fingers grasp. He did so and handed it to another employee stood behind a counter on the opposing wall. He weighed it three times and came up with three different weights and chose the lightest (naturally) on which to base his "best price." I protested weakly that the weights were different only to be told with no sense of irony it was because the scales were so accurate. At that point I just wanted out and they wanted to barter I named a ridiculous price he named another and we parted ways neither of us any the richer.

I pounded the streets a while longer visiting the shops I had scoped out earlier. All were looking to give me roughly the same price give or take ten pounds. Resigning myself to have found the true market value I went in the last shop and offered up my treasure. I was handed another leaflet on the way in and directed to a counter on the left and greeted by a cockney geezer straight from the set of a Guy Richie film. Much like being on holiday I got the gist of the conversation by listening out for key words and waiting for pauses in to which a response was expected. I was only able to respond in my native language but he seemed fine with that. I rationed I had said the right thing in the correct place because he pulled out a set of scales. He weighed it and went through the same procedure everyone else had, asking me how much I had been offered else where. I added £10 to the best price and asked what price he would pay. The next bit was difficult to decipher but the key words I gleamed were "All of the money", " Top end", "Treasure in the attic" and the price. It was £10 higher than anywhere else so I said yes at which point he pulled a stack of £50 notes large enough to knock out a man from under the counter before he realised he didn't need this stack and changed it for an equally large stack of £20's. He peeled a few from the top placed them in an envelope and in true cockney style we shook on a good deal done.

Now for that holiday. 

Everlasting Soap

The chore of cleaning the bathroom is just that, a chore. It is both in the physical and metaphorical sense a chore and something I in no way relish doing. I love a clean bathroom, who doesn't, so I see it as a necessary evil and on balance worth doing. I usually start with the shower and bath working my way round to the toilet and then the sink. If I was pushed to decide which of them I liked or maybe least hated doing most it would have to be the sink. I have not just plucked this out the air, the sink has one major advantage over the others, soap.

A bar of soap in our house seems to last forever, this is not because we are dirty it just does. I guess that shower gel has stolen much of the soaps thunder. The soap sits next to the taps waiting for dirty hands to pounce, to squeeze and rub and lather it up before placing it back on the dish. I like the way soap goes through a life cycle, and unlike shower gel whos level you can observe declining after every use it recedes at a rate almost too slow to observe. Like the life of a tree it only changes when no one is looking. Then one day you notice it is round instead of square, then its flatter than it used to be, the colour has lost the intensity it once had and it enters the winter of its existence. You would think that once it got to this stage that would be it, its days would be numbered you could even estimate how much longer you thought it had. But we have everlasting soap or so it seems, perhaps even made by Willie Wonker using technology based on his gobstopper machine (the only invention not to harm a child) for it seems to go on and on. Even when whittled down from small to tiny then to a mere nubin if it will not fit between the spaces in the plug hole it's not done. But like most things there are a couple of exceptions which sometimes offer a respite to the situation they are, The big cheese loosing all patience then discarding it in the bin and secondly having guests round and dazzling them with our bountiful soap supply, these are the only times it is permissible to prematurely replace the soap. 

It is said that it's the little things and starting a new bar of soap is one of mine. Firstly it has a new scent which is in pleasant contrast to the previous bar whos familiarity has numbed me to it. But best of all the feel of its sharp corners and 90 degree sides. It looks so nice placed in the center of the holder its geometry creating a zen like harmony against the porcelain. Everything else looks so sloppy against the uniformity of the perfect edges. This new bar has not yet conformed to the rigors of ergonomics and at the same time shuns form and function in favor of looks and style. This one small thing can be compensation enough for cleaning the whole bathroom as I know that I can be the first person to use it.

All I need to do now is find a way to use soap quicker or clean the bathroom less.

Pirate Bling

Back in the golden age of pirating, all you had to do was sail around a bit and you would practically fall over a merchant ship loaded with plunder, apart from the loss of the occasional limb, monsters from the deep and mermaid sirens life was good. Then people got a bit annoyed at having all their stuff nicked so set out to put a stop to it. War ships were deployed, task committees formed and rewards offered for capture dead or alive, life became a bit more of a chore. The pirate way of life became less enticing and with the advancements in technology many a foresighted pirate saw the nail was in the coffin for the maritime based lifestyle they had become accustom and started to explore alternative careers.

Documents released through whistle blowing website WikiLeaks show that with the help of a government based back to work scheme many pirates returned to dry land, retrained and under local council supervision were integrated back in to society with the hope they could lead productive lives and enrich communities through their diversity. It could be attributed to the many hours singing shanties or the less formal attire adopted by these particular sectors, but it seems that pirates have a penchant for the music and entertainment industries as today this is where we see many have ended up. As much of a success as the scheme was there were a few pirates who's life of crime was so ingrained that once deemed rehabilitated they turned back to the underworld. A certain sector started black markets in pirate DVDs, games and CDs selling them on dodgy market stalls, street corners and through the 'guy at work' network. A few looked for fame over the air waves and started what has been called pirate radio. Already adept at mast construction they found this allowed them the ability to broadcast from all manor of locations, a few even returning to the sea. This made detection by the authorities almost impossible at the time and as it was only considered an infringement on the law very few were ever caught or prosecuted. Others chose to follow a more legitimate thespian career path and to this day can be seen treading stages across the world performing in everything from seasonal pantomime, opera and the dizzy heights of Hollywood to great acclaim.

Arguably the most successful group went in to music and became rap and hip hop stars. This genera was through necessity rather  than choice, many preferring more pop styled tunes but with their indecipherable pronunciation, less than tone perfect vocal abilities and hard luck life stories rueing the days they were shot numerous times and the bad neighbourhoods they grew up in, they were limited. Never the less they took the music scene by storm, their hard lyrics hitting a poignant note amongst despondent youth. They were able to incorporate the pirate cultural identity through the use of bandanas, gold teeth, and earrings , popularising the 'bling' movement we know today. Drink was a well publicised issue for pirates and the revenue from platinum album sales did nothing to quell this problem of binge drinking instead moving away from large barrels and on to premium brand bottled spirits. Being creatures of habit they stuck with brandy, rum and cognac drinks, and have in their rap star incarnations become much aligned with such brands as Hennesey, Jack Daniels and Courvoisier. Few could have seen the far reaching impact pirates would have, their influences stretching in to the mainstream vocabulary with words such as Yo, a greeting and also a shortening of the possessive prenominal adjective your, Ho, a woman of questionable moral standing and Booty, a catch all term meaning both treasure and women two highly prized assets in the pirate community. As well as the pirate limp, a way of walking where one leg is kept straight while walking in order to simulate a wooden prosthetic. All have now become commonplace on streets up and down the country particularly evident around such hubs as fried chicken shops and McDonald's outlets, sported by adoring fans eager to emulate their musical idols.

The debate as to whether these are positive role models remains to be seen. It has been shown you can take the pirate out of the sea but can he sing?

Egg and Soliders

It must have been more than 15 years ago. It would have been at my grandparent's house and probably on a Wednesday. That was last time I had a soft boiled egg with soldiers.

There is no reason it has been left this long. I had no bad experience I can only imagine that the seductive lure of scrambled, the hangover curing properties of fried or the gastro difficulty of hollandaise smothered poached variety just distracted me. It would have been in the seemingly endless summer holidays where I can only remember the days being sunny and children's cartoons playing on the television all hours of the day, that my sister and I would have visited my gran in what we considered to be deep in the Sussex countryside. Things at my grans house were always at a more sedate pace. Everything was hand made in the comforting way of recipes handed down and refined through a lifetime, using bowls and utensils that have served their function for a generation already but show no sign of giving up any time soon. Where cereal, usually in front of the television was normally the order of the day in our house at my grans things could not have been more different. Soft boiled egg and soldiers was on the menu the eggs from the market, many with feathers still stuck to the shells, most no more than a couple of days since they left the chicken and hit the ground. The bread was white and from an uncut loaf and required cutting on the slicing machine the width set to your desired preference. A couple of minutes under the grill and a thick coating of butter and the soldiers were dressed, shortly followed by the egg in a cup all served at the table. This was egg and soldiers as I remember it.  

I figured it was time to amend this glitch and go back to the future. On Sunday morning I fired up the grill and put an anemic slice of white bread under to crisp and tan. Moments later the pan of boiling water was bubbling away ready to receive its offering. I figured I was somewhat larger than I used to be so reasoned two eggs rather than the one from memory were probably needed so in they went for exactly 3 minutes before being scooped out by the slotted spoon and placed in a bowl of cold water. The bread got a butter covering and the eggs a cup long forgotten about from the back of the cupboard. We were ready to go just one questioned remained do you smash or slice the top.

For posterity I should have smashed but for convenience I sliced, inside was the gold, runny and ready for dipping. Always my favorite bit I waded in with a soldier of toast touching the bottom of the egg for maximum yolk coverage. The white was always second best. When I could I would pass it off to my sister or exchange it for her yolk in the days when saturated fats meant little to a kid. In all honesty I only ate the albumen out of loyalty to the yellow, figuring I would be doing the egg as a whole a disservice by shunning it, that and being a prisoner to the table until it was all finished and I was allowed to get down.
 
So was it like it used to be? In the end I had a pile of toast crumbs on the plate and table, two empty egg shells and yolk drips down my t shirt, yes.

Barely lamented

I had the immense pleasure of catching the bus to work the other morning. Whilst squashed between the window and the wide spread newspaper of the commuter next to me, a young gentlemen situated one row back on his way to school, decided to include me and the the middle third of the bus in his phone conservation by speaking in a tone only a few decibels short of a public address system. Although flattered that I should be included in said conversation I, with the help of my own copy of the Metro adopted the standard issue London block-it-out stare and got on with the journey. That was until I heard the youth say "yeah blood I had bare skills brov." Now this is completely out of context but I wondered in which context you could use such a phrase.

So does this boy have certain skills that he can only use once bare, invisibility for instance. A very useful skill but not one you hear people shout about too often. From recollection the documented (fictional) characters were all unfortunate victims of failed drug trials, chemical spills or some gifted scientist's plan gone wrong. Unless this kid is in the habit of hanging around with such scientists it seems unlikely to be the solution. Could it be those (wink of an eye) kind of bare skills. The kind that cause women to fall to their knees and become putty in your hand. If so where can I get some of those because at a far grander age it is this holy grail I am still searching for myself, let alone rewinding 15 years previous to the awkward fumblings of youth. Could it be bear skills. Bears have skills but there is a desperate lack of caves for hibernation in the local boroughs mostly as a direct result of government cut backs. Salmon migrating up the Thames are also few and far between so the skills a bear possesses are actually of little use in the urban environment and probably not the kind of thing you mention over the phone.

As folly as this is Bare turns out to be a catch all term and loosely means a lot of or excessively. It would seem things have changed since back in the day and calls in to question my decision to turn my back on the word of the street and adopt the commonly understood sentence structure and dictionary definitions to my vocab. Age catches up on you eventually and every so often old father time gives your heels a bit of a nip, here is one of those nips. I just lament those heady days when pocket money flowed freely, my day was 9 till 3 with a couple of play times in between and the world of slang sense.

Bad meant good and it was good to be bad except when it meant bad then it was bad.

Red and Bloated

I'm sitting in the garden, the best part of summer has past but the sun is shining and a cool breeze rustles through late in the afternoon. I've been here for a while and have turned a very deep shade of red indeed. I have become fat and rather swollen and I think if left for too much longer I stand the very real possibility of splitting right down the middle. I am not the only one but then thats what tomatoes do so it's to be expected really.

There are few things that come close to the taste of a freshly picked tomato from my very own garden. Maybe its the time invested nurturing the plant from seed, its constant child like calls for food, water and the occasional story that make the fruits taste all the sweeter in the end. As the summer draws in and the green fruits turn that deep shade of red the excitement build for I know a harvest is on the way and fresh tomatoes are nearly here. In good years there is a glut but never a waste as the Big cheese and I find inventive ways the use them in all manor of dishes and then concoct ways to preserve the rest. So after being plucked from that nice cosy stem that I had grown so accustom to what fate would I decide for my tomato self. Given the range of my applications the options are almost endless. It could be argued that the puritan way would be to be picked, sliced and possibly drizzled with a small amount of olive oil then enjoyed in my natural state. Sun dried seems a little more exciting, my flavors concentrated down to half my original size with the possibility of adorning any number of continental style neuvo unmeasured wop-a-hand-full-in Jamie Oliver creations.The fact is I am just toying with you, for me there is no debate to be had, I knew right from the start how I want to end up. It's not high brow or refined but loved by young and old.

I want to end up sweet but a bit sour too, I want to sit in cafes and to smother chips, lay on top of a burger and be pressed down by the bun. I want give the illusion of one of your five-a-day but with a taste that you know it isn't. I want the possibility of meeting anyone from a cabby to the queen. I want people to pause while the waiter fetches me before starting their lunch. I want to make an odd noise as I come out that makes small children (and the non tomato me) laugh out loud. I want to spray in many directions as I near the end and drip from sandwiches making shirts fit only for washing then refuse to show myself if dispensed from an old style bottle unless mercilessly spanked on the bottom. I can't think of any other way a tomato could have this much fun.

In short make me Ketchup.

Evolutionary list

It was about 32,000 years ago, sitting in a cave the smartest of the what we could loosely call our distant cousins grew tired of popping down the forest only to find when he arrived his pea brain had forgotten the very reason he had left in the first place. He hit upon the notion of making a physical image and with no paper to hand he drew it on the wall for safe keeping. Never again did Mr Caveman forget the many tasks that needed performing that day and as most days consisted of hunting, cooking and Friday nights knocking down pins at the Bedrock bowl-o-Rama one or two pictures were generally enough and saved all the crossing out and re drawing. The images that remain and what we refer to as cave paintings serve as a reminder of the advancements in evolution. They show the important and pivotal role in allowing cavemen to become a more productive bunch through the conception of the humble to-do-list.

There are a few things that are disputed about my opening gambit, firstly that a bloke wrote the to-do-list. Assuming gender stereotypical roles at the time it could quite easily be a shopping list from his wife, meaning that man did not invent the list but a woman, also other theories do exist based around the images being for the purposes of art and religion but I guess we will never truly know, one thing we do know is that lists are a bloody good idea. 

At any one time I will have three lists on the go there is one that I carry about, another sitting on the kitchen work surface and then a third in the ethereal space in my mind. I am of the old school when it comes to lists so it has to be pen to paper. A list made in the virtual world of a smart phones programming has no more presence than the wisp of a thought flying through my mind. The ink has to solidify the notion on paper before it becomes a pressing concern. I have to feel the papers presence in my pocket the corners rubbing against my leg nagging me to fulfill its purpose and check everything off. I get a satisfaction from all parts of the to do list. Its very inception means I have purpose. Being able to visualize the tasks ahead in black and white, pick the next one to tackle and the climax of crossing them off one by one in a game of chores bingo must surely be one of the most satisfying aspects of menial jobs. For a fully checked off list is a beauty to behold a testimony to your achievements that day. When completed it is almost immediately replaced by a newer more current list, but for a moment in time the list shines in it's completed glory before being resigned to the recycling bin.

I am almost sure that without my to-do-list the house would be in such a mess as to resemble a cave, the shopping left so long that I would have to forage in the back for anything edible and the washing forgotten leaving me no option but to wear the animal print tshirt deep in the recesses of the wardrobe. Maybe I am not so far along the evolutionary chain as I once thought.

Broken English

It is fair to say that my time at school was largely uneventful and this was fine by me. In the lore of the playground you learn quickly the dos and don'ts and the people best avoided. I hung about with my friends and mostly did my homework, throughout my time there I only made two real enemies. spelling and grammar.

I am not sure what happened on the day we learned grammar, perhaps I was ill because I truly have no recollection of anyone ever telling me this is how it is. Grammar was a hard lesson learnt through pages and pages of corrections. At the time I had nothing more than a vague interest bought about mostly through a late developing aversion to red ink. Books and I were well acquainted but even at the end grammar was no friend of mine and we parted ways with the certain knowledge that we would be forced together at a later date. Something has happened in the interim period, maybe we have both mellowed over the years. Where once we would cross the street in order to avoid each other now we say a passing hello. I have seen a whole different side to grammar in recent years that for some reason I was blind to before. The syntax of words and the insertion of punctuation I once saw as nothing more than a chore. The English language is blessed with such flexibility that as long as the correct words are there their meaning is usually not to difficult to construct. Where as I used to view grammar as a secret that I was not party to I am now starting to glimpse at its function.

There is a trend in education backed by statistics for boys to choose subjects such as mathematics, the sciences and design technology. To me these subjects are black and white because they conform to strict rules, there are formulas and ways or doing things, rules that I never saw or took no interest in when it came to English. But now the hieroglyphics have been translated and I cannot say I am fluent but I find this new language fascinating and not the chore it used to be it is now a challenge with rules and boundaries, not so unlike the sciences I once liked. There are things to discover and knowledge to to be gained a chance for self improvement and greater understanding. Anyone with half a notion of the correct deployment of grammar will instantly see this monologue littered with red ink. It is not uncommon for the Big Cheese to put more than a few things right but I can add this to the rules I have learned and move on. I never hated linguistics but now I like it more and think this could be the start of a good friendship.  

This will come as no surprise to those who did not miss that day at school but I don't really think that grammar's job is to police, grammar is the icing on the cake. Cakes are good but frosting makes it funny or poniente gives it a pace and a voice. Grammar frosting takes it from a sponge to a birthday cake and if it is really good a piped message on top.

Grammar and I may even go for a beer later, he was even talking of bringing a friend. Comma, full stop, even semi colon are all fine by me but if it's spelling, forget it. We still have issues.

Kryptonite brunch

I think it is true that everyone is good at something, everyone has their own power, something they are good at. But if we have learnt nothing more from the Superman franchise it is that there is no such thing as perfection. A flaw is not always obvious and even if it was would you tell. If we can believe the movie Clark Kent was in his mid thirties before anyone even knew the effects of Kryptonite. I say this because it seems pretty obvious now that even the dumbest of the many bad guys and henchmen now doing time could not have put two and two together and come up with something like "lets get some of that stuff that brings the unstoppable man to him knees." even if they could not see through a disguise consisting of a pair of glasses and a pot of hair gel. I am no Lex Luther but I have now discovered my sisters Kryptonite. I did not mean to it just appeared.

When it comes to cooking little L is pretty good. She has served dinners for 15 consisting of two sittings, cooked banquettes for Easter, Christmas and every other significant annual event. She has baked cakes for birthdays, christenings and weddings and I have never known a person to leave her house without complaining of eating too much. She does not cook in blue Lycra and does not need to change in a phone box before turning on the oven, but she is pretty good at cooking, thats (one of) her power(s).
I was expecting good things when I invited myself round for a late breakfast, or brunch if you want to be all American about it. When I arrived things were boiling and bread was primed for toasting. There was a great spread on the table and just a few things to finish off. We all sat down and the last of the bounty was presented. It was great, I started with some toast covered it in beans a few mushrooms on the side then some scrambled eggs. Now I do a bit of cooking myself and I am pretty much positive that the black and crispy extras did nothing to enhanced the overall taste and texture of the side dish, burnt scrambled eggs, must have been an off day. I invited myself round again about a month later again a great spread and again scrambled eggs avec black and crispy bits. I had to check, for a moment I thought that maybe little L had for all this time lived under the false notion that this was the correct manner to cook them. No they were just burnt and she knew it.

I do not wish to trivialise the scrambled egg for within its simplicity is contained one of the true wonders of breakfast. They should be light, moist and creamy but have the firmness to just stay on your fork, great scrambled eggs are an art that only a few people ever master.  But such is the greatness of scrambled eggs that even an adequate effort, easily achievable by almost anyone who puts their mind to it is still delicious and something to look forward to. We can therefor only reason other forces were at work, how else could you explain a complete loss of cooking ability for one of the simplest dishes known to man by a cook with credentials. A combination of an everyday frying pan and free range medium size eggs had combined and formed a Kryptonite substance which like Superman was harmless to everyone else on the planet except her. Unlike Superman she did not fall to the floor in a quivering heap I guess the hearty brunch gave her the strength to carry on.

It took Eve Teschmacher to save the great man of steel from a watery grave and to give us all the happy ending we had hoped for. With this is mind I worked tirelessly on an antidote until I found it.

Next time we had brunch I did the eggs.

Ticking Boxes

The coffee I am holding in my left hand is making it slightly more difficult than usual to type my blog, a byproduct of multi tasking I hear you cry well maybe but the truth is this coffee is formulated to perfection and today I will share that recipe with you.

 I would like to say it has been pain staking work researching all the permutations available, factoring in the many options and gruelingly consuming endless cups of the stuff but the reality was nothing like that. There was no scientific research no lab involved no samples or controls in place just paid my money and drank. This is then the distillation of a few years of coffee at the weekends random samplings of various chains each with their own blend of beans and extras. If we were being objective about it I probably should have kept some kind of tally maybe given them a score much like a restaurant critic but this was never an exercise in highlighting the good from the bad it was purely selfish in order that I could get the best I could so the knowledge stayed locked up inside my head but now I feel I have reached the end, it is time to share.

I feel slightly annoyed to say it and it took me a while to get over it myself for I am no fan of chains and even less of multi nationals but there are times when you have to look in to the abyss and say do I want a good coffee or not, suck it up and get on with it. There are plenty of smaller independent places which if they were more prevalent I would probably go to more frequently. I am a big fan of the Ape vans they do good coffee but I think I am more smitten with the actual vehicle, then there is Monmouth's legendary coffee. The very thing that makes these smaller places so good is their scale so they cannot be considered a staple supply. I found Costa's blend to be a little bitter for me and I loved, for a while, collecting the little stamps from Nero but in the end it was clear it was Starbucks that stood out.

For me the perfect order is more than just the end product. There is this whole bit in between it allows you to show your credentials. It is a sort of game, on the one side you have your experience on the other thier skill as a barista. You should know your order already but I like to play a poker face, I spend I little time looking at the board then when asked I pause a moment longer. The delivery is all important, without hesitation or deviation you must deliver your order leaving no margin for a return question. If this goes well your part is done, one of two things happen next. The barista takes your order passes it on to the next machine operator and no other questions are exchanged other than pleasantries, it is a draw. Or they look like a rabbit in the headlights and have to ask you to repeat the order, you're the winner. 

So here it is my perfect Starbucks coffee order 

                    Grande-Decaffee-Hazelnut-Latte-With 2 pumps not 3 to take away.

The coffee should be hot to the point that you cannot drink it for at least 2 mins but I don't take a cardboard wrap around (doing my bit for the planet).  The size needs to be Grande for the ratio of Hazelnut (2 pumps) to coffee to be correct and if you pay with your Starbucks card you get the extra stuff free. Then to top it all off you get a load of the boxes down the side of your cup ticked.

The muffin is not necessary but always nice.

Aerials big reception

There are times when I am convinced the state is controlling me in Orwellian style, other times I think I am just being paranoid, often it is just plain annoying but most of the time I have no control over what I watch on TV.

The aerial and I have a tempestuous relationship to say the least, over which I have no control. It decides what I should watch and what channels are available but with little or no consistency. Every channel has its own position ranging from on top of the television to laying on its side in the doorway. There is a tendency for the most inconvenient places and the most precarious sometimes it just wants to see another part of the room but you can never predict where it will be. What is BBC 1 on Monday will be channel 4 on Wednesday with no way of telling. There there are just too many variables to factor in to make educated guesses everything from the occupants of the flat above being home to the whether we are cooking in the kitchen all play a part. I would like to think that if you could possibly list all the variants you might be able to create an equation to determine the optimum position but then you discount the ghost in the machine. There are times Aerial likes to play little games where reception is perfect until you are two thirds of the way back to the sofa when it mysteriously looses all signal or the one where the only place is 2' off the ground leaving the person sent to fix the situation with the king Solomon type decision of the other persons enjoyment and their own aching arm and my personal favorite is where Big Cheese will play around up to the point of complete frustration only for me to take over placing it in the exact place it was first positioned and gain (for about 15 minutes) reception of unparalleled clarity.

This never used to be a problem in the good old days of analogue technology. There were many times I would watch the same episode of 'Jamie an home' in black and white which would take on an all together different dimension allowing me to watch without the knowing familiarity you get from seeing the same thing twice. The picture would crackle the sound would dip but these were all just endearing quirks that I grew to love. I think that Aerial was a little put out when I introduced it to the digital box. Maybe it was its boasty ways of being able to pick up hundreds of channels or its sporting of green and red LED technology that meant this was never going to work, as they now seem to want to be as far apart as possible. It was right from the start the two never really got on leaving me to pick up pieces of the broken relationship.

So why don't I just get rid and maybe invest in something flat and 30" wide with stuff built in. Well I would be lying if I said the thought had never crossed my mind, but we have been through so much together. Three seasons of Lost, practically every Jean Claude Van Damme movie (on channel 5) and how we loved those crazy characters on Top Gear. To get rid now would be like kicking out your loyal dog because it's old and started to pee on the carpet. There have been good times and as long as you're the spectator watching the other person scramble, with a desperation only someone missing the show they have waited all week to see can muster it is pretty funny, while not being able to get reception on a channel showing that chick flick is no bad thing.

There is no doubt Aerial is more than an aerial and the ghost in this machine has all the personality you could ask for but if you want to watch TV don't mention the D word.

DIY Wonderland

On your classic 1-10 scale of DIY it is difficult to rate yourself. I know which end of the hammer to use, have not yet drilled through a pipe and own a tool box. Most of what I have attempted I have pulled off or filled in to look acceptable, I defy any man to be honest enough to give below 5 but neither am I a 10 so I am happy to settle on a solid 7.

We went to Homebase at the weekend I was like a kid in a sweet shop. There was an agenda but as soon as the automatic door slid open to reveal the magical DIY wonderland inside that went out of the window. There is a force like that of dark matter in the universe that is not full understood, that you cannot feel but are aware of it's presence, bought on perhaps by the smell of cut wood and solvents mixed with the testosterone from men around power tools. I can only imagine it's the same force that compels women when high street shopping as it has the same effect on me and I stood staring at the great wall of spanners. A 7 does not mean you like DIY and although I do not hate it I do not love it, what I do love is using the tools. Where else in our world of health and safety can you use 3 extension leads trailing over counter tops in order to drill in to a wall your 90% sure does not have anything else behind it with a pair of old sunglasses and some gardening gloves for protection. The risk is all part of the fun and I think without it it would be like a job and nothing would ever get done. It was with this in mind that I tried to imagine scenarios in order to justify buying a pack of 3 pliers, a set of spanners and some miniature screw drivers.

What we had actually gone for was an end cap to screw on to our recently removed radiators but by this time I was sucked in. In a clever trick of marketing DIY stores always put the best stuff (tools) right as you walk in, in fact it would not surprise me one bit if the cut wood and solvent smell mentioned earlier was not pumped through the ventilation, they then put the dull stuff (radiator caps) right at the back. It took us some time to get where we needed to be as the Big Cheese had to dismiss my attempts at justification as whimsical. With no new tools I had lost interest but with a job to do we looked at the plumbing section with no idea, measurements or bit to compare we did what pretty much everyone else does and guessed. On the way out we pick up some other stuff and took a route that conveniently took us past the tools section where the Big Cheese relented on the set of 3 pliers, £50 lighter we were leaving the shop.

There was no possible way to use my new pliers to fit the radiator caps, I tried, and the caps did not fit. It took another trip down the road to the best shop in south London (that is another post) to get the bit we actually needed, they fitted and we were full of triumph. It was not until we filled the water pressure back up that the water started leaking from another joint and despite the best efforts of me with my new pliers it was not going to stop. Well I can't very well do it I said I changed it the first time, so with a sigh the phone conversation went something like this.

Big Cheese
"Hi Connor, we know we asked you to come Friday but is there any chance you could come tomorrow"
Connor (plummer)
"Yes that should be fine"

Problem fixed.

Three legged bike

It didn't seem that bad on Friday night although I knew something was not right. I had the first warning signs a few weeks earlier but like a lot of things I chose to ignore them. It is possible if I had acted a bit earlier things might have turned out better. But they didn't, now my bike may have ridden it's last.

My bike can only be described as a part of me and not just an extremity like a finger, which if it came to it you could loose, we are talking a big one like an arm or leg so fixing it shot to the top of my list of things to do, first thing Saturday I fired up the computer and consulted the oracle that is Youtube. Everything looks so easy on there. Just take off the pedals replace the crank and bearings then put it all back together in under 3 mins. What Youtube does not show you is the 5 takes and the 30 mins prep before hand. Filled with confidence I got out my tools only to find I did not have the right ones. In my experience when things start out like this they rarely get much better especially when it comes to fixing things. I photographed the broken bit on my phone patting myself on the back for the inginuity I had just shown and set off down the bike shop. They are a very helpful bunch and when I explained the problem using words like round bit on the turning thing they kindly showed an interest and when I showed them the phone picture I think that was the icing on top. Even with the 2 inch x 1 inch phone screen image they had no idea what I was going on about I was going to have to go back and fetch the bike.

The guy in the workshop was performing surgery on another ill bike when I returned. His rubber gloves were covered in grease but the outlook was good on his patient. It only took him a moment to diagnose mine I knew it was coming, maybe it was a hollowness in his eyes "It's terminal". There was nothing that could be done. I tried to offer up a few solutions but he clearly knew what he was talking about and I was just in denial. In a nutshell the bearing and crank were stuck inside the frame as the bit (technical name) that you needed to screw it out had sheared off. I had lost a limb.

I needed a new bike, things are just so much more difficult with a missing limb, things take so much longer and the walk home was no exception. When it comes to used bikes in London anyone will tell you it's a mine filed of dodgy. the last thing I wanted was a stolen bike, it just perpetuates more crime and sooner or later it will be you (which it has been twice). I found a bike I liked the look of and phoned up. The conversation went something like this.
 "Hi I have seen your ad on the gumtree for a bike. is it still available."
"Bike, er yeah, yeah the bike I think I still have one left"
"What kind of condition is it in"
"Well the thing is yeah I am selling them for a mate who is well in to his bikes but lives outside London, but I have had a lot of em and everyone who's been round to me lock up has bought one."
"Are you around today, I might be interested in having a look."
"Well I could probably meet you later tonight at my lock up about 8."
"It would be nice to see it in the daylight, I will have a think about it."
 This was probably perfectly innocent but my spider sense was tingling. The thought of going to the far end of east London to a lock up in the middle nowhere with a guarantee I will be carrying at least a phone and a £100 to buy a bike I could not see did not add up to a good idea. It was not till I spoke to George that things started to look up, he had a bike, knew what he was talking about and I could see it this afternoon.

A cup of tea and a test ride later I had bought a new bike and with cliches blowing through my hair I was riding my new bike with a saddle set far to low causing me to adopt a paper gangster style where your knees are higher than the saddle. But what did I care I had my leg back.

Long live the blue mail king

In a simplified hireachy of mail bills are right at the bottom, circulars have to be next, catalogues somewhere in the middle, cheques and birthday cards near the top but unquestioably the king of mail has to be the unexpected overseas mail from a friend. It's hard to say what the best part is, the hand written address, the unusual stamp or the fact that someone has taken the time to put pen to paper. They don't come too often and there are a couple of good reasons for this, I don't know that many people who live elsewhere and I am not the most prolific letter writer. These are not excuses but I think they go some way to explaining the drought.

I came home one day and sitting on the door mat half buried lay the best letter I ever received. At first glance I thought it was junk the envelope was blue, people do not send blue letters, blue letters are for birthdays and it was no where near this time. It was only when I scooped everything up I saw the stamp, but this was, if you can believe it even better than a stamp, this was printed on the letter. On the top it said SRI LANKA POST in bold red lettering and on other end of the envolope was a picture with the text Bank of Ceylon that held no particular significance to me. I turned it over examining it like an episode of CSI. On the back was Sri Lankan text and the real give away the return address. It was not with the typically dramatic manner we have come to love and expect from the show but I had deduced the origin and sender of the post. This was no ordinary letter this was an Aerogram.

Aerograms are amazing and in the same way a monkey is similar to an ape, it's obvious they share genes but at the same time are completely different. They both contain a letter, (not the primates) have a stamp and are delivered by the mail service but that is where the similarity stops, getting an Aerogram open is an episode of CSI in itself. It is probably best described as piece of paper that after you have written your message folds up and becomes the actual envelope and is then sealed on 3 sides. With extreme caution I picked it apart. In reality there was no need the letter was fine and the monkey analogy descrided earlier is probably a better description of me examining this strange blue letter. I make no apologies for this as I think anyone else would have done just the same.

The letter itself was everything a good letter should be funny, insightful and informing. When reading letters the narration in my head is not me anymore it takes on the voice of the person who wrote it. It had been a few years since I had actually seen Marcus face to face but reading this it could have been yesterday. I often fear that an email can be misread, it is a common complaint that intination is missing and can be mistook for something unintended. I don't think this is ever a problem with letters, letters take time to be written even the quick ones, maybe it is their considered manner, their physical state or their tactile nature but you just can beat a letter.

Will I write in a few years time about the best email I ever received, I can't rule that out, but the fact that I received one just last week and it has now gone missing might be some indicator.

The noise in a nutshell

In the last couple of months I have noticed a small noise in the back of my head, I have started talking to myself. I say talking but it's really more of a monologue of consciousness that whirls around looking for a way out, nothing is actually vocal I am not that nuts but I am sure that if I typed this in to Google I could self diagnose any number of mental ailments but here lays the problem. This may be a worrying development but either I am not far enough along the line or I am a border line case because for the fear of being carried off by the men in white coats I am not about to ask anyone else if they do this too.

It is hard to say when exactly it started but I think being self employed has a lot to do with it. Other than phone calls it can be three days without having anything more than a cursory few words to strangers. I find it a funny feeling when this happens, almost as if my powers of conversation are slipping away and I am reverting back to a more neanderthal like being. It has often amazed me how far a grunt will get you, I notice it in the newsagent, on the bus, at the supermarket, in fact out of the workplace there are not many everyday situations left where proper powers of language are a necessity. At first I thought this was simply rude behavior from people with lives to busy to tear themselves away from that "Oh no she di'nt" phone conversation or that tinny sounding ipod for long enough to string a thank you together but maybe it's not, maybe I am not the only one feeling this ape like regression, prehaps we are slowly slipping in to a little capital of the apes if you will.

I kind of like the voice, he sounds like the kind of guy I would like to have a beer with. It is not like when you hear yourself on the answer phone it's the way you think you sound and it's a good job too, it's like a narration going on as if I am in a film thats just starting, the credits have just finished and the story is being set only on a far more mundane, everyday and far less epic sort of way. It happened yesterday on the way back from town, from nowhere a debate started up questioning the the merits of fish vs pasta, it was a rounded argument covering both sides, that may sound trivial but is was not we were talking dinner.

You might be thinking well everyone has these thoughts but here is where we started, how do you know and who do you ask.

Harry Potter and Saturday night quiz

I was invited to a pub quiz last weekend, I jumped at the chance. It was in the city, an area I don't frequent too often but for a quiz I was prepared to make the trip. I breezed in past a polite woman holding a jar, she said hello. Thats polite I thought but I was focused, I said hello back and walked on I was looking for my team. The only problem was that of the eight members I only knew two, a couple, who were running late. I sought the security of the bar, ordered a drink and decided to wait it out.

It turns out that the woman standing by the door, holding a jar and being polite was not just part of the furniture. I realised this when my friends turned up and like every other person in the place popped £2 in the jar, it would seem they did not have the same focus as me, this was the first worrying sign. I met the rest of my team and under first impressions they seemed a nice bunch but were they smart.  So specialist subjects anyone, it would seem not and mine, well, useless knowledge of course. There was an odd laughter, I say odd because I had not made a joke simply stated a fact perhaps they had misheard me. The quiz starts and things are ticking along nicely I am nodding my head in agreement to the people who seem to have sensible answers to sensible questions. There are a few gaps on our sheet but I am sure everyone has a couple this is going well. It was at the half way break when the current scores were added up that things started to turn. Third, the Quizzie rascals were third, third from bottom what the hell, maybe we should have filled in those gaps.

The night was organised in order to raise money for the foodbank, a great scheme, to which you will be happy to know I unfocused for long enough to donated my £2 in to the jar. I looked around the room sizing up the competition only to see nearly everyone was drinking water, soda or juice. This could have been a lifestyle choice but I think it was more, these people meant business, well what was I meant to do, I went to the bar.

There was a dispute on what France looked like, and I think a few others cottoned on to my agreeing head nod trick as my end of the table started to resemble a churchill advert. Another scores update revealed we had held steady at third (bottom). Not a disaster. After the final round the papers were collected and the results came in. Quizzie rascals last place. I would like to say unbelievable but don't feel I can.

There is a final twist in the tale as the losers turned out to be winners of wooden spoons and chocolates. As there were only prized for first and last I like to think we played the smart game, we came out a wooden spoon each and a few chocolates richer with Mike Baldwin and Harry Potter sealing my crown on useless knowledge.

Were my team smart, well all I can say is we won a prize.

The man the shoes and the wardrobe.

I have far too many shoes and they're just sitting in the bottom of my wardrobe. I have a few pairs that I wear regularly the rest just sit there. I like shoes as much as the next man and appreciate a good one when it comes along, the problem is throwing them away. I just can't do it.

The space at the bottom of my wardrobe is now full and the shoes have stacked up in layers like a time line in rock and like that rock they mark points in time. There are pairs from before I moved to London, a smart pair to go with the first suit I ever bough myself (a hideous brown affair but thats another story), numerous trainers expensive and cheap and a pair a good friend bought me in Paris so we could get in to a nice restaurant and thats just near the top. There is a part of me that doesn't like to throw anything away, I really am a bit of a hoarder but I also have a feeling they might be useful in some way, I know the moment I dumped them I will suddenly need that knackered pair of green stripe to complete some awesome outfit, it's a long shot but thats only part of the reason.

I like the way they look. They are like a finger print, there is not another pair of used shoes that look like this. They have to arrive at this point themselves through a combination of good nights out, jokes shared, and sweat spilt. The way I walk and how I tie my laces have all shaped these shoes they are molded around me, they go everywhere I do and for a while are my best friends a time capsule of memories the embodyment of the way I am. The dirt is significant and I am the only one who knows why.

But my wardrobe is not a museum (officially) so something has to give. Shoes your time has come, dear friends I will miss you, but as one last mark of respect for the loyalty you have shown me and the good times we spent I want to immortalise you through the power of the internet.

Thank you Dunlop Green Stripe you served me well.