Off The Booze
With less than three and a half weeks to go to D Day I'm off the booze. This is in case I get the emergency "Go Go Go!" call from Vic and have to put my foot down to the hospital. Needs must. I'm going to drive to Sally and David's wedding this Sunday to ensure I'm not tempted to have more than two glasses of champagne.
Expected Benefits: Some weight loss
Friday, August 22, 2003
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Catch Me If You Can
Last Wednesday Larry popped in after his touch rugby session at Chinnor had finished. I was dealing with a call from Barclays Bank Fraud Protection – who were telling me that Vic’s debit card had been cloned and £300 of damage put on it – at the time, so was a bit air-headed.
I forgot to tell Vic (or Keir) that Larry was over again this week and that we’d arranged to meet up at the rugby club for a post-match BBQ. Larry’s better half, Carole, was coming over too.
So Vic was surprised when Larry phoned last night and asked her if “we’re still on for tonight?”. I got the usual Zero Notice is a Bad Thing grilling.
We managed to get up to the rugby club in time to see Larry refereeing the Grand Men’s Final. Very authoritative he was too, with a proper black & white ref’s jersey and a whistle. Carole was nowhere to be seen: she was asleep in the car. It took a few minutes to work out the rules – is it 5 or 6 touches before the ball is turned over to the opposition? – but I soon got the hang of what was going on. I’ve got to say that touch rugby looks a lot of fun. I may well give it a go myself next year, as long as I’m fitter than I am now. In my current state I’d be throwing up after two minutes of intensive running and twisting.
The post BBQ highlights included:
Larry revealing that he doesn’t like films (exceptions to the rule are Dirty Dancing and Wizard of Oz).
Larry spilling a whole pint of bitter when I started to sing Queen’s “Who wants to live forever” to him (Carole is Scottish and likes Highlander).
Who’s In Da House?!
I’ve always been a fan of hip hop. Bringing the noise to my boys since 1987!
My mate Tim Westwood tells me that being called Big Dog is a great honour in the black urban ghettos of Brixton and Thame. Well homies, my Baby Girl Vicster has been calling me Big Dog for years now, unaware that she was setting a new trend for my brothers and sisters on the street. Knowing that I'm the cream of the hip hop crop has me all fired up for my big rap battle showdown with Justin Ruffles next month at Sarah and Gareth’s wedding.
“I’m like a bug. I’m gonna bite.
There’s only one winner of this fight.
Ruffles can scratch, but my rhymes still itch.
Leave the stage, you’re my mother friggin’ b*tch!”
It’s going to be massive. I’m a bomb.
Practise Makes Perfect
When Gaby got made redundant she left behind a little friend for me. Chookie is a 19 inch black cock. He is a soft toy Cheeky Chums rooster, with beady eyes and an aura of general evilness. I love him and he’s one of the few genuine friends I have at work.
His current role is to act as a substitute baby. I’m using him to practise holding a baby and doing things – such as typing on a keyboard. Secretly I think he quite enjoys it.
I am resisting the urge to take him home and dress him up in some of our new baby clothes.
Last Wednesday Larry popped in after his touch rugby session at Chinnor had finished. I was dealing with a call from Barclays Bank Fraud Protection – who were telling me that Vic’s debit card had been cloned and £300 of damage put on it – at the time, so was a bit air-headed.
I forgot to tell Vic (or Keir) that Larry was over again this week and that we’d arranged to meet up at the rugby club for a post-match BBQ. Larry’s better half, Carole, was coming over too.
So Vic was surprised when Larry phoned last night and asked her if “we’re still on for tonight?”. I got the usual Zero Notice is a Bad Thing grilling.
We managed to get up to the rugby club in time to see Larry refereeing the Grand Men’s Final. Very authoritative he was too, with a proper black & white ref’s jersey and a whistle. Carole was nowhere to be seen: she was asleep in the car. It took a few minutes to work out the rules – is it 5 or 6 touches before the ball is turned over to the opposition? – but I soon got the hang of what was going on. I’ve got to say that touch rugby looks a lot of fun. I may well give it a go myself next year, as long as I’m fitter than I am now. In my current state I’d be throwing up after two minutes of intensive running and twisting.
The post BBQ highlights included:
Larry revealing that he doesn’t like films (exceptions to the rule are Dirty Dancing and Wizard of Oz).
Larry spilling a whole pint of bitter when I started to sing Queen’s “Who wants to live forever” to him (Carole is Scottish and likes Highlander).
Who’s In Da House?!
I’ve always been a fan of hip hop. Bringing the noise to my boys since 1987!
My mate Tim Westwood tells me that being called Big Dog is a great honour in the black urban ghettos of Brixton and Thame. Well homies, my Baby Girl Vicster has been calling me Big Dog for years now, unaware that she was setting a new trend for my brothers and sisters on the street. Knowing that I'm the cream of the hip hop crop has me all fired up for my big rap battle showdown with Justin Ruffles next month at Sarah and Gareth’s wedding.
“I’m like a bug. I’m gonna bite.
There’s only one winner of this fight.
Ruffles can scratch, but my rhymes still itch.
Leave the stage, you’re my mother friggin’ b*tch!”
It’s going to be massive. I’m a bomb.
Practise Makes Perfect
When Gaby got made redundant she left behind a little friend for me. Chookie is a 19 inch black cock. He is a soft toy Cheeky Chums rooster, with beady eyes and an aura of general evilness. I love him and he’s one of the few genuine friends I have at work.
His current role is to act as a substitute baby. I’m using him to practise holding a baby and doing things – such as typing on a keyboard. Secretly I think he quite enjoys it.
I am resisting the urge to take him home and dress him up in some of our new baby clothes.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
One Down, Lots More To Come
James phoned us at 10:30 pm last night. He is a proud new father. Little Amy arrived safe and sound at 2:40 pm yesterday afternoon. Rachel managed to avoid the nastiness of being induced by letting her waters break a mere three hours before the inducement deadline. She negotiated the ten hour labour with just gas and air, and both baby and mum are fine.
James was celebrating on his own with a can of Fosters. He was on cloud nine. "I'm a dad!" was his opening line.
After I'd got off the phone with him I was buzzing. I can't wait for our D Day!
Lady of Leisure
Vicster finished work on Friday. She is now on maternity leave and is officially a Lady of Leisure. Yesterday was shopping and tidying up. Today is going to the cinema with Emma and Ruffles. I'm not sure I'm going to like this once the novelty has worn off.
James phoned us at 10:30 pm last night. He is a proud new father. Little Amy arrived safe and sound at 2:40 pm yesterday afternoon. Rachel managed to avoid the nastiness of being induced by letting her waters break a mere three hours before the inducement deadline. She negotiated the ten hour labour with just gas and air, and both baby and mum are fine.
James was celebrating on his own with a can of Fosters. He was on cloud nine. "I'm a dad!" was his opening line.
After I'd got off the phone with him I was buzzing. I can't wait for our D Day!
Lady of Leisure
Vicster finished work on Friday. She is now on maternity leave and is officially a Lady of Leisure. Yesterday was shopping and tidying up. Today is going to the cinema with Emma and Ruffles. I'm not sure I'm going to like this once the novelty has worn off.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Ante-Natal Group
The dinner with James and Rachel went really well. So much so, we invited them over to ours last Wednesday. We traded their spaghetti [correctly predicted as the dish of the day beforehand] for our BBQ. James and Rachel are now on tender hooks (not because I may have undercooked the chicken) as they are due to deliver tomorrow, with an inducement deadline of Monday the 18th.
We’re still meeting up with the other Fat Ladies each Thursday at the pub to share experiences and anxieties. The numbers are dwindling each week as girths increase and higher levels of discomfort kick in. The number of partners drinking alcohol is also dropping off as more and more approach the “drop everything and drive me to the hospital” four weeks to go stage.
The record heat and humidity levels have been causing Vic some aggravation, but we managed to escape for a few days with a weekend up in Carlisle at my in-laws. The North West was a good 10 degrees cooler and lacked the steam room air quality. We managed two nights of quality sleep. Sweet. And the dog was fine.
Took the tour at Wallingford’s community hospital. It was so much better than the JR: Natural light, friendly midwife, fresh and soothing paint, intimate and informal. The venue has been selected.
Our baby wardrobe is busting out. We’ve received so many great gifts from people that our new arrival will be able to wear three or four different outfits every day of her first three months. Bring on the sick! She’s going to look a million dollars when she accompanies me to all those Magic tournaments.
Five weeks and counting.
The Football Season Starts
The new football season seems to start earlier and earlier each year. It shouldn’t start in the middle of a high summer heat wave, or the summer cricket Test Series, but it has. If you put a quid on Oxford United winning each of their matches 1-0, you’d probably end up quids in by the end of the season. Promotion? Probably a better chance than last year, but not as strong as the bookies seem to think.
The dinner with James and Rachel went really well. So much so, we invited them over to ours last Wednesday. We traded their spaghetti [correctly predicted as the dish of the day beforehand] for our BBQ. James and Rachel are now on tender hooks (not because I may have undercooked the chicken) as they are due to deliver tomorrow, with an inducement deadline of Monday the 18th.
We’re still meeting up with the other Fat Ladies each Thursday at the pub to share experiences and anxieties. The numbers are dwindling each week as girths increase and higher levels of discomfort kick in. The number of partners drinking alcohol is also dropping off as more and more approach the “drop everything and drive me to the hospital” four weeks to go stage.
The record heat and humidity levels have been causing Vic some aggravation, but we managed to escape for a few days with a weekend up in Carlisle at my in-laws. The North West was a good 10 degrees cooler and lacked the steam room air quality. We managed two nights of quality sleep. Sweet. And the dog was fine.
Took the tour at Wallingford’s community hospital. It was so much better than the JR: Natural light, friendly midwife, fresh and soothing paint, intimate and informal. The venue has been selected.
Our baby wardrobe is busting out. We’ve received so many great gifts from people that our new arrival will be able to wear three or four different outfits every day of her first three months. Bring on the sick! She’s going to look a million dollars when she accompanies me to all those Magic tournaments.
Five weeks and counting.
The Football Season Starts
The new football season seems to start earlier and earlier each year. It shouldn’t start in the middle of a high summer heat wave, or the summer cricket Test Series, but it has. If you put a quid on Oxford United winning each of their matches 1-0, you’d probably end up quids in by the end of the season. Promotion? Probably a better chance than last year, but not as strong as the bookies seem to think.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Hospital Cell Block JR
"And this is one of our delivery dungeons..." said the midwife, opening the door to a dimly lit box-room, with no natural light and a low ceiling. "We have a drawer full of implements over here, next to the prison-bed. Gas and air is continously pumped into the room to alleviate some of your pain." The lone spotlight caught a thin smile on her face. The giant clock -- much too big for the size of the room, and positioned so the mother-to-be can see how many hours she has been in agony -- ticked ominously on, counting down to Delivery Day.
"Here we have the birthing pool, for those ladies who are crazy enough to want to give birth in water. To make it look slightly less like a 1960's James Bond villian's lair, we have painted sea creatures -- including a giant man-eating octopus -- on the walls in soothing bright orange."
"After the birth you shall be housed on these wards. Curfew is between the hours of 12 noon and 3 p.m.: the lights will be switched off and there well be no talking or visitors."
We were less than impressed with the JR facilities last night. It was like being back at school: the place looked tired and stank of nasty dinners. Vic's been asking friends who have delivered at the JR what it's really like and I've tried to remind her we are not going into hospital to enjoy the decor, but going for the medical skills.
Dinner With New Friends
We're off to dinner at James and Rachel's tonight. They are our "new friends" from ante-natal classes, and seem to be really cool people. Being a complete food snob, I'm praying their tastes are similar to ours. I'm also hoping we don't have too many uncomfortable silences.
911 Disturbance
Another fight from our next door neighbours kicked off at 10 last night, spilling out into the street, with at least one solid punch thrown. They sounded as if they were coming through the walls, with internal doors banged repeatedly and the sounds of screaming, shouting and breakages resonating. When the thug boyfriend shut his 6 year old daughter outside -- so she wouldn't have to see her father abusing her new "mum" -- and she was left crying "please don't fight... Daddy, please open the door!", I was ready to phone the police. Then he left. We feared for her safety.
For her sake, I hope he doesn't return. If she lets him back into her life, she's a fool. That was the fourth or fifth time they've had a fight in as many months. Why put yourself through that?
This morning we found a note pushed through the letterbox from her saying "I want to apologise for the disturbance tonight."
Her handwriting was completely stressed.
"And this is one of our delivery dungeons..." said the midwife, opening the door to a dimly lit box-room, with no natural light and a low ceiling. "We have a drawer full of implements over here, next to the prison-bed. Gas and air is continously pumped into the room to alleviate some of your pain." The lone spotlight caught a thin smile on her face. The giant clock -- much too big for the size of the room, and positioned so the mother-to-be can see how many hours she has been in agony -- ticked ominously on, counting down to Delivery Day.
"Here we have the birthing pool, for those ladies who are crazy enough to want to give birth in water. To make it look slightly less like a 1960's James Bond villian's lair, we have painted sea creatures -- including a giant man-eating octopus -- on the walls in soothing bright orange."
"After the birth you shall be housed on these wards. Curfew is between the hours of 12 noon and 3 p.m.: the lights will be switched off and there well be no talking or visitors."
We were less than impressed with the JR facilities last night. It was like being back at school: the place looked tired and stank of nasty dinners. Vic's been asking friends who have delivered at the JR what it's really like and I've tried to remind her we are not going into hospital to enjoy the decor, but going for the medical skills.
Dinner With New Friends
We're off to dinner at James and Rachel's tonight. They are our "new friends" from ante-natal classes, and seem to be really cool people. Being a complete food snob, I'm praying their tastes are similar to ours. I'm also hoping we don't have too many uncomfortable silences.
911 Disturbance
Another fight from our next door neighbours kicked off at 10 last night, spilling out into the street, with at least one solid punch thrown. They sounded as if they were coming through the walls, with internal doors banged repeatedly and the sounds of screaming, shouting and breakages resonating. When the thug boyfriend shut his 6 year old daughter outside -- so she wouldn't have to see her father abusing her new "mum" -- and she was left crying "please don't fight... Daddy, please open the door!", I was ready to phone the police. Then he left. We feared for her safety.
For her sake, I hope he doesn't return. If she lets him back into her life, she's a fool. That was the fourth or fifth time they've had a fight in as many months. Why put yourself through that?
This morning we found a note pushed through the letterbox from her saying "I want to apologise for the disturbance tonight."
Her handwriting was completely stressed.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Project Completed
Feeling more positive today about the exam flunk. We had a busy and productive weekend, which has raised my spirits and allowed me to forget my studying short-comings.
We grouted the kitchen floor tiles, touched up the paintwork and attached the skirting boards. Apart from some new covers for the lights, the Kitchen Project is completed.
[I can see Scott trembling]
We also stained the bathroom cupboard, re-attached the doors, and finished the tiling. Apart from a little grouting -- to be done this evening -- and a carpet, the Bathroom Project is completed (20 months later).
[I can see Scott's head spinning round on his shoulders]
Tonight we have our tour of the JR hospital baby facilities.
Feeling more positive today about the exam flunk. We had a busy and productive weekend, which has raised my spirits and allowed me to forget my studying short-comings.
We grouted the kitchen floor tiles, touched up the paintwork and attached the skirting boards. Apart from some new covers for the lights, the Kitchen Project is completed.
[I can see Scott trembling]
We also stained the bathroom cupboard, re-attached the doors, and finished the tiling. Apart from a little grouting -- to be done this evening -- and a carpet, the Bathroom Project is completed (20 months later).
[I can see Scott's head spinning round on his shoulders]
Tonight we have our tour of the JR hospital baby facilities.
Friday, July 25, 2003
Exam Results
Bad news. The Grey Squirrel Gods have frowned on me.
Four exams.
One pass, one near-miss, two clear fails.
One out of four is the result. I'm still not a fully qualified accountant, I still have a future of taking the damn exams (retakes ahoy), and I'm gutted.
I feel hollow and flat.
Four passes would have been a passport out of my sh*t job, but with so little return for 3 months hard work, I just don't know what I'm going to do.
Vicster -- with her emotional state working its magic -- was tearful when I opened the envelope*, and I feel terrible for letting us, as a family unit, down.
With three retakes in November an unlikely proposition considering the September arrival of our new-born, the earliest I'm going to complete this final stage of exams is next May, with results in June 2004.
So on top of all the work I'm going to have to redo -- when I would rather be enjoying the company of my new baby and lifestyle -- my career and earnings are effectively put back 12 months.
I am so looking forward to taking all those calls from family and friends later today and this evening. They'll be phoning in the expectation of hearing some good news, and I'm going to have to gloomily repeat the above thoughts to them over and over again.
"Bad luck" and "Don't worry, atleast you got one of them" don't cut the mustard in making me feel any better.
F*ck I feel low.
* I knew it was bad news ahead of opening the results: If you've passed them all the envelope you receive is a big fat one, packed with additional information about what to do next. If you've failed one or more, you just get the single-sheet results in a thin, standard-letter envelope. And that's what the postman pushed through our letter-box...
Bad news. The Grey Squirrel Gods have frowned on me.
Four exams.
One pass, one near-miss, two clear fails.
One out of four is the result. I'm still not a fully qualified accountant, I still have a future of taking the damn exams (retakes ahoy), and I'm gutted.
I feel hollow and flat.
Four passes would have been a passport out of my sh*t job, but with so little return for 3 months hard work, I just don't know what I'm going to do.
Vicster -- with her emotional state working its magic -- was tearful when I opened the envelope*, and I feel terrible for letting us, as a family unit, down.
With three retakes in November an unlikely proposition considering the September arrival of our new-born, the earliest I'm going to complete this final stage of exams is next May, with results in June 2004.
So on top of all the work I'm going to have to redo -- when I would rather be enjoying the company of my new baby and lifestyle -- my career and earnings are effectively put back 12 months.
I am so looking forward to taking all those calls from family and friends later today and this evening. They'll be phoning in the expectation of hearing some good news, and I'm going to have to gloomily repeat the above thoughts to them over and over again.
"Bad luck" and "Don't worry, atleast you got one of them" don't cut the mustard in making me feel any better.
F*ck I feel low.
* I knew it was bad news ahead of opening the results: If you've passed them all the envelope you receive is a big fat one, packed with additional information about what to do next. If you've failed one or more, you just get the single-sheet results in a thin, standard-letter envelope. And that's what the postman pushed through our letter-box...
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Lean Mean Igniting Machine
We saw Larry at the weekend. He's half the man he used to be: Carole has put him on a diet and he's lost two stone since we saw him last. Beefy and buff, the diet has made him look years younger.
Larry's weight-loss should act as an inspiration for me. I've been on a casual diet now for about 6 weeks, and so far have lost a grand total of 3 pounds. The second phase has begun: I've done a few sit ups and Vic has decided to suppress my sugar cravings with a supply of dried fruits.
I'm really not used to prunes.
They are especially unkind when you're "looking forward" to your life-changing exam results...
15 hours to go.
We saw Larry at the weekend. He's half the man he used to be: Carole has put him on a diet and he's lost two stone since we saw him last. Beefy and buff, the diet has made him look years younger.
Larry's weight-loss should act as an inspiration for me. I've been on a casual diet now for about 6 weeks, and so far have lost a grand total of 3 pounds. The second phase has begun: I've done a few sit ups and Vic has decided to suppress my sugar cravings with a supply of dried fruits.
I'm really not used to prunes.
They are especially unkind when you're "looking forward" to your life-changing exam results...
15 hours to go.
Road Kill Tally
+1 Hedgehog
+1 Grey Squirrel
Frankly every extra grey squirrel run over is a bonus for me.
[Random Blog Reader]: "WTF?! You're an evil person Nobby if you're happy to see one of my cute furry little friends squashed flat on the tarmac, with their innards gushing out like candy floss. You're animal-hating scum!"
Woah there! Let me explain!
Grey squirrels are vermin. They're tree rats. Their introduction to these shores has decimated Britain's native Red Squirrel population. If it was a rat squashed on the road you'd not get upset at it, and neither would I.
Dead hedgehogs on the other hand are a far more prickly subject.
Punch the Fist
James Gibson won our first men's swimming gold medal at the World Championships for 28 years. Quite an achievement. I listened to it live on the radio and punched the fist when he touched home in the lead. I've got no interest in swimming, but always at emotional when one of Great Britain's atheletes performs to their peak and brings home the bacon. I always think of the years of training and emotional investment they make in their chosen sport and being able to say "I'm the best in the World" is fab.
The 50m sprint race sounded great on the radio. Unlike track and field sprints -- like the 100m -- where the race is over before the commentator has chance to even say all of the competitors names, the 50m swim sprint was just long enough for the guy to convey the speed, drama and excitement of the whole thing. He had a nice steady tempo curve building up to the climax of the last few meters. I the listener was able to visualize James Gibson's slow start, steady claw back, and dramatic finger-tip win. Great radio.
Well done the commentator and well done James!
+1 Hedgehog
+1 Grey Squirrel
Frankly every extra grey squirrel run over is a bonus for me.
[Random Blog Reader]: "WTF?! You're an evil person Nobby if you're happy to see one of my cute furry little friends squashed flat on the tarmac, with their innards gushing out like candy floss. You're animal-hating scum!"
Woah there! Let me explain!
Grey squirrels are vermin. They're tree rats. Their introduction to these shores has decimated Britain's native Red Squirrel population. If it was a rat squashed on the road you'd not get upset at it, and neither would I.
Dead hedgehogs on the other hand are a far more prickly subject.
Punch the Fist
James Gibson won our first men's swimming gold medal at the World Championships for 28 years. Quite an achievement. I listened to it live on the radio and punched the fist when he touched home in the lead. I've got no interest in swimming, but always at emotional when one of Great Britain's atheletes performs to their peak and brings home the bacon. I always think of the years of training and emotional investment they make in their chosen sport and being able to say "I'm the best in the World" is fab.
The 50m sprint race sounded great on the radio. Unlike track and field sprints -- like the 100m -- where the race is over before the commentator has chance to even say all of the competitors names, the 50m swim sprint was just long enough for the guy to convey the speed, drama and excitement of the whole thing. He had a nice steady tempo curve building up to the climax of the last few meters. I the listener was able to visualize James Gibson's slow start, steady claw back, and dramatic finger-tip win. Great radio.
Well done the commentator and well done James!
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Road Kill Rewards
On the way into work this morning I had the pleasure of seeing three baby ferretts cross the road in front of me. They glided their way across like a silk ribbon, snaking in formation, red fur glimmering in the sun.
They were lucky I didn't run them over.
The road from Thame to Postcombe is currently a prime road kill hot spot. A Death Valley for critters. Today's tally was:
1 Badger
1 Fox
3 Rabbits
1 Hedgehog
When I see a large animal -- such as the badger or fox -- dead at the roadside, I always feel ashamed that it was one of Man's machines that caused it.
The only winners of the carnage are the Red Kites that flock down to Death Valley to pick up the carrion. These magnificent giant birds have been accused of decimating the local wildlife populations, but in fact just eat carrion, rather than hunt and kill fresh meat.
I suppose that in the end we're swapping the beauty of the fox for the beauty of the red kites.
I must get some black rabbit-silhouette kill transfers for my car.
Big Brother
I've got £2 on Cameron at 6-1. Sweet, considering he's now odds-on favourite to win it. At the time I put my prudent little bet on, Lynn at work followed my lead putting on a massive £10, despite the fact she "never gambles".
Yesterday she revealed it wasn't £10 she'd staked, but actually a whopping £50! So if Cameron wins, that's a rather nice return of £350, or a profit of £300.
That's six pairs of shoes ladies.
On the way into work this morning I had the pleasure of seeing three baby ferretts cross the road in front of me. They glided their way across like a silk ribbon, snaking in formation, red fur glimmering in the sun.
They were lucky I didn't run them over.
The road from Thame to Postcombe is currently a prime road kill hot spot. A Death Valley for critters. Today's tally was:
1 Badger
1 Fox
3 Rabbits
1 Hedgehog
When I see a large animal -- such as the badger or fox -- dead at the roadside, I always feel ashamed that it was one of Man's machines that caused it.
The only winners of the carnage are the Red Kites that flock down to Death Valley to pick up the carrion. These magnificent giant birds have been accused of decimating the local wildlife populations, but in fact just eat carrion, rather than hunt and kill fresh meat.
I suppose that in the end we're swapping the beauty of the fox for the beauty of the red kites.
I must get some black rabbit-silhouette kill transfers for my car.
Big Brother
I've got £2 on Cameron at 6-1. Sweet, considering he's now odds-on favourite to win it. At the time I put my prudent little bet on, Lynn at work followed my lead putting on a massive £10, despite the fact she "never gambles".
Yesterday she revealed it wasn't £10 she'd staked, but actually a whopping £50! So if Cameron wins, that's a rather nice return of £350, or a profit of £300.
That's six pairs of shoes ladies.
Monday, July 21, 2003
It's Been A Bad Fortnight
My grandad is currently in the local cottage hospital, having come through his prostate operation poorly, not eating for 5 days and falling over 4 times in 24 hours. I was extremely concerned about him last week, but things have improved over the weekend: he his eating small meals and is less confused and tired. He needs another week or two in hospital and the quality care the nurses there can give him.
I got my pay review at work. It was exactly half of the minimum I'd set for them to meet. 50 percent short of the line in the sand. I was angry enough to tell my boss that it basically forces me to look for another job. I get my exams results this Friday and they will determine what I look for...
Unless my boss comes up with some new goods, I'm outta here: I can't work for a sh*t company, with sh*t people, for sh*t money, any more.
My grandad is currently in the local cottage hospital, having come through his prostate operation poorly, not eating for 5 days and falling over 4 times in 24 hours. I was extremely concerned about him last week, but things have improved over the weekend: he his eating small meals and is less confused and tired. He needs another week or two in hospital and the quality care the nurses there can give him.
I got my pay review at work. It was exactly half of the minimum I'd set for them to meet. 50 percent short of the line in the sand. I was angry enough to tell my boss that it basically forces me to look for another job. I get my exams results this Friday and they will determine what I look for...
Unless my boss comes up with some new goods, I'm outta here: I can't work for a sh*t company, with sh*t people, for sh*t money, any more.
Ear We Go, Ear We Go, Ear We Go!
No scalpel and no Van Gogh profile. The strains of Little Green Bag are not playing. It's something to do with the cartilage, rather than a cyst, or cancer, or cauliflower ears. The Doc said to leave it -- the growth will either disappear or grow to the size of a pea. If it gets pea-sized, they'll whip it off, anything smaller isn't worth the mess and risk of infection.
I look like a freak.
The School Play Review
I didn't get round to blogging up my review of the WWII epic put on by Emma's school. I was truly amazed by their talents. We had laughed beforehand about what I would have written for them to act -- a full blown reconstruction of the whole war -- but I've got to say that they could have coped with anything.
As it was, the play was the usual "what was it like for the children of London during the Blitz?!" affair. We got excited at the scene listing in the programme -- "The D-Day Landings" & "Pearl Harbour" -- which seemed to promise papermache arms and legs being blown-off Saving Private Ryan style, but unfortunately Emma's glue budget must have dried up so the Special FX were restricted to radio announcements and sounds of The Mysterons / Cybermen attacking.
Best line (apart from the one below) was:
"Frank, meet Hank... Hank, meet Frank..."
Here's the PC email I sent to Emma the next day (for reading out to the kids). Typically she has failed to respond.
"Hello Emma / Miss C
Just a quick note to tell you how much I enjoyed last night's school play.
I thought the acting, dancing and singing was of an excellent standard. So too, the costumes and set design.
The rousing finale was particularly passionate and moving. Gareth and I sang along with the chorus of "There will always be an England". Cracking, patriotic, stuff.
My favourite line of the play was:
"Let's 'ava cuppa tea!" -- it summed up all that is great about Britain and captured the spirit of the East End of London during the Blitz. People supporting each other in the country's darkest hour.
The hall looked great too: I loved the painted aeroplanes -- they gave the hall the right atmosphere.
Two slight disappointments for me:
1) The homemade lemonade ran out before I got a glass.
2) You didn't sing the "Spam, spam, spam, spam!" song.
Never mind...
I'm really looking forward to the next play. Well done everyone!
All the best
Nobby
(Not Scott)"
No scalpel and no Van Gogh profile. The strains of Little Green Bag are not playing. It's something to do with the cartilage, rather than a cyst, or cancer, or cauliflower ears. The Doc said to leave it -- the growth will either disappear or grow to the size of a pea. If it gets pea-sized, they'll whip it off, anything smaller isn't worth the mess and risk of infection.
I look like a freak.
The School Play Review
I didn't get round to blogging up my review of the WWII epic put on by Emma's school. I was truly amazed by their talents. We had laughed beforehand about what I would have written for them to act -- a full blown reconstruction of the whole war -- but I've got to say that they could have coped with anything.
As it was, the play was the usual "what was it like for the children of London during the Blitz?!" affair. We got excited at the scene listing in the programme -- "The D-Day Landings" & "Pearl Harbour" -- which seemed to promise papermache arms and legs being blown-off Saving Private Ryan style, but unfortunately Emma's glue budget must have dried up so the Special FX were restricted to radio announcements and sounds of The Mysterons / Cybermen attacking.
Best line (apart from the one below) was:
"Frank, meet Hank... Hank, meet Frank..."
Here's the PC email I sent to Emma the next day (for reading out to the kids). Typically she has failed to respond.
"Hello Emma / Miss C
Just a quick note to tell you how much I enjoyed last night's school play.
I thought the acting, dancing and singing was of an excellent standard. So too, the costumes and set design.
The rousing finale was particularly passionate and moving. Gareth and I sang along with the chorus of "There will always be an England". Cracking, patriotic, stuff.
My favourite line of the play was:
"Let's 'ava cuppa tea!" -- it summed up all that is great about Britain and captured the spirit of the East End of London during the Blitz. People supporting each other in the country's darkest hour.
The hall looked great too: I loved the painted aeroplanes -- they gave the hall the right atmosphere.
Two slight disappointments for me:
1) The homemade lemonade ran out before I got a glass.
2) You didn't sing the "Spam, spam, spam, spam!" song.
Never mind...
I'm really looking forward to the next play. Well done everyone!
All the best
Nobby
(Not Scott)"
Ear Today, Gone Tomorrow
On Friday I noticed that I've got a growth on the top of my ear. It looks like a blister but is hard and making the rest of the ear red. It's probably just a cyst, but it's freaking me out -- I'm obviously thinking the worse. I've booked an appointment at the doctors for an hour's time. Hopefully they will take a scalpel and whip it off.
The cyst, not the ear.
I'm hoping the disfigurement will not be as great as Evander Holyfield's.
On Friday I noticed that I've got a growth on the top of my ear. It looks like a blister but is hard and making the rest of the ear red. It's probably just a cyst, but it's freaking me out -- I'm obviously thinking the worse. I've booked an appointment at the doctors for an hour's time. Hopefully they will take a scalpel and whip it off.
The cyst, not the ear.
I'm hoping the disfigurement will not be as great as Evander Holyfield's.
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Who Do You Think You Are Kidding?
You may remember that I was up for writing and directing Emma's (primary) school play about WWII.
She dropped me, in favour of some random teacher, without even a word in explanation*.
Oh the fickle world of the theatre.
Tonight is opening night and Emma has invited us along. Although I had considered boycotting the red carpet, I'm not bitter, so we will be attending.
I'm taking along a notepad and camera to record the show, and aid my full and frank review of it tomorrow. If it's not up to scratch, she'll get both barrels, Winner's Dinners style.
I'm just worried that the parents might think I'm a pervert, photographing and making notes on their children...
* She probably feared that I would have the kids dressed up in replica SS uniforms.
You may remember that I was up for writing and directing Emma's (primary) school play about WWII.
She dropped me, in favour of some random teacher, without even a word in explanation*.
Oh the fickle world of the theatre.
Tonight is opening night and Emma has invited us along. Although I had considered boycotting the red carpet, I'm not bitter, so we will be attending.
I'm taking along a notepad and camera to record the show, and aid my full and frank review of it tomorrow. If it's not up to scratch, she'll get both barrels, Winner's Dinners style.
I'm just worried that the parents might think I'm a pervert, photographing and making notes on their children...
* She probably feared that I would have the kids dressed up in replica SS uniforms.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Baby Blog Boom
You want to know how the pregnancy is going. Am I right?!
Then you need to keep tabs on Vicster's new blog. She's finally succumbed to the lure of the Blog. And its pretty darn good too. Fat Ladies Club online. BTW, the pink colours are not a clue to the sex of our baby. No siree.
You want to know how the pregnancy is going. Am I right?!
Then you need to keep tabs on Vicster's new blog. She's finally succumbed to the lure of the Blog. And its pretty darn good too. Fat Ladies Club online. BTW, the pink colours are not a clue to the sex of our baby. No siree.
Action Cow
A cow that attempts to wipe out your car and pregnant wife by lurking in its field, until the very last moment, and then leaping up over a stone wall inches from your front hood. Native to single track roads in Cornwall. Highly dangerous. Once their attack is foiled by ABS and a screaming wife, they look at you blankly -- whilst you reprimand them for a couple of minutes -- trying to act as innocently as possible.
I love cows, but these blighters make even me swing towards dairy intolerence.
A cow that attempts to wipe out your car and pregnant wife by lurking in its field, until the very last moment, and then leaping up over a stone wall inches from your front hood. Native to single track roads in Cornwall. Highly dangerous. Once their attack is foiled by ABS and a screaming wife, they look at you blankly -- whilst you reprimand them for a couple of minutes -- trying to act as innocently as possible.
I love cows, but these blighters make even me swing towards dairy intolerence.
Heave Tally Ho
JT is a fox, so he must be happy at the news that the House of Commons has at last voted to ban fox hunting in England. I know I am. Unnecessary, barbaric and cruel, it serves no purpose other than to provide toffs with a leisure pursuit.
I've heard arguments such as "We need to hunt foxes to protect our lambs and chickens.... if you've ever seen what a fox does to a coop of chickens, you'll know what we mean!".
My retort: "Instead of spending all that money on purchasing and maintaining a horse, its gear and your fancy riding boots and red hunting jackets, why don't you protect your chickens by investing in a new fox-proof fence."
"But's its traditional!"
"And so was bear-baiting, denying women the vote, stoning people to death, and persecuting Jews."
"But hunting supports the whole economy of rural life!"
The pro-hunt protesters and Chessex Girls lobbying outside Parliament undermined themselves on TV by flashing their Harvey Nichs bags. They were clearly all from Chelsea and Knightsbridge, and the only time they'd ever been near a chicken was at The Ivy or Harrods foodhall.
Congratulations to our MPs: Welcome to the 21st Century.
JT is a fox, so he must be happy at the news that the House of Commons has at last voted to ban fox hunting in England. I know I am. Unnecessary, barbaric and cruel, it serves no purpose other than to provide toffs with a leisure pursuit.
I've heard arguments such as "We need to hunt foxes to protect our lambs and chickens.... if you've ever seen what a fox does to a coop of chickens, you'll know what we mean!".
My retort: "Instead of spending all that money on purchasing and maintaining a horse, its gear and your fancy riding boots and red hunting jackets, why don't you protect your chickens by investing in a new fox-proof fence."
"But's its traditional!"
"And so was bear-baiting, denying women the vote, stoning people to death, and persecuting Jews."
"But hunting supports the whole economy of rural life!"
The pro-hunt protesters and Chessex Girls lobbying outside Parliament undermined themselves on TV by flashing their Harvey Nichs bags. They were clearly all from Chelsea and Knightsbridge, and the only time they'd ever been near a chicken was at The Ivy or Harrods foodhall.
Congratulations to our MPs: Welcome to the 21st Century.
Monday, June 30, 2003
Thursday, June 26, 2003
jt
OK I admit it. I think Justin Timberlake is a fox. Forget Jackson or Prince ever existed. Justin is the new King of Pop.
Holiday Report
We were away on holiday in Cornwall last week. I didn't tell you before we left, as I have a fear that burglers scan blogs, spot where people live from clues -- intentional or otherwise -- written in those blogs, and then raid the empty homes whilst the bloggers are away.
A little paranoid perhaps, but I have images of Ruffles dressed in blue stripey shirt and black eye mask, holding a swag bag, circling our house like a vulture. The vision is completed with Simon -- in a Motty sheepskin coat -- lurking in the shadows ready to fence the goods.
In actuality the house was untouched.
Here's the holiday summary. Apologies if it's a bit "postcardy" or sounds like Kirk's Log:
Friday 13th
We travelled down to Bath in the afternoon. Glorious sunshine greets us -- we are clearly blessed by Minera, the Roman sun goddess. Bath is a beautiful city, the Regency stonework reflecting the light and providing a dignified and graceful atmosphere. We took a cheesy open-top bus tour of the city, seeing all the tourist sites: The Royal Cresent, the Abbey, Jane Austen's house, Charles Dickens' house, and the rows and rows of classic Georgian properties -- currently being filmed for the Hollywood version of Vanity Fair. I didn't spy that hot blonde american chick Alicia Sliverstone though.
We toured the ancient Roman baths and spa by foot. Rich in history and well worth a visit. The warm waters still bubble up from the sacred spring, and although you can partake of a cup for 50p, we were advised by our tour bus guide not to taste it: It's like rusty bath water.
Our hotel was average.
We were treated to a performance by the worlds worst street "entertainer": after irritating a whole square full of people for an hour, not one single person threw a penny in his hat. He was reduced to begging people to give him some money. That always works: irritated people for an hour with shit music and humourless "comedy" and then -- once they are ready to kill you -- ask them for money.
Saturday a.m.
Sunshine. A trip to Cheddar Gorge and its caves. I wouldn't bother again: it's full of gift shops selling tat. The smaller of the cave networks was apparently Tolkein's inspiration for Helms Deep. In their wisdom, the local people have therefore turned this cave into a REALLY BAD Lord of the Rings-esque walk-through for kids, complete with red-eyed goblins, wraiths and demon lord. Incredibly naff and -- this is the best bit -- frightening for their target market. The little boys who were in front of us were TERRIFIED by it and wanted to leave.
Saturday p.m.
Up to Bristol, we stayed overnight at the contemporary Hotel du Vin. Very swish and comfortable apart from the lack of air-con: it was one of the hottest evenings of the year and it felt like it in our room. We had to make do with an open window, a fan, and sweaty pants.
Wandered around the redeveloped dock area of the city and had a pint by the river. Lots of trendy young people.
Sunday
Travelled down to Cornwall in sunshine. As far as Lands End. [For my american readers, grab a map of the UK -- its the far SW tip of the country. Hence Lands End]. We were accommodated in Sally's cottage near St Just. The cottage was damp, due to its location next to its own stream, but ideally located for exploring from, and only a short walk from the coast. Most importantly, it was quiet and out of the way, exactly what we wanted for our week of "getting away from things".
Monday
We were woken up at 5.30 a.m. by someone knocking at the front door. Twice. By the time I'd got downstairs they'd disappeared. Freaky. We reckoned it was either an early bird from the Youth Hostel up the road messing about or a ghost.
With hindsight I think it might have been an Action Cow.
Another day of sunshine and a visit to St Michael's Mount at Penzance. When the tide is out you can walk across the sands to the Mount and its harbour, when the tide is high, it is surrounded by the sea. We walked across and took a boat ride around the island later. A steep climb to the fortifications and house at the top rewarded us with a magnificent 360 view of the area and a glimpse of the Giant's Heart.
Legend has it that a giant built the Mount and protected it from harm. But he got a bit too big for his already sizeable boots, so the locals sent a clever kid to kill him. The boy dug a pit, then teased the giant, who lumbered into it and was killed. The giant's heart dried as hard as stone in the sun, and was incorporated into the stone pathway that leads to the top of the Mount.
I don't know what happened to the kid.
Part 2 tomorrow, including an explanation of what an Action Cow is.
[Moooo!]
OK I admit it. I think Justin Timberlake is a fox. Forget Jackson or Prince ever existed. Justin is the new King of Pop.
Holiday Report
We were away on holiday in Cornwall last week. I didn't tell you before we left, as I have a fear that burglers scan blogs, spot where people live from clues -- intentional or otherwise -- written in those blogs, and then raid the empty homes whilst the bloggers are away.
A little paranoid perhaps, but I have images of Ruffles dressed in blue stripey shirt and black eye mask, holding a swag bag, circling our house like a vulture. The vision is completed with Simon -- in a Motty sheepskin coat -- lurking in the shadows ready to fence the goods.
In actuality the house was untouched.
Here's the holiday summary. Apologies if it's a bit "postcardy" or sounds like Kirk's Log:
Friday 13th
We travelled down to Bath in the afternoon. Glorious sunshine greets us -- we are clearly blessed by Minera, the Roman sun goddess. Bath is a beautiful city, the Regency stonework reflecting the light and providing a dignified and graceful atmosphere. We took a cheesy open-top bus tour of the city, seeing all the tourist sites: The Royal Cresent, the Abbey, Jane Austen's house, Charles Dickens' house, and the rows and rows of classic Georgian properties -- currently being filmed for the Hollywood version of Vanity Fair. I didn't spy that hot blonde american chick Alicia Sliverstone though.
We toured the ancient Roman baths and spa by foot. Rich in history and well worth a visit. The warm waters still bubble up from the sacred spring, and although you can partake of a cup for 50p, we were advised by our tour bus guide not to taste it: It's like rusty bath water.
Our hotel was average.
We were treated to a performance by the worlds worst street "entertainer": after irritating a whole square full of people for an hour, not one single person threw a penny in his hat. He was reduced to begging people to give him some money. That always works: irritated people for an hour with shit music and humourless "comedy" and then -- once they are ready to kill you -- ask them for money.
Saturday a.m.
Sunshine. A trip to Cheddar Gorge and its caves. I wouldn't bother again: it's full of gift shops selling tat. The smaller of the cave networks was apparently Tolkein's inspiration for Helms Deep. In their wisdom, the local people have therefore turned this cave into a REALLY BAD Lord of the Rings-esque walk-through for kids, complete with red-eyed goblins, wraiths and demon lord. Incredibly naff and -- this is the best bit -- frightening for their target market. The little boys who were in front of us were TERRIFIED by it and wanted to leave.
Saturday p.m.
Up to Bristol, we stayed overnight at the contemporary Hotel du Vin. Very swish and comfortable apart from the lack of air-con: it was one of the hottest evenings of the year and it felt like it in our room. We had to make do with an open window, a fan, and sweaty pants.
Wandered around the redeveloped dock area of the city and had a pint by the river. Lots of trendy young people.
Sunday
Travelled down to Cornwall in sunshine. As far as Lands End. [For my american readers, grab a map of the UK -- its the far SW tip of the country. Hence Lands End]. We were accommodated in Sally's cottage near St Just. The cottage was damp, due to its location next to its own stream, but ideally located for exploring from, and only a short walk from the coast. Most importantly, it was quiet and out of the way, exactly what we wanted for our week of "getting away from things".
Monday
We were woken up at 5.30 a.m. by someone knocking at the front door. Twice. By the time I'd got downstairs they'd disappeared. Freaky. We reckoned it was either an early bird from the Youth Hostel up the road messing about or a ghost.
With hindsight I think it might have been an Action Cow.
Another day of sunshine and a visit to St Michael's Mount at Penzance. When the tide is out you can walk across the sands to the Mount and its harbour, when the tide is high, it is surrounded by the sea. We walked across and took a boat ride around the island later. A steep climb to the fortifications and house at the top rewarded us with a magnificent 360 view of the area and a glimpse of the Giant's Heart.
Legend has it that a giant built the Mount and protected it from harm. But he got a bit too big for his already sizeable boots, so the locals sent a clever kid to kill him. The boy dug a pit, then teased the giant, who lumbered into it and was killed. The giant's heart dried as hard as stone in the sun, and was incorporated into the stone pathway that leads to the top of the Mount.
I don't know what happened to the kid.
Part 2 tomorrow, including an explanation of what an Action Cow is.
[Moooo!]
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Party Poopers
Went to Sara & Stasher's party at the weekend. A disappointing turn-out of E List celebrity media people were in attendance. Nina was there, but Lucy Alexander wasn't. Greg was back from his 5 weeks of embedded reporting in the Gulf. Thankfully his only war wound was a touch of sunburn. I cooked my usual raspberry and almond torte. Giant garden Jenga and pick-up sticks were played. Sara drank enough to be sick the next day. We were going to stay over, but as a result of pregnancy and hay fever, Vic and I were both knackered, so we drove back from Blackheath to Thame at 1 a.m.
Pleased we did too, as the party ended at 4 a.m. -- far too late for me these days.
Pass Me The Hole. The Big One.
Went down the pub with some of Vic's work mates on Friday evening, to the Goose in Gloucester Green, Oxford. The pub used to be called the Brewhouse, and I remember it as being fitted out with its original features, tiny tucked-away old rooms, and saturated with atmosphere.
The company who now own the place, have ripped all that out and replaced it with tasteless identi-kit new pub decor. Another part of Oxford's pub hertitage has been consigned to the dustbin and replaced with soulless tat.
So we're sat outside in the pub garden, enjoying the evening sunshine. I'm talking to Catherine. She keeps asking me to repeat myself. Vic always says that I mumble and don't speak loud enough, so I think it's me. Eventually I get frustrated at having to repeat myself and -- rather aggressively -- ask Catherine "are you deaf or something?!".
And as the last word exited from my lips, I remembered that the last time we met, Catherine explained that she was deaf in one ear.
Pass me the hole so I can hide in it.
It was on par with Emma [Vic's bridesmaid] -- rather aggressively -- telling Tam [my sister-in-law] "it's not as if your parents have died in a car crash or something!"
Ummm... yes they did Emma...
Amsterdamned
Keir and Adam were in 'Dam over the weekend. I'll give you the stories tomorrow.
Went to Sara & Stasher's party at the weekend. A disappointing turn-out of E List celebrity media people were in attendance. Nina was there, but Lucy Alexander wasn't. Greg was back from his 5 weeks of embedded reporting in the Gulf. Thankfully his only war wound was a touch of sunburn. I cooked my usual raspberry and almond torte. Giant garden Jenga and pick-up sticks were played. Sara drank enough to be sick the next day. We were going to stay over, but as a result of pregnancy and hay fever, Vic and I were both knackered, so we drove back from Blackheath to Thame at 1 a.m.
Pleased we did too, as the party ended at 4 a.m. -- far too late for me these days.
Pass Me The Hole. The Big One.
Went down the pub with some of Vic's work mates on Friday evening, to the Goose in Gloucester Green, Oxford. The pub used to be called the Brewhouse, and I remember it as being fitted out with its original features, tiny tucked-away old rooms, and saturated with atmosphere.
The company who now own the place, have ripped all that out and replaced it with tasteless identi-kit new pub decor. Another part of Oxford's pub hertitage has been consigned to the dustbin and replaced with soulless tat.
So we're sat outside in the pub garden, enjoying the evening sunshine. I'm talking to Catherine. She keeps asking me to repeat myself. Vic always says that I mumble and don't speak loud enough, so I think it's me. Eventually I get frustrated at having to repeat myself and -- rather aggressively -- ask Catherine "are you deaf or something?!".
And as the last word exited from my lips, I remembered that the last time we met, Catherine explained that she was deaf in one ear.
Pass me the hole so I can hide in it.
It was on par with Emma [Vic's bridesmaid] -- rather aggressively -- telling Tam [my sister-in-law] "it's not as if your parents have died in a car crash or something!"
Ummm... yes they did Emma...
Amsterdamned
Keir and Adam were in 'Dam over the weekend. I'll give you the stories tomorrow.
