6th Noovember, 2009 - Ouch

As a small post-script to yesterday's entry, you will recall that I mentioned that, one of the irritating things about Christmas, is that kids leave small sharp plastic objects in places designed to cause maximum pain to adults when they step on them.

I hadn't actually stood on anything when I made that comment. It was designed as a witty observation, of a type designed to make the reader nod sagely in a moment of recognition. It was, in a way, a little symbol about the wastefulness of Christmas - where toys which you hoped would be treasured, actually become a discarded nuisance only minutes after the parcel has been opened. A metaphor I suppose for the consumer society. It was not really meant entiirely literally.

However, I suspect that it will please you yo know that, about 4 minutes after I posted the last entry, I stood on a small woooden rhino. Those horns are sharp.

5th November, 2009 - It's Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiistmaaaaaaaaaaaaas!

In spite of the date in the heading, iit is Christmas day in the real world, and not Guy Fawkes Day (which it is in the odd world of my blog). It is good to be celebrating two holidays simultaneously. Later today I shall be setting fire to an effigy of Santa while singing a rousing chorus of "God Rest Ye Merry Arsonists". It will be no end of fun.

We have just completed the annual orgy of unwrapping, and the children are now happily engaged in breaking many of the new shiny plastic objects which are scattered throughout the house, generally in places designed to cause maximum pain to adults who tread carelessly. There is nothing like a toy dumper truck to make your instep sing with agony.

Highlight of the morning, so far, was my son appearing in the kitchen with an entire Chocolate Orange in his mout. He looked like a small and tasty stuffed pig. I am considering making him the centrepiece of the diinner table for our Christmas feast.

4th November, 2009 - Rage Against The Machine For Number 1

I thought I would lend the (not inconsiderable weight) of my blog to the Facebook Campaign which is trying to secure a Christmas Number 1 for Rage Against the Machine - the aim being to topple the dominance of the X Factor winner.

I have seen quite a lot of tosh about this in the press: suggesting that the campaign is a blow for democracy in the fight against Simon Cowell's empire; and that it is a fight against synthetic pop acts. This, of course, is a lot of old tripe. But you know that already. The fact that you read this blog marks you out as person of superior intelligence and taste. And I also like what you've done with your hair today - it really suits you.

No. The reason for downloading the RATM track is obvious: it is a bit of a laugh. If they get the Number 1 spot it will be amusing to see the X Factor judges hide their irritation. It will be amusing to hear some old rock track blasting over the radio. It will make us all smile in twenty years time when we are listening to some run down of the Top 50 Christmas Number 1s.

So - download it! You can get it on i-Tunes for 29p.

3rd November, 2009 - Remember? Remember? The 5th Of November?

In case you have not been following the blog recently (and who could blame you) I will remind you that I have been on a desperate catch up mission to bring the blog dates into line with real life dates. Currentl, here in cyberspace, I am getting ready for Guy Fawkes night. I shall be letting off Catherine Wheels all over Facebook very soon indeed.

But I am catching up. Slowly. Steadily. There were those who said it couldn't be done; there were those who said I was a fool even to try; there were those who said they didn't really care much and would rather be eating cheese instead of reading this drivel.

But I have ignored them all, and now I have crashed into November, which is only one calendar month behind the real world month of December. Suddenly it seems doable. I can almost taste the champagne, and feel the podium beneath my feet.

Cheer me on fellas. I'm doing this for you guys; for Scotland. Hell - I'm doing it for world peace.

Just say no kids.

2nd November, 2009 - Always The Cliches - But Nevertheless

I went to see Marillion at the Renfrew Ferry last night with my pal The Advisor. Marillion are a band from my youth, and there was a point in my life where I largely lived for them. I could tell you every lyric. I knew the background of all the musicians. I pored over the artwork on their albums.

Over the years they changed their singer, and I suppose that I grew up. There became less room in my life to lie on my bedroom floor, glorying in the band’s angst-ridden tales of fist love and lost love. And it was with some trepidation that I returned to see them last night. And in some ways, the trepidation was not misjudged. In 1987, the band were distant and slightly God-like. They were only to be glimpsed in the pages of rock magazines, and from the middle of huge concert halls. But last night, they had become human. In a crowded but small venue, they were close enough to talk to. They had middle-aged paunches and dyed hair, and they looked a bit like you and me.

They clearly have a good and loyal fan-base (made up almost exclusively of 40something men who work in IT and do not take regular exercise it would appear) and the whole gig had a rather pleasant family-feel with audience and band sharing in-jokes and rather enjoying each other’s company. However, I missed the days when I was able to elevate them to a position where they seemed more than normal, more than musicians. I miss the days when I felt that they were almost unbearably important.

Mostly this was not their fault. It is my fault for getting older. But – and maybe I am wrong about this too – it seemed to me to be more of a cottage industry than a rock gig. But then, they have got older too. They have families to support and mortgages to pay I daresay. Rock and roll is no longer the preserve of the young and the footloose.

1st November, 2009 - S.A.D.

There is no doubt about it: the unrelenting rain and darkness is affecting my mood. People suggest that this sort of thing is S.A.D. Syndrome. This, to my mind, is another statement of the bleeding obvious. Of course we are liable to feel a bit down when it has rained consecutively for 542 days and our neighbour has started shepherding pairs of animals into that oddly boat-shaped shed he has constructed at the bottom of the garden. And naturally, we will feel a bit blue when we haven’t seen the sun since April 2008.

The Scandinavians deal with this sort of thing by retreating into a world of “cosiness” – fireside chats, and warming drinks and the conviviality of good friends. And I tend to agree with them. I do not need a S.A.D. lamp. I need a snowball fight with the kids, and a few pints with my mates at the local, before putting scarf and gloves on and then watching my breath dissolve into the frosty universe.

31sr October, 2009 - What A Bunch Of Bankers

I was off seeing the Bank Manager today about business matters. It is clear that banking has changed. A couple of years ago, it seems to me that the Bankers strode about like young Gods. Well – they were as much like young Gods as fat middle aged men with paunches can be, but you know what I mean. There was a confidence, even in my little corner of Lanarkshire, that the world was shiny, bright and the streets of Whifflet were paved were gold.

It didn’t turn out that way of course. When I visit the bank these days, the (much-reduced) staff look a bit harried, and they use words like “risk” and “security” and “no, we are not lending you the money you charlatan – begone with your requests for capital.”

30th October, 2009 - Survival Of The Fittest

I am currently fumbling around for an idea for a new show to write for Edinburgh next year. It is a bit of an odd feeling. I have about half a dozen ideas in my head just now, none of which has completely taken over yet. It is a bit like natural selection I think. They have to fight for space in my head, and eventually the idea that is fittest will triumph, surviving to evolve into a fully fledged play. The other ideas will not have been strong enough to survive the dangerous environment between my ears, and they will be filed away like fossils.

29th October, 2009 - Bessie

Shirley’s gran has died. I guess she passed away in the way that most of us would pick for our loved ones if we had a choice – after a long, happy and healthy life. But it is still sad. She was an enormous character, and one of Scotland’s leading psychics. In truth, I was always a bit afraid to visit her, in case she could see my innermost thoughts (which as most of you know are almost entirely focussed on bikini models and biscuits – if you ever want to lead me astray, send a good looking brunette with a caramel wafer).

So, my thoughts are with Bessy and her family today. If she was correct about the spirit world, she will currently be living it up with her family and a variety of old acquaintances. If she isn’t correct, and I am, then she is having a nice long sleep, after a happy life with a terrific family.


amil

28th October, 2009 - Marry Me!

A few weeks ago, I pointed out that I didn’t know how my mum and dad had got engaged. I have now found out. This is courtesy of my sister's encyclopaedic knowledge of family history. While I have been cramming my head with important stuff (like when to re-raise out of position when you're holding a pair of sixes) she has been idling her time away paying attention to family history.  No good will come of it.

Apparently, after mum and dad had been courting for a few years, my mum said to my dad, “Don’t you think it’s about time we got engaged.” My dad – ever the romantic – mulled this over for a while, and eventually agreed that she had a point.

27th October, 2009 - My Friend's Electric

I am just back from seeing Gary Numan at the ABC in Glasgow with my mate The Laughing Boy. It was excellent. I have never seen him before (Numan, not Laughing Boy – it would be odd if he was mate and I had never seen him before. Actually, now that I think of it, I have seen Gary Numan before as well, but only on the telly and on album covers, so that doesn’t really count, but I digress).

I have never really got into Gary Numan’s stuff, not because I don’t like it, but it’s never really crossed my radar. But I liked his music when I was a kid, and I’ve heard on a number of ooccasions that he does a great live show. So, I thought I’d tag along with The Laughing Boy who is a big fan (of Numan, not me – I haven’t really got any fans as far as I know, unless there are some very odd groupies who get excited at the thought of a man drafting a Minute of Extension of Lease).

I digress again. It was a great gig – a mix of early material, and his more modern industrial stuff. Not a lot of laughs mind you. You never really expect the pale white demon to break into a rousing cover of “Snooker Loopy” by Chas and Dave.

26th October, 2009 - Help. I am Trapped In A Lift With All These Ladies

I am into double figures with my series of 42 Home Improvements. Those of you who are avid, and slightly deranged regular followers of this blog already know that I am trying to complete 42 small improvements to my life, thus turning this blog into a powerful engine for self-improvement, rather than a way to kill time.

The tenth in the series was tidying up the garden for the winter. I actually rather like gardening when I get down to doing it. Oddly, I often don’t like the thought of gardening. Somehow, the effort of putting on gardening togs, and going out to the wet and muddy world beyond the back door doesn’t seem enormously appealing from the safety of the kitchen, with a warm coffee in your hands. However, when you actually get into the garden, it’s usually ok. I mean, it’s not ok in a “Being Trapped In A Lift With 10 Bikini Models” sort of way. But it’s kind of therapeutic.

I had a dream about being trapped in a lift with 10 bikini models once. Frustratingly, it has not been a recurring dream.

25th October, 2009 - Disappointments 4

The fourth in this series of my disappointments is the crapppy review I got for my own play this year. I have to say that this was balanced with a brilliant review, and to be honest I’d rather pick up reviews at the extremes than get 3 stars all the way. However, I cannot tell a lie – it sucks big time to get criticised.

When you think about it, in your adult life – or certainly in mine – it is fairly rare to get criticised. Maybe in a job appraisal, if you have one of these newfangled management structures. In my line of work, where I am my own boss, the closest you get to it is if you get a complaint from a client I guess.

But you don’t generally get criticised for your hobbies. I mean, if you took a yoga class, you wouldn’t like it if someone from the Guardian came in and gave you two stars in Monday’s paper and said “Her costume was reasonably pleasing, but I’m afraid she’s about as flexible as a brick, and frankly less agreeable to the eye.” You would be particularly unhappy if you learned that the critic had never ever done yoga, but had spent many hours watching yoga videos whilst sitting on their fat arse eating fish suppers.

24th October, 2009 - An Early Christmas Present!

I am just back from my health check at the doctors. I go for a medical check up every two years or so. I figure that I get my car MOTd regularly, so I really should do the same for myself.

Frankly, it is a bit of a depressing experience (except for the prostate examination which is strangely thrilling). The worst bit is that it compares your results for the various tests you had a couple of years ago. What this means is that you cannot hide from the statistics, that essentially tell you that you are getting older, fatter and less fit. The graph is on a downward curve, and with every passing year, the line of best fit approaches the number zero on the Y axis. I do not much like the thought of getting to that point.

On the positive side they discovered that I have another hernia! I didn't even know about this one, so it feels like a bit like Fate has slipped me a surprise early Christmas present. "There you go son - I know you weren't expecting anything - but there's a wee hernia for you - I know how much you enjoyed the last one."

Thanks fate. that's brilliant. It really is.

23rd October, 2009 - Omelettes

The third of my disappointments is my absolute inability to make omelettes. This is an odd thing to be disappointed about. It is not really up there with "Failing to ensure world peace" or "Not Curing Cancer". But it really rankles.

I am no Jamie Oliver (I don't dribble as much as he does) but I am not too bad in the kitchen. I have spent a bit of time living alone in my adult life (I blame the chronic foot odour), and I have always been able to rustle up a decent dinner. I can even bake. Scones and pancakes hold no fears for me. I do a mean chocolate mousse. But the humble omelette... well... it is a mystery to me.

My mate the couch Potato always makes me an omelette for the meal that he loosely terms “breakfast” during our visits to Crieff each year. It is called “breakfast” because it is the first meal of the day, but it is usually taken at around 4pm, just as the sting of the Saturday hangover is beginning to wear off.

CP makes it look easy: light, fluffy, nicely seasoned. My omelettes are pale yellow blobs of undercooked mush. No matter how many times I try it, they are disastrous. In the world of the omelette the Couch Potato is king.

22nd October, 2009 - 42 Home Improvements #9

I have completed another of my 42 Home Improvements. Thus, I am now nine forty seconds of the way to creating a New Utopia here at Bayley Mansions.

Tonight, I put a bit of string on an old number plate and hung it on the bathroom wall. I appreciate that to many of you, this will not seem like much of an improvement. In fact, I have a feeling that when my wife next visits the little girl’s room she may share the same view. I may well be “for it”. And in this context, “it” is not a nice cup of tea, and a piece of battenburg cake.

But – see – it is a sentimental number plate, and it will make me smile during my quiet moments of contemplation. So, it is an improvement for me.

21st October, 2009 - Disappointments 2

The second of my disappointments goes right back to school. Our team lost in the final of the Scottish Schools’ Volleyball tournament. It is my only really significant sporting achievement to reach that final. In all honesty, I was kind of lucky to make it into that team at all. We had a number of guys who were playing at county level and I think even in the Scotland squad. I was strictly school team material – easily the worst regular in the team; easily the least gifted athletically.

But I loved volleyball. For maybe 5 years of my life it was a ritual. Training two or three times a week. A game or a tournament every week. Trips in the school minibus to other schools. Me, seriously uncool, amongst the cool boys, the athletes. That is how I secretly felt. It was my foot in the other camp – my own camp being the world of wargames and the debating club and the school magazine committee.

I remember the feeling of defeat as I type this. Those of you who know me, know that I have a disastrously competitive streak. I detest losing. Not in the way that I think most people do. It feels like personal failure to me. Defeat feels like a failure to be able to bend the world to my will. I see that this is not a logical feeling, of course. I see that it is futile to expect light to bend around you, and to feel the forces of the universe flowing through your fingers. But it still makes me mad that I can’t.

As I get older, I think I am a bit better at hiding these feelings. But any time I lose, it still feels like the dressing room after that game in 1984.

20th October, 2009 - Disappointments 1

Dungeons and dragons has been cancelled at short notice this evening, because two of our regular players are ill. This is tremendously disappointing news, since our regular game is the highlight of my fortnight. Obviously, it is good to see my children and observe their first words and steps, but it is all a very pale second pace to battling orcs and goblins in the Mystical Mines Beneath the Huruk’ba Mountains.

As I have a free evening, and as I still have numerous blog entries to catch up on, I thought I would reflect on other disappointments in my life, which rival the cancellation of the Dungeons and Dragons Game. I thought I might list a few of my past disappointments.

My first disappointment, or regret I suppose, is that I don’t have the musical talent to play in a proper band. When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I played in a wee rock band with my mates, but in spite of great endeavour, I think we all recognised that we were unlikely to secure a deal with EMI. For some reason, the major labels did not send droves of A&R men to see our gigs (which generally took place in the pub just down the road from my house). I think that the main reason was that we were not very good. 

Also, we were not particulary good-looking. And we didn't write very good songs. Or wear fashionable clothes. And one of us had a tight curly perm reminiscent of Julie Walters in the early 80s. And I didn't always play in exactly the same key as the others.

Other than that, we were the Next Big Thing.

19th October, 2009 - My Trousers Are Wet

All of my sensible trousers in the wash, and I have had to wear a big pair of baggy, trendy things that I bought a couple of years ago during one of my many mid-life crises. They are one of those pairs that have flairs that are designed to graze the ground. Clearly, they were dreamed up by someone in California, or some such place where when wet weather comes along, it is regarded as a novelty, and people run romantically through the streets in the light Summer drizzle, laughing before they run into a surf shack and towel each other's bronzed bodies down while singing Jack Johnston tunes.

Here in the West of Scotland however, it is not like that. Rain is not a novelty. Rain is part of the landscape. And I can testify that my trendy trousers are not sensible wear for a rainy November day in Glasgow. Rather than looking trendy, my trousers have actually absorbed mud by osmosis.Now they are more mud than trouser. I look as if I am wearing two soggy hollow tree trunks. They weigh about the same as that too.

From now on, I shall exclusively wear plus fours.

18th October, 2009 - Witches Abroad

My daughter thinks that my mother was a witch. This is because we have a model witch which we hang at our back door. I am sentimentally attached to it, because my mum gave it to me not long before she died, and it is exactly the sort of whimsical object that delighted both her and me. If I had my way, the whole house would be filled with all manner of such objects and the garden would be full of gnomes. Regrettably, what I view as quaint and whimsical is viewed by my Significant Other as "another piece of old tat" which "you are not keeping in my house".

Back to the witch. The Roundfaced Girl, having been told that this is Grandma Meg’s witch, is now of the belief that Grandma Meg is actually a witch. As far as I know this is not true. However, I now look twice at the model witch. Sometimes I even talk to her. It I mean. Sometimes I even talk to it.

17th October, 2009 - Photogenic

My son is annoyingly photogenic. He has just returned from the playgroup’s photo session, clutching a little bundle of proofs that make him look like the cover boy of “Mother and Perfectly Cherubic Two Year Old Magazine”. He is beaming up from the page, looking the picture of health and happiness. And yet, whenever I have control over him, his face is generally covered in jam, and he has a piece of bacon sticking to his hair.

Me on the other hand? I do not take a good photo. I am six feet tall, wear the same clothes from the same chain stores as everyone else, and I rarely have bacon in my hair, and yet, when I am captured on celluloid, I look like the less-good-looking of the two Modo brothers (Quasi, I think, would have been embarrassed to take me to bell ringing classes).

I am in a bad mood.

16th October, 2009 - Embrace Change (But Don't Slip the Tongue)

We have been going through a small period of minor upheaval at work after a period of reasonable stability. We have had one member of staff leave, and several other of the ladies in the office are due to take maternity leave. If they all the babies have webbed feet like the man from the stationary company, then questons will be asked, although I expect that we may be able to demand a discount on Post Its.

All of thiss has all led us into a period of trying to re-shuffle things to manage all the changes and absences.I don’t think that anyone particularly likes change at work (unless the change is a big promotion, less responsibility, and your own executive retreat in the Cayman Islands). But I take the view that it is inevitable, and if you don’t roll your sleeves up and try to get through the choppy waters, then the storm is likely to claim you.

Stability in the workplace is much undervalued. I suspect that Man Utd would not have been as successful if they had chopped and changed their manager. Now, my firm is clearly not Man Utd (we don't have a big enough squad for a start, and to be honest, we are lacking pace on the left wing), but, if we can get through this next spell, we have a shot at having a fair run in the League Cup.

15th October, 2009 - The Wizard of Boz

I recently went to a Halloween party as the Lion from the Wizard of Oz. I was supposed to be going as the Tin Man, but the outfit acquired for me by my Significant Other left something to be desired. The roblem was that I think that it had been made for the 7-11 age group. The sheer trousers, I have to say, rode up to an almost pornographic extent, leaving little to the imagination (and I use the word “little” advisedly in this context).

Unfortunately the sight of me in my crotch hugging silver lame was not really the look that was likely to win me a lot of friends at a Halloween party where a number of chikdren were to be in attendance. So, I was hurriedly re-cast as the Lion.

14th October, 2009 - Nature vs Nurture

I was talking to my mate the advocate about the “nature versus nurture” debate the other night. We both have young kids, and our conversation frequently gets around to parenting, remedies for sleep-deprivation and the price of baby wipes. If you run into us in the pub, we are best avoided.

However, it is all interesting stuff for us. I think we both regard our kids as an interesting experiment, a bit like growing bulbs was back in primary school. The Advocate frightened me a bit though by saying that he’s been reading stuff that suggests that upbringing is far more important that genetics in determining the future happiness and success of your kids.

This is hugely worrying for me. Until now I have been staunchly on the side of genetic determination (ie your kids are likely to reach their potential in spite of environmental factors). The news from the Advocate means I will now need to consider reading to them, and praising their efforts with the stickle bricks.

13th October, 2009 - Pizza Face

I have a zit on the back of my neck.

I am 42 years old. I should no longer be burdened with acne. Particularly, I should not be burdened with the hugely irritating kind of plook that you know is going to be a “biggy”, but is not quite ripe enough to burst. So you have to squirm for a couple of days with your shirt collar chafing it, and aggravating it into a one tenth scale model of Mount Vesuvias, before it erupts in an oozing column of pus at some important meeting, where everyone else are real, proper grown ups, whereas I will be revealed to be a hormone-addled teenager who somehow saved up enough money for a suit from Ralf Slaters.

I should have left all this behind me when I left my teenage years. I served my time. I was a spotty adolescent. In fact, I was probably the spottiest adolescent in my year at school, earning the hilarious nickname “pizza face” for a period of at least 18 months. At a time when I should have been turning young girls’ heads, my only serious relationship was with the pharmacist on the minor ailments counter at Boots, who clearly saw my repeat-prescription of Clearasil as a meal ticket for life.

Righto. I am off to give this thing a squeeze.

12th October, 2009 - Granny!

I am very lucky to have my in-laws. My Significant Other and I live near to her parents, and they provide all of the child-care we could ever want. I am eternally grateful to them - it’s the best arrangement for our kids that we could possibly want.

I am particularly fond of my father-in-law’s sense of humour which is now creeping into my children’s psyche. For example, recently when reading a book about a gorilla who goes to bed with a zookeeper (Children’s books are weird!), both of the round-faced people started giggling uncontrollably as they pointed to the gorilla and said through hysterical laughter: “Granny!!! Granny!!!”

11th October, 2009 - I Was Nearly Posh

I nearly went to private school. The reason for this was that I was struggling a bit academically just towards the end of primary and beginning of secondary. I had missed a ton of classes on account of my tonsils. My tonsils had been bullying me, and I was afraid to go to school, because they were waiting for me outside Mr Todd’s house, ready to steal my packed lunch.

No. Wait. That’s not right. I had tonsillitis a lot. That was it.

Anyhow, my folks admitted to me some years later that my name was down to sit an exam to see if I’d get a bursary, but I couldn’t make it along because of – you guessed it – the tonsils. I sometimes wonder how life would have turned out if I’d gone down that path. Everything would have been different. I’d have had completely different friends. I wouldn’t have got into dram (at least by the route that I did which was through a former pupils club from my school). My girlfriends would have been different.

Our lives are peculiar sequences of chance. There are billions upon billions of possible “me’s” out there in the set of all possible universes. What an odd thought.

10th October, 2009 - We Don't Pander To Kids Here

It is a mistake to take the kids to anywhere that resembles an adult cafe. If you take the kids to places that are for kids, like soft play areas and the like, the laws of supply and demand have brought the prices down to a sensible level. The owners realise that a hot chocolate for kids only needs to be small, and at any event, as a parent, you grudge paying more than a quid for anything that is going to be largely dribbled down your child’s t shirt, rather than being consumed.

Adult-orientated facilities do not appreciate this. When you go to such a coffee shop, as I did today, and ask for two kids’ hot chocolates, they just stare at you blankly. Then you relent and ask for two regular hot chocolates, which inevitably arrive – enormous, steaming, and served at the temperature of the surface of the sun.

And they cost £2.50 each. Do I look like I wanted to take out a second mortgage to pay for a light mid-morning treat for my weans? It is the soft play area from now on.

9th October, 2009 - Haw Sexy!

I will tell you today of one of my most embarrassing experiences. I was walking from my office to the town, when I saw my sister in front of me. She was maybe fifty yards in front, and striding purposefully towards the town centre. So, I thought I would give her a little surprise. So, I sneaked up behind her, until I was only a few paces behind, and then, in my best impression of a building contractor bellowed “HAW SEXY!!!” at her.

She turned, somewhat startled.

But not as startled as I was.

Because it wasn’t actually my sister. Just a lady that looked remarkably like her.

I tried an apology: “Oh – I thought you were my sister...”

She gave me a look that managed to express fear, disgust and puzzlement simultaneously.

“Oh – not that I think my sister’s sexy. Well – I suppose she is, but I don;t think so, seeing as I’m her brother. It’d just be weird if I found her sexually attractive.”

I then crossed the road, put my head down and strode off down the road at some pace.

8th October, 2009 - Decorate My Lapels You Rotters

I have not won any medals since I was 17. This seems to me to be hugely disappointing. Before I was 19 I won medals all the time. I have medals from the cub scout swimming gala. I have a medal from the gymnastic club for being able to do a forward roll unassisted. I have a medal from the school, for being good at remembering stuff about Thomas Hardy.

But, since the onset of adulthood, my haul has dwindled. Now, the only prizes I seem to pick up are from the Reader’s Digest. This is all a bit disappointing. I think I’m much better at some stuff now than I ever was at gymnastics. For example, I can draft a mean deduction of title clause in a Contract of Excambion. I suspect that I am one of the best lawyers in my street at that. But do they give out medals for it the way they used to for gymnastics? No – they don’t. And the world is the worse for it.

I want to be able to go to work with my lapels dripping with decorations.

7th October, 2009 - Ooo Arr Ooo Arr Ay

My mention of the children’s song “Old MacDonald” in yesterday’s entry reminds me that the Union of Farm Workers and Agricultural Contractors is the E.I.E.I.O..

6th October, 2009 - Culture!

I took the children to the Hunterian Art Gallery today. The visit was not a riproaring success. I suspect that they found the exhibition “The Collectors’ Room – An Exclusive Viewing of Drawings From Private Collectors” a little bit beyond them. They did enjoy sitting on the big bench in the middle of the room though. And also singing “Old MacDonald” in a very very loud voice to a number of art lovers. The art lovers smiled at me through clenched teeth, but I know they were thinking “Take your children hence, for this is my sanctuary, and you have spoiled it.”

We left and had muffins and hot chocolate. That was more successful.