Haiku

I'll tell you about my gran's funeral when I remember to take the reading I performed [I can't find the right word here -- I was going to write "read", but that sounds lame] during the service out of my jacket pocket.

Work is getting me down. It's just not any fun. During a net-trawl I stumbled on some really nice Haiku, and I've been filling my waiting-for-an-accounts-download-time with writing Haiku rather than doodling.

Classic Haiku poetry is about nature and strictly fits the rule of three lines, first line five syllables, second line seven syllables, third line five syllables. An example of one of mine would be:

Leaves press against glass;
Yearning to break the prison
and taste a new day.
"Houseplant" - Nobby (c) 2004

...which is about the Ikea plant I've got sat on the windowsill next to my desk.

Senryu poetry is in the same format, but can be about any subject. Most of my attempts are lame but give you an idea of how I'm feeling -- the words seem to form themselves.

Smothered by grey dregs,
a beating heart crushed under
the feet of dull drones.


Rising up through black
sodden earth, angry beetles
bite at my spirit.

Call me Nobbysan.

Alice Bull

My gran died at 4.30 pm on Saturday afternoon. It wasn't a shock -- it was inevitable. I managed to see her on Friday afternoon for a while and say all the things I needed to -- not just for me, but for Vic, India, my brother and my best mate Rob who has always regarded gran as his own. She was tired and lost in a fog of morphine, but I hope she heard what I told her. My brother arrived five minutes topo late to speak to her himself on Saturday -- but as I told him yesterday, I'd said what needed to be said for both of us and it's not about the last five minutes, or the last few weeks, it is all about the last 33 years.

It was a rapid decline for my gran. Two weeks ago I thought she would make Christmas, but over the course of the fortnight expectations of her survival time dropped first to a few weeks, then a few days, and by Friday it was down to a few hours. In the end she lost the fight, but it was one she couldn't win.

I'm going to miss her. She was a brilliant gran -- the best a grandson could hope for -- and a lovely person.

A Link For the Sake of It

For some reason google has dropped the links to our Oxford magic club sites, so I'm creating one here for the sake of it.

It will act as a useful reminder that this blog is not here to entertain.

NaNoWriMo

I know at least two friends who read this blog who reckon they have a novel ready to go inside of them. NaNoWriMo -- a US writing month challenge championed by at least one other reader of this site (hello Kate) -- kicks off on the 1st of November and is an excellent motivational tool to get on and write that novel. I myself am very keen to sign up, but unfortunately my final CIMA exam is scheduled for the 23rd of November, making it an impossibility.

Uber Violence

India and Thomas are effectively exactly the same age: Although Thomas popped out over a week later than India, they were both due on the same day.

The two of them are as thick as thieves. Many of the ante/post-natal parents reckon they're like a married couple. But it's turning into a love-hate relationship.

On Friday they went swimming together and Thomas managed to bite India on the arm. An entirely deliberate act that left India with red teeth marks on her pale skin and a bruise. On Sunday India got her revenge, running Thomas down -- Duel style -- with her walker and then throwing up milky sick over his toy piano. In response, Thomas picked up a Noddy toy car -- a blunt and heavy weapon -- and waved it menacingly at her. India cut loose and grabbed a plastic hammer -- the sort that make a squeak when you bash anything with it -- and we were left with a Mexican stand-off, each baby grimacing, determined to face the other down.

I am now calling the two of them Itchy and Scratchy.

I had to warn the nursery this morning that the two of them had to be closely watched...

Caffine Free

Apart from a single cup of coffee, I've not had any caffine for 25 days now. My 3 days of sickness at the start of my holiday kciked the habit and covered the cold turkey. Where I was pretty much addicted to 2 cans of Coke a day before, I'm now devoid of the urge to crack open a can of the brown.

According to Ronan Keating, Life is a Rollercoaster

It's been a week (and a bit) of troughs and peaks:

I didn't win the flavour text vote.

India has had REAL BAD nappy rash and a cold.

Last Wednesday evening my car broke down on the way home from work. The thermostat gave up the ghost, closing the air coolant value, causing the pressure to build up to such an extent that the radiator burst. It took 2 hours for the RAC to reach me, plus an extra hour to figure out that the problem wasn't repairable at the roadside and tow me home. The bill for the new radiator was £410 -- money that we don't have -- and that made last Thursday an equally brilliant day.

Friday featured my mum and dad telling me that gran won't make Christmas. I saw her on Sunday morning and they're right. I'm not coping too well with this fact.

On Saturday we went along to the Rectory Homes launch of the new properties being built just down the road from us. They had one three bed house in our budget. It had no garage, less floor space and garden that our existing house, no dining room (ie. one less reception) and was badly overlooked. Completely depressing and zero value for money. It's getting me down how little even the top of our budget will buy.

Saturday night we went out for dinner to celebrate Lucy's 30th and even that was frustrating: Sara and Gareth decided to go to war over how bad the Eden Project is (when it's actually a fantastic achievement and day out), Sara spent the whole meal sat forward, cutting the rest of the table out from me (we were sat on the end), and a chap at the other end of the table who cannot tell the difference between a fillet steak and a sirloin, ate MY fillet steak. I got the slice of old boot. Horror of horrors.

But things haven't been all bad, and indeed have been pretty darn good over the last few days:

India was bought her first pair of proper shoes and is now steady enough on her feet that she is walking unaided up to nine steps at a time*.
Last Thursday Vic and I went dry-slope skiing for the first time ever. Really enjoyed it.
We got together for a curry with ante natal James and Rachel on Friday night and had a great afternoon on Sunday celebrating Alex's first birthday at Matt and Martina's.
My dad has conjured up a cheque for £400 -- no strings attached.
We are off to see a house tomorrow that seems to tick all our boxes.
Vic bought me the Star Wars Trilogy on DVD. India watched the first five minutes with me and loved it.
I've had my business trip to Chicago confirmed and booked for the end of November -- I'll be spending the week at my best mate Rob's apartment. I'm very pleased and excited.
Larry and Carole have a baby boy! Finlay was born on Saturday and weighs a healthy 8 lbs 14 oz. He has more hair than his dad. Congratulations to Lazza and Cazza. We're chuffed for them!


* Many of India's little friends are now walking. Collectively they resemble little zombies, shuffling slightly off-balance and awkwardly, mouths open and groaning, towards you.

A World of Spain

How was the holiday?

Hmmmm... We were due to fly out Tuesday lunch time, but things didn't go to plan. India was repeatedly sick (and we're talking big person's sick) on the Friday night beforehand. I got it at 1.38 am Tuesday morning. And I got it bad. Hours of puking up replaced sleep. My body was wrecked. At 10.00 am the rest of my family departed for the airport, leaving me on the bathrrom floor. I managed to fly out Wednesday evening, keeping a firm grip on my bowels. Air pressure can do horrible things to a man who has a body that wants to expunge its gizzards by whatever outlet possible.

Vic came down with it on the Thursday and didn't leave the apartment for two and a half days.

Great start to a ten day holiday...

Apart from that things were good: The weather -- that can be very changable this time of year -- held out for all but one day. We were hit by four nights of electrical storms however -- amazing events, as L'Escala lies on a bay surrounded by hills, meaning that once a thunderstorm gets caught in the bay, it never escapes. It was like watching some sort of immense ethereal naval battle. At times the night sky was light up like the middle of the day.

Visted the Dali museum at Figueres -- his fine art is surprisingly superb. I'm used to seeing his cliched rubbery clocks and elephants on stilts and was pleasantly surprised by the vast scope of his other work. The gold gorilla skeleton by his bed was quite freaky. We also visited the sprawling Roman and Greek ruins of Empuiries too: I still don't get why the ancients were so obsessed with willies. If they weren't drinking out of willy-shaped goblets, their stonemasons were chiselling willy images into city walls.

We managed to catch up with some old friends who I hadn't seen for 6 and *12* years respectively. It's scary how people don't change: I few pounds heavier, different hair, wives and children, but that's it.

Flava Text

OK, here's a blog-rule-breaking Magic-related post for you.

I can't tell you how excited I am!

Some Magic cards have what's called "flavour text" on them. The idea is to give depth to the card and add colour to the game. Some flavour text is ripped from classic literature. Some is created by the Magic R&D team -- it usually has an element of imaginary game character saying "blah, blah, D&D crap, blah, blah...". The classic quotes are always so much better...

Anway, for the second year running, Wizards of the Coasts have run an online competition for players of the game to submit their own ideas for flavour text to Magic R&D for inclusion in the next Core Set of the game due for release next year.

They put up three cards -- Fear, Naturalize and Shock -- for the great unwashed game-playing masses to submit on.

I've got to say that all three of my submissions seriously kicked ass.

To continue the story I shall now quote directly from the Magic article that was posted up today:

"For the final vote of the promotion, we have the ten finalists for each card in the flavor text competition. The readers of magicthegathering.com sent us nearly 10,000 entries, and narrowing them all down to this list of finalists was no simple task (and not just because of the numbers involved). So here, to close out our promotion, are the final three votes of Selecting Ninth Edition. Pick your favorites and make sure to check back next week for the results as well as a complete wrap-up of all the other votes as well."

Guess who made the shortlist for Fear? From 10,000 submissions!
[Smile]

If you'd like to vote on my submission -- so I can have my flavour text live forever -- you can vote for it here. You'll need to register with the site first. (Do it!)

And you need to vote for #6:
"Hold on to your sword, your nerve, and your bowels."

Frankly it pisses on all the other submissions, but every vote counts as they say...

Bon Anniversary

It's September and that means three things:

1) We're off on holiday to Spain for ten days.

2) Whilst we're away it's India's first birthday! Happy Birthday for the 13th! (I can't believe how quickly the last 12 months have gone)

3) This blog becomes two years old on the 11th. This is pretty amazing for me, as the previous diaries I've written have at most lasted all of 5 weeks. Thank you for reading.

See you when we get back from Espana!

I Hate Caravans

One negative thing about travelling up and back to Carlisle is the high number of trundling caravans you have to fight past on the M6. The Lake District is like a candle for these moths. They should be banned from using motorways. The only silver-lining of having them block up the road, is the ability to laugh at the manufacturer's names given to the boxes of scrap metal on wheels.

My favourite model from this trip was the "Marauder".

Bizarrely, it was being driven by a guy dressed in a black desert nomad costume and wielding a great curved sword.

The Dance of Death

We went up to Carlisle at the weekend to see Vic’s mum and dad. Nelson the dog has pretty much got over his psycho paw gnawing and was pleasantly surprised to see us arrive. As usual his little willy popped out to greet us at the door.

Day 1 saw Nelson over-excited about having a mini human in his midst. India was unsure of what to make of him. A muscular mass of black hair with big teeth and lots of salvia wasn’t something she wanted up close and personal in her face. Frantic pointing at the dog and cuddling up close to mummy was about as adventurous as it got.

Day 2 saw a gradual coming together of the two naughty monkeys: they were both excited, but not crazily so.

Day 3 was the complete reverse of day 1, with India squealing in delight at the dog and trying to grab his tail / pat his back / stick her hands in his mouth. Of course, as soon as Nelson was aware of tiny hands grabbing at him, he would spin round to challenge the 2ft tall energetic bundle of nuisance. Slow motion boxing-style replays of his spinning would probably have shown beads of dog salvia being thrown from the thrashing beast. India didn’t like this, and would retreat into our arms in an instant, laughing maniacally as she did so. Then her brow would furrow and our devilish child would wait for the unsuspecting dog to turn away before pounching once more. Repeat until either dog, dad or mum got bored.

The three days played out like some great Dance of Death, with the two participants gleefully taunting each other and being forcibly separated by the adults of the house when things looked as if they were getting out of hand.

No wounds administered by either dancer, but next time we go up – when India should be fully mobile – I think we can expect fireworks.

Especially if it’s the first weekend of November.

Excerpt: Life of a Tackley Lad

The writing up of Gramp's memoirs continues at a snail's pace. As I've not got time to write anything original today, here is an excerpt that I prepared earlier. Gives a good idea of the generally tone and spirit of Volume 1:

"At the top of the back garden were the pigsties. One belonged to us, the other to Tommy Smith who lived next door. My dad usually kept two pigs at a time. When they weighed about sixteen score, one was sold for cash and the other was slaughtered outside the sty, with the meat retained for our use. Pig killing day was always exciting for the young boys in the village. A little streak of sadism seemed to lurk in us. Many of us used to hold the rope that secured the pig to the killing stool. The slaughter was always a gory task. A small sharp blade was inserted into the pig throat and the animal would bleed to death. It soon became law that all animals had to be shot before being cut.

My Uncle Harold Harris used to do the killing. He used to enjoy it. After despatching the pig he would hang it in our back shed overnight and then return the next day to butcher it. Nothing at all was wasted. The intestines were removed, cleaned, salted and used for a nice pan of ‘chitterlings’. Beautiful home-cured lard, seasoned with a little fresh rosemary from the garden, was made out of the pig flear. We had a lead trough in the back shed in which all the salting was performed. This is how we made our bacon and cured the ham. My dad used to make his own curing brine, using salt, treacle and a few selected spices. His secret ingredient was a drop of old ale. It worked wonders.

After they were cured, the bacon sides and hams were brought into the house. Hams were hung on the wall at the side of fire, and the sides hung from the ceiling in a rack. There they were left to mature until they developed an intense flavour that has no equal today."

Blind Man's Duff

When reaching into my "manbag" for my asthma inhalers, what should I find but my glasses, safe and sound in their case...

What a wally. At least I won't have to drive home squinting...

My Eyes!

Vic and I are exchanging cars everyday at the moment, a result of only having a single car seat for India. Today I drove Vic's car into work blind. I left my glasses in my car, which Vic had already departed in. With no vision correctors on, the drive to work was hair-raising. The world was a blur and I struggled to judge speed and distance. I felt I was wearing a goldfish bowl on my head. It was scary.

And I've got the return trip to look forward to later...

Athens

The Sunday Times Style magazine reports that the Greeks have ordered 130,000 condoms for the 17,000 athletes living in the Olympic Village over the next couple of weeks. A former athlete describes what goes on during the games as a 'f***fest'.

Now, these are purely my calculations, but figure 1 teaspoon of semen per condom. That's 5 ml times 130,000 condoms = 650 litres, or 1300 pints, of semen.

Almost enough for Ian Thorpe to swim in.

Crash Bang Wallop What a Big One

Somebody left the skylight to our bedroom opened yesterday. They knew that there was a chance of showers, but didn't expect the Summer Storm of the Decade to hit. I returned home to discover that the two inch gap at the top of the window had allowed buckets of water to soak the carpet and the bed. The rain had descended through layers of duvet, sheets, more sheets, a sleeping bag, and porous rock to soak the mattress. The carpet was drenched, and despite sponging with old towels, it was still wet this morning.

It was me who left the window open.

The lovely Falcon pub -- 200 yards down the road -- had a fire engine pumping its cellars out all night.

Good storm.


Out of Hospital

Gran came out of the JR yesterday. She's back at home and pleased to be sleeping in her own bed.


A House Divided

Vic went back to work on Monday for her first three day week. India was at the nursery on Monday and today. Yesterday she was looked after by my mum and dad. As expected, Vic hates it.

Electrical Storm

As I write this we are currently in the middle of the best electrical storm I've experienced for ages. Being at the top of the High Wycombe valley, I have a panoramic view of the lightning striking down around us. The office is slowly being flooded. So much rain has fallen that the gutters and roof can't cope. Water is pouring in through the window seals, soaking the carpets and cascading over power lines. At any moment I might lose this posting. It's very exciting. One of our 'Crisis Team' has just told me -- in his best Hollywood action movie voice -- that they've had to "cut the power on the other side of the building!". I am expecting us to be evacuated any second.

To top things off, our dimwitted HR Fools decided to force our Facilities Manager to resign last week, and he's out of the office today on gardening/beer leave. Instant Karma again (Kate). He's going to be soooo eager to fix the office tomorrow...

And now I'm hearing that (as usual) the freak weather is causing the closure of most of Wycombe's roads through flooding. There is also an accident on the M40 back to Oxford. Time to leave I think...

A Murder Mystery

Saturday night sees us celebrate Rob's birthday with a Murder Mystery Dinner. The scenario is 1930's India, with the characters being a motley crew of British Army Colonel's, Muslim playboys and Indian Independence activists. It is a boxed game, rather than one I've written myself. I've played four or five of these games now and they can go one of two ways: 1) Complete disasters as people drink too much and get confused about what's going on/fail to reveal their information correctly. 2) People get in character, stay sober and concentrate on the game, reveal what they need to and ask the right questions, resulting in a smooth evening.
Apart from the time Rob and I had to dress up in drag, most of our MMG's have ended up as disasters... I'm hoping that as three of the six won't be drinking more than a glass of wine, we'll be OK this time out.

I'm off to locate some props this afternoon: Stuffed tiger, croquet mallet (the murder weapon), Colonel's hat and false moustache, medals, books on the Boer War (Robin is playing a South African businessman/rugby player), blunderbuss, etc.

I have no doubt that it will be me who turns out to have done the dirty deed: caving the skull in of one of my officers... with a croquet mallet.

 

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Exam Results

I've just received my exam results. The email, sent by the CIMA Doomgoblins and made of lead, arrived with the accompanying sound of the London Lloyds Bell announcing the tragic news that another ship had been lost to the cruel sea.

You may well remember that I came out of both exams feeling very upset and frustrated. I'd put in a lot of hardwork and feared my poor performances on the day had thoroughly rotted the fruits of my labours. I was expecting to be acutely embarrassed by the results -- I know what is expected of me in these exams now and have been predicting nothing more than a 30-35% score in both.

So imagine my surprise and shock at scoring 47% and 50%, meaning a near-miss in the Financial Strategy and a very important scraped pass in the Case Study.

I'm stunned and can only think that the exams must have been overly difficult and CIMA had to bump up the marks*. There is no way that I scored anywhere near those marks on the day.

Vic and I are going to get pissed on champagne tonight.
I didn't embarass myself!
I've only got one more of the friggin' things to pass!
Put out the bunting!
Roll on the November retake!

 
* CIMA claim that they don't do this, but we all know that they do really...