Christmas Jumpering.

I don't wear jumpers, they are the most un-stylish garment of all and I am far too elegant to don such an item. Further to that, I am usually too warm so I boil in one. I bought a sweater once in the early 80s, it was a chunky cable knit thing and I looked such a twat in it I never bought another. The other reason I don't wear them is that a tight jumper accentuates my beer belly and the loose ones make me look like a fat bastard trying to cover it up. Jumpers and I don't get on hence my deep concern regarding the rise in popularity of the christmas version of this abhorrent knitwear.  

From my own personal, historical perspective the rise of the christmas jumper began with the film ' Bridget Jones' Diary' where Darcy is seen wearing a ridiculous sweater with a reindeer on it. He looked suitably embarrassed and Bridget mocked him for it quite rightly. Since then, and probably because of many repeats of this brilliant film the christmas jumper has morphed into the ' must have, fun thing to wear' and is no longer an Item for ridicule. 

This year has seen the christmas jumper take a particularly unwelcome and insidious turn. It has now been promoted to the heady heights of a 'fun charity fund- raiser.' There are posters up all over work asking me to wear a jumper in aid of charity. The question is, do I not wear one and seem a miserable, miserly curmudgeon or do I bite the bullet and go and buy one, with the additional expense of a donation to charity? I seem to have been checkmated by knitwear.

I suspect a government plot behind this to boost the economy by ensuring everyone has to buy this woollen garment. After all, where did this Idea for a national Charity jumper wearing event come from? I expect they have agents out there monitoring non-compliance. In fact, I'm sad to say that my most excellent friend, drinking buddy and all-round great bloke, Neil has already posted a picture on farcebook wearing his; hence he must be one of them. I'm expecting a knock on my door any day now from Neil and his shadowy henchmen in Christmas jumpers demanding to see mine.

I must confess that Dearly Beloved and I have given such jumpers as presents this year and there is a very good chance that I will receive one. In many ways that would be excellent as it means I won't have the indignity of going to buy one, I shall be equipped for future charity events and I will have something to show the Shadowy men should they knock. Still, the fact remains that I have been bested by my old enemy the jumper. What is the world coming to? 

PS; Please feel free to inform me of your own personal history of the rise of the christmas jumper.

PPS: in case you were wondering, I didn't wear one and everyone thinks I'm a miserly curmudgeon... but then they did anyway. 

The Ghost of Christmas Present.

Last week, some cheeky blighter had the audacity to try and tell me Father Christmas doesn't exist, that he was a figment of the imagination and that my parents had been lying to me. This fellow was clearly a deranged madman but I took pity on him and rather than send him packing I tried to explain the error of his ways. 

'There are plenty of pictures of the great man,' I said, 'some in his modern red attire as devised by Coca Cola and then in his more traditional green outfit from his pagan deity days. Even from his Saint Nicolas days in the fourth century when he was a Greek Christian bishop in the Byzantine Empire famous for his extravagant charitable acts. Yes the image has changed over the years but the Character is a real as any historical character whose legacy lives on, people such as Plato and Aristotle whose ideas have inspired the world.'

'But he doesn't live in the North Pole with his elves making toys' countered the doubting thomas. 'Of course not you imbecile' I said, 'There's no electricity up there for one thing and the logistics would be a nightmare. However, he does have factories the world over producing goods whose only purpose is to be given as presents. Pointless items which serve no purpose except to be given to someone. Christmas jumpers, crackers with cheap plastic toys, stocking fillers, soap on a rope which is exactly what the elves are supposed to do. Hundreds of thousands of people the world over are employed to make Christmas related tat. They are not elves but Father Christmas employs them all and feeds their families. Is that not real?'

'You can't deny that many people go out of their way to help their fellow man at Christmas. The Christmas spirit is a palpable thing. It's an ethos or concept similar to those that drive Medicens Sans Frontiere, Save the Children or Greenpeace. Would you say their ethos is not real? If it were removed they may as well pack up and go home because it's the reason they exist. What makes Christmas spirit less real than these?'

'A thing doesn't have to have a physical entity to make it true, Santa's influence is no less measurable than global warming, black holes or quantum physics or even music, you can't photograph it but that doesn't mean it isn't there. He is more real than a hermit who lives in his house and never see's anyone and never goes out because he has more influence in the world.'

As for visiting every house on Christmas Eve, he does although not in person but in spirit. It's the same as the picture of God as a kindly, old man living in the sky. It's what they tell children to make it easier for them to understand. Like religion, the actual truth is more sophisticated. Father Christmas enters everyone's lives on Christmas Eve to a greater or lesser degree. Have you ever tried to keep him out, it's impossible. He doesn't come down the chimney, that's just a metaphor for entering through the portal of your heart, mind, or memory. 

So I said to the ignorant detractor, 'you call yourself a man of science, a doctor no less, yet you still refuse to believe the evidence although it is plain to see. Are you unable to make the leap from childish thinking to adult rationalisation because someone said he doesn't exist? It's thinking like that that led to the Flat Earth Society. On every level Father Christmas exists and yet you refuse to acknowledge him for fear of old playground taunts. Shame on you.'

The Doctor shook his head and replied ' Well we are all entitled to our opinions Mr Bill, Now, just let me tighten the straps on your straight jacket and the nurse will be in shortly for your injection. 

The Perfect War

Those of you who read my blog regularly will know that I'm a fan of George Orwell and have read 1984 several times. The reason is that it seems to become more prophetic as time goes on. For those of you not familiar with the book, one of the key elements is that the world is divided into three warring states, Eastasia, Eurasia and Oceania. Britain is in Oceania which is permanently at war with one of the other states with troops purportedly fighting valiantly in some far flung land. They alternate alliances randomly with no one side ever winning or losing. The continuing war effort is the excuse the government uses to keep everyone in near poverty, ensure constant shortages of goods and to bring in draconian measures to spy on the population and prevent movement and thereby possible subversion. The workers are required to attend daily  'two minutes hate' where they watch films and listen to reports designed to stir up hatred and fear of the evil slant-eyed foreigners who eat babies, rape women and carry out obscene atrocities. The government even bomb their own cities from time to time to prevent the public becoming complacent.

I'm not suggesting that the above is going on but I can't help but notice the parallels with Syria.  There are four factions; each with their own patch of land and each fighting for different causes, there is no one common enemy. No one faction has the military might to win a land-based war outright without the assistance of a major power putting boots on the ground and ,understandably, the major powers are unwilling to commit troops. They would much rather bomb them from the air with minimal risk to personnel. The Americans have been bombing for four years and there doesn't seem to be an end to. In fact the opposite seems to be true as it serves as an excellent recruiting tool for ISIS (or DAESH if you prefer) by securing a flood of new recruits. 

There is an argument that war is good for the economy in terms of arms, ammunition and vehicles manufactured then sold. You make something then blow it up so you have to make another one. Britain is a top supplier of arms and you don't get to be top without recognizing a sales opportunity when you see one. Each faction is being supplied by a different major power, even if it's not directly and perhaps some are even supplying more than one. 

So, we have a situation where we have an unwinnable war using a large amount of armaments made by the West and Russia. These powers, including the Saudis, are fighting a war by proxy in the Middle East. There is minimal risk to Western troops thereby avoiding the political opposition generated by pictures of dead and wounded soldiers. It's far enough away so the general public only have a vague idea where it is so it is not a direct threat to them. The terrorist attacks carried out by Islamist extremists cause panic and alarm which gives the politicians a mandate from the public to continue military action and bring in new laws that infringe our civil liberties in ways that would not be tolerated under different circumstances. Although we don't have the daily 'two minutes hate' we do have the press who do an equally efficient job of spreading hate and fear. If they play their cards right and with a bit of careful planning and manipulation, the powers that be can probably keep the war going indefinitely.

I'm not making a political point here and this is nothing new, Orwell foresaw it in 1948. No need to worry though, just remember, War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery and Ignorance is Strength... and Big Brother loves you. 

Kindling

I have just finished reading Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles and now I'm in need of a new book, or rather ebook. I have several candidates in mind including three biographies and four specific fiction books. Then again, I am in the mood for some historical or political non- fiction. Then again, maybe Conn Iggulden has published the third instalment of his War of the Roses series by now. As you can see, thanks to Amazon, the list is nigh-on endless.

In the days before I got my Kindle fire I used to go down the library regularly and get a non- fiction book about whatever I was into at the time and a fiction book. Now I might seem a bit anorak-ish but I used to work my way through the alphabet to discover new writers. If my last fiction book's author began with 'C' I would scour the 'D' section till I found something interesting. This probably sounds a bit daft but I discovered the likes of Martin Amis, Wiliam Boyd and Terry Pratchett this way amongst others, authors I might not have picked up otherwise. There was a large collection in the library and this made selection easier but the number of ebooks seem almost infinite, and therein lies the problem. How do you choose?

The problem with ebooks is that many of them are bloody awful. At least with actual books you had a professional publisher who had to put money into the venture and this acted like a kind of quality control. Now people can self-publish so you have to pick your way through the weeds to find anything decent. Amazon doesn't care if it sells or not because it doesn't cost them anything. It's like those times when you would rent a likely looking DVD from the shop, take it home and realise in the first ten minutes the film was going to be awful but you keep watching hoping it will pick up. It never does and it's hugely disappointing.

Another phenomenon I have noticed sneaking in is the 'companion book' or 'after-read.' A short while ago I finished reading The Martian (as in the film). As I flicked over the last page no less than five recommended books popped up. At least three of which appeared to be extended book reviews written by either A level students or pretentious English teachers to tell me all about what I had just read. None of which were from the original author or claimed to have any further insights apart from their own interpretation. One claimed to explain the science in the book, no doubt using Google and Wikipedia as information sources. Even if it had been written by a bone-fide NASA scientist it would be as interesting as reading a washing machine manual. I just makes me want to scream 'stop cashing in and blood-sucking off of other authors by peddling your own puerile shit off the back of their success. Go and do your own work, you're not an author you're a leach.' I might been over reacting a little though. ' That reminds me, I've been meaning to read George Orwell's 'Road to Wigan Pier' for years, now there's a guy who would know what I'm talking about. 

It's in the Bag.

I bought some goods the other day and was pointedly told by the shopkeeper that the carrier bag was free. It was free because he is a small business. If he had 250 employees, he would have been legally obliged to charge me for the bag and his shop would have been very crowded. He then went into a rant about police standing on street corners monitoring who charges for bags and who doesn't and the general pointlessness of un-enforceable laws in the way of bored English shopkeepers all over the country. Fundamentally though, I agree with the principle of the charge. 

I don't mind paying for carrier bags, it's only for a few pence and also I agree with the stated reasoning. Anyway, what's the alternative, I'm far to sartorially elegant to walk around with plastic bags sticking out of my pockets just in case I happen to need one. I certainly don't want one of those 'Roy Cropper shopping bags' as featured by the less than macho Mr Cropper on Coronation Street to carry backwards and forwards to my local Tesco nor one of those shopping trolleys used by old ladies. I couldn't stand the indignity, I would rather pay 50 pence a bag.

I'm clearly missing the point which is to make me think twice about my need for a bag and to save the world by not buying one. No doubt there are 'green minded' people who would reuse bags anyway and those for whom no amount of charge would make a difference and all the shades in between. For me, five pence isn't enough to persuade me to festoon myself with empty bags in case I might need some.

The DEFRA website says that is up to the individual retailers to spend the money on 'good causes' of their choice as long as they report the amount raised to the government annually. All the major retailers have got on board and nominated various charities to donate the money to. Many of the charities cover things that the councils used to cover but can't afford to now. Things like tiding up public land and 'community projects.'  

One can't help but be saddened by islands the size of small countries made of plastic and adrift in our oceans. The scientists seem to be agreed that there is nothing that can be done about them due to the cost and enormity of the clean- up operation and lack of political will. I would gladly pay 50 pence per bag if I thought it was going to an international effort to seriously tackle these 'great garbage patches and other worldwide environmental issues but it's not. It does however, seem to be going to further the stated Tory aim of de-centralising government. They have already said they intend to do this by using charitable donations and local community projects to help people take care of themselves; sound familiar? This seems to me like a landlord saying that he still wants you to pay the rent but now you have to do your own house repairs and improvements because he doesn't want the responsibility any more.

Call me a cynic but I'm suspicious of the government's motives for this carrier bag charge. I am sure overall people will use less bags but will the bag producers just ramp up their refuse sac output to cover the loss of revenue. Will there be less plastic manufactured? It's unlikely. An old phrase springs to mind, which, given a little twist and taken literally, seems to sum up the situation. Cameron is 'not as green as he is cabbage looking.' You can take that both ways.

33 RPM.

When we were young, my brother and I listened to a lot of music. In those days it was either vinyl or badly recorded tapes made at home. It was the golden age of hi-fi when folk would spend hours discussing the various merits of speaker and amp combinations. They would spend their time gazing out of the window listening to every nuance of every instrument on their equipment which was the size of a side-board. Not my brother and I, we would crank it up and party on down. Our records were used and abused and played to death on our cheap system. None of that prog rock hippy shit for us, we were into punk and ska, new wave and the blues. 

Technology moved on and vinyl went the way of the Ford Cortina and the horse drawn plough. I sold some of my old punk records which I still regret and stashed a box of LPs in the loft. Some of these records I seem to have acquired rather than bought. I'm please to say I definitely don't have Andy's supercharger album so my life is safe for the time being as he threatened to kill the bloke who nicked it. I might have an old friends Led Zeppelin IV though and I think I have one of Paul's Small Faces albums. I used to lend them out quite freely in those days so I have probably lost at least as many as I have gained. The last album I bought on vinyl was Kate Bush The Hounds of Love which was released in 1985, that means my records have not seen the light of day for nigh on twenty years.

Just recently my most excellent brother in law from Hemel dug his expensive Hi Fi out of the loft, refurbished it and spent a lot of money on a new stylus and has re-discovered the superior sound of vinyl went played on a quality system. 
He and his lovely wife invited Dearly Beloved and I round for a drink so I took my treasure chest of musical gems round to join the party. I had forgotten what excellent musical taste I have and what an awesome collection of records I had amassed, although I also saved Dearly Beloved's Wham and 80s Tina Turner record but we won't mention those.

Now as I have already mentioned I saved all my favourite ones, those heroes from my youth that had been played to death and it seems death is the correct word. My old troupers have many wounds in the forms of nicks, scratches and dents. I was like a general surveying his troops after their return from a bitter conflict with Dave ( my Brother in Law)examining them and giving his prognosis like a sympathetic doctor giving bad news, he should have been wearing a white coat. We arrived at the conclusion that my battle weary soldiers were only fit for retirement, sad but noble warriors that they are. We tried to play a couple of the better ones but alas, even those jumped.

The question is what to do with them. I can't bear to throw them out so I will respectfully retire them to the loft like a bunch of Chelsea pensioners to moulder away and wait for their final resting place. I was supposed to go back round Dr Dave's to listen to some more vinyl and quaff obscene quantities of red wine but I had to cancel due to having to fix the floor in the kitchen. Dave messaged back with something like' it comes to something when your laying vinyl instead of playing vinyl.' an excellent comeback I thought which sums up the passing of the years and the heavy burden of responsibility that comes with being an old git. It would have been even funnier if the floor had actually been vinyl instead of wood.

Postscript; regarding last week's post, I have checked with another of my colleagues and she confirms the ghost does exist. It also moves furniture around in their lounge area and she once woke up with scratches on her arm which had drawn blood although her finger nails weren't long enough to have done it to herself... Spooky eh. 

In Praise of Chips.

I'm on a diet, not a proper recognised one but I just watch what I eat as does everyone else over thirty who has noticed with alarm their growing paunch. Alas all my good intentions become undone as this diet doesn't extend to alcohol. I have been promising to give up the demon drink since 1985 but there has no progress on this front as yet although I am still hopeful. Due to my self-imposed eating regime I hardly ever have chips but yesterday was an exception.

I had spent the morning sitting in the waiting room of a cold and draughty garage getting some new tyres fitted and my brake pads replaced. The garage was definitely in my home town but the draught came all the way from Siberia and the door wouldn't close properly so three of us sat there shivering. It was one of those bleak, grey overcast days that threatened rain and makes you depressed just looking at it. After the garage expedition I went to the council dump to off load some rotten wood and other household junk then came home and fiddled about trying to fix the dish washer which was leaking so I got wet, hey ho. It was about lunchtime by now and I was exceptionally hungry and my usual fare of rabbit food or grilled vegetables just wasn't going to cut it.

Sometimes, for me at least, only a plateful of unhealthy stodge will do. It's like extreme comfort food so off to the chippy I went for a large chips, jumbo sausage and steak and kidney pie. I put on a DVD which I never do during the day, turned the heating up and stuffed myself; it was wonderful. I resisted the urge to photograph it and post it on Facebook which seems to be the thing to do these days. I could have had an egg salad but for some dark psychological reason I don't understand, I felt need for the loving embrace of a mountain of stodge. I must admit to feeling much better after and quietly content with the world. Some people like cake, others chocolate but for me it's a huge plateful of chip-shop chips with a pie and sausage balanced on the top.

Today it's back on the straight and narrow, I cycled to work in the pouring rain with my lunch of cold rice, mixed beans and diced chicken tucked into my back pack, it was as appetising as it sounds. I must be doing something right as I managed to cycle up a hill in sixth gear that I used to have to walk up although I'm still a fat bastard. Clearly the much maligned and unfashionable British staple has mystic powers of rejuvenation and spiritual replenishment not to be sneezed at. Jamie Oliver take note.


  

** Ghost Story **

There is accommodation on the top floor of the building I work in. It's for employees staying over for various courses and is often used by staff who, for one reason or another, need a temporary home. It's even been used as a place to crash for people who have been out on the town. It's basically a long corridor with rooms coming off of it that would make a Travelodge look palatial. According to one of my colleagues who has been staying there for a few weeks, it's haunted. 

The sound of someone in heels pacing down the corridor can be heard at three o'clock in the morning. When anyone is foolhardy enough to try and catch the culprit, there is no-one there. My colleague says he doesn't believe in ghosts but is at a loss to explain it. Many people have experienced this according to my colleague but I have not had a chance to verify it with anyone else. I see no reason to doubt him; he seems quite reliable and is unlikely to make himself look like a chump by mentioning it otherwise. 

I have spoken to many people over the years of supernatural matters and most people seem to have a personal ghost story, even if they are reluctant to mention it initially for fear of looking like an idiot. We used to have friends who recounted a story involving an attic room and a door. I don't remember the exact circumstances but I do remember the conviction with which he recounted the story. This otherwise level headed couple were unshakably convinced it was a ghost and couldn't be swayed otherwise.

Dearly Beloved and I booked to go to to a hotel that purported to have ghosts. We were originally going there with my most excellent and northerly 

Brother and Sister in Law who believe in this kind of thing but they had to pull out which was a great disappointment; Dearly Beloved and I went anyway. The reported apparitions were a large black dog that appeared on the stairs and a woman who walked down another flight of stairs that no longer existed. They didn't make a big fuss about it at the hotel although the dog had been seen the previous week by a guest who had no idea the place was haunted. He wandered into the bar and casually enquired who owned the dog. The Woman hasn't been seen for a couple of years the staff told me. I didn't see any such spooks myself; I can't say I'm surprised. 

I have never had a definitive event to prove to myself one way or another although I did once have an experience that was quite strange. I was in army cadets at the time and we were running about in a forest on Army land when our unit came across what looked like a stately home set in a clearing. It had manicured lawns and a gravel driveway leading to large metal gates, the house itself was behind a 10 foot high surrounding wall. Our unit ran across the lawns and along the wall to the back of the house and back into the woods. I could feel the lawns soft and springy under my boots and starlight sky above was crystal clear. In the morning it became clear that there was no such house or clearing anywhere near our location. Our little party discussed it at the time and even afterwards when we were back home. In fact two persons who were there are recipients of this blog, my brother Gary and my oldest friend Simon, perhaps they could verify the story and prove I am not suffering from early-onset dementia. 

For me, the jury is still out although I have spoken to people who have had experiences who believe wholeheartedly. The is no reason why a ghost would want to haunt my place of work and all the theories explaining their existence seem like superstitious mumbo jumbo to me, but still, the stories persist despite our technological age of reason and they do say there is no smoke without fire.  

Drac Tours.

One of my new-found friends and work colleagues comes from Romania, the central region to be precise. It's mountainous and very pretty with many picturesque villages, castles and fortified churches nestling on the hillsides and plains. It's all very quaint and 'olde worlde' as if time has passed it by. I know this because my friend has shown my pictures of it. The area he comes from is famous, everyone has heard of it. It's called Transylvania. 

My Romanian friend and I went for a pint the other day and he mentioned that he had told another colleague where he was from and she didn't believe him. 
She didn't realise it was a real place; she thought it was fictitious like Narnia or Middle Earth. My friend was quite taken aback by this ignorance of his homeland. It occurred to me that it's likely that many people don't realise it's an actual place you can go and visit, probably most Americans for a start off. That's when I came up with the Idea of 'Drac-tours.' The itinerary would be roughly as follows.

Day One: Meet and greet at the airport then you will be whisked away in our horse drawn cart to a small village where you will dress as a peasant and partake of a light meal of bread and a thin gruel in a genuine hovel and then spend the night starting fearfully into the sky.

Day Two: A visit to Dracula's castle (which is a real place known as Bran Castle.) The day will be spent exploring the castle and trying out our interactive dungeon and torture implement display. Prepare to be scared to death as friendly locals masquerading as blood sucking maniacs leap out from dark shadows and fall from the ceiling rafters to feed on you. (Please ensure your health insurance is up to date.) There will be bat feeding sessions after dark.

Day Three: Enjoy a lively run through the woods while being chased by a pack of slavering and rabid hounds from hell. For those that survive, the afternoon will be spent in the traditional Transylvanian pastime of stake whittling. 

Day Four: Dress up as a vampire minion and raid a local village to capture a buxom beauty and carry her off to the castle. This is followed by a traditional lunch featuring goblets of fresh blood. A full range of blood types are available on our menu. The evening will be spent practising hanging upside down before retiring to a luxurious silk-lined coffin in a spider infested draughty crypt.( single beds only no en-suite facilities) 

Day Five: Spend a 'lazy day' buried underground in a bespoke coffin, plenty of time for relaxation and reflection. The more adventurous may wish to escape their entombment by breaking out of the coffin and clawing their way through six feet of earth to free themselves.The choice is entirely yours. The evening gives you a chance to dress up again and become a member of an angry mob complete with flaming torch and take part in the storming of a castle. (Subject to authorisation by the EU health and safety executive)

Day Six: Take a trip to market in the back of our vegetable wagon where you can buy goods made by local craftsmen. Some popular items include, garlic infused pendants, garlic sweets, garlic jam and a strong spirit drink made from garlic.

Day Seven: Get lost in the tremendous scenery of the Carpathian Mountains; quite literally. We'll drop you off at a high mountain pass and last one back buys the drinks. It's fun for all the family, just make sure you are back before nightfall. 

It's seems like a sure fire winner to me. It's still a work in progress at the moment so I would appreciate any ideas to enhance the experience. I will be looking for volunteers to test it so if you are interested let me know although I expect it will be oversubscribed.

My friend may even know a real vampire. I'm hesitant to ask in case he deems it a racist incident and reports me to the authorities. I know he isn't a vampire himself as I have worked a day shift with him which would rule him out of being one of the undead. The Romanians themselves seem quite keen on fostering the vampire connection and although the link between Prince Vlad Tepes and Bran Castle is tenuous, they have taken it to their hearts and seem to be quite proud of it, it is, after all, just a story... or is it?

Spooning.

There is a kitchen where I work and it's in use twenty four hours a day, every day of the year. There is a constant trail of people heading backwards and forwards to make various hot drinks or use the micro-waves to heat their lunch; we drink a lot of tea and coffee at my place. It's rectangular and approximately ten feet square, there are four fridges, two microwave ovens, a stainless steel sink with drainer and one of those large wall mounted boilers so there is a constant stream of hot, drinking water. There are wall and floor mounted cupboards and in two of the cupboards there are draws with towels in one and cutlery in the other, including tea spoons. That's where the trouble starts.  

We don't have a cleaning fairy in our kitchen which is often pointed out by those who feel the need to wash and clear up the dirty cups and plates left lying around by those who can't be bothered to do it. The usual scenario is for someone to go into the kitchen, become so upset by the state of it that they feel compelled to wash up and then come back into the main office and send round a sarcastic and accusatory message to all the other members of staff ranting about having to do it. The messages often include such comments as. 'AGAIN!!!!!' or 'I'm not here to clear up after YOU!!!!!' and similar. We had one from a staff member the other day bemoaning that she had to wash up all the teaspoons. Now, I agree that crockery should be washed up and put away by the person who uses it but, in my opinion, teaspoons are a moan too far. 

The spoons are usually left lying around the sink or draining board, the reason for this is that there are in almost constant use. If you wash them up and put them away then I expect it would take no more than an hour and a half for them all to be back on the draining board again. Therefore putting them away is completely pointless. We drink so much tea in our house we always have a teaspoon in the sink or on the draining board; we just wash it and re-use it. So, would I do it at home? Damn right I would. Anyone stupid enough to waste their time gets no sympathy from me. No one asked her to wash them, we have cleaners for that, if she'd rather be a cleaner then I'm sure she would have no trouble getting a job. Clearly she ought be getting on with her own job rather than hanging round in the kitchen doing someone else's. She is clearly not busy enough if she can come to work and all she worries about is the bloody spoons. If you want to wash the spoons, that's fine in my view but don't come and bitch about it by grabbing the moral high ground and trying to make everyone else feel bad because they don't share your obsessive need to tidy up. No one asked her to and no one expected her to.

From a mathematical perspective, if you have a total of twelve spoons and twelve spoons are on the draining board then you have reached finite mass as it were. It's not as if you going to be wading waist deep in spoons if nobody put them away. It has yet to be demonstrated to me how twelve teaspoons, when used correctly for their intended function, are a risk to health and safety. 

The sport of 'Washing and Bitching' is not just a female pastime; we have some males who practicing it as well. It just so happened that it was a female this time. I have washed up cups and plates before now that weren't mine, I just did it. No drama as they say.  Perhaps the woman who moaned about the spoons was bitterly disappointed there wasn't a couple of plates or bowls as well so she could feel really indigent and be twice as cutting in her missive to the office. No doubt there will be champion spoon-washers who will read this and be aghast at my slovenly attitude and reply with some withering and caustic comments. Personally I shall continue to leave my spoon in the sink for the next person to use. Tea anyone?    

'The Times They Are a Changing'

 Forgive me father for I have sinned, it's been six months since my last confession... Well blog post anyway and many things have changed since then. Dearly Beloved and I have been on holiday to possibly the world's most boring place; it's like Eastbourne but warmer.I have a new East European friend who can tell me fascinating stories about living under Ceausescu and we have potentially new and undiscovered family members waiting in the wings. Sadly we have also had a bereavement but such is the way of life and the world moves on.

As a nation we have discovered that we really are crap at sport, particularly rugby and we have uncovered a German, fifth column plot to slowly poison us all. The country has rallied behind a new Labour leader who may be able to temper the more extreme excesses of the Great Tory Fire-sale. We have also discovered that the evil hordes waiting to invade our country are really just nice guys looking for a safe home. I don't think I can remember a time when public opinion changed so dramatically, almost overnight, due to one image. It probably ranks up there with the photo of Kim Phuc running naked from the napalm attack in Vietnam for its global resonance.

My friend and musical accomplice Rod came round the other day and changes are definitely afoot for him. A side-effect of this will hopefully be that we can get our Bob Dylan tribute out of the studio and on to the stage; it's very good, you should see it. I am generally a fan of change, I like new opportunities and experiences as long as they don't cost too much. I myself have bought a new phone and we are seriously looking into buying a new car.
I am even considering changing my name to Miriam and my underpants more than once a year. 

Maybe it's this atmosphere that has given me the nudge to start writing my blog again, maybe it will last more than a week. A few people have said they enjoyed it so if they were just being polite, that will teach them. I shall keep a weather-eye out for the future and report back accordingly. Onwards and upwards and may the devil take the hindmost.   

Postscript: I have just come home to discover that my most excellent Brother and Sister In Law have bought a house so congratulations to them. It will mean the end of years of renting and having to move home at least once every year... I expect that trumps my new car and fresh underpants then. 

The Smoking Gun.

There used to be a smoking shelter where I work. It looked like a bus stop in the middle of a large courtyard and it seemed to be waiting patiently for a bus that never came. It was the only place where smokers were allowed to indulge their habit and there were always people there, come rain or shine, snows or blizzards. There are a lot of people where I work and the smoking shelter attracted people of all ranks and departments, all bound together by their love of the weed. 

We had a new 'big cheese' take over the reins and he used his proverbial new broom to sweep away the bus shelter and replaced it with an industrial sized ash tray screwed to a wall and a yellow rectangular line painted on the ground just big enough for 3 people to stand in. there was a sign on the wall next to the ashtray saying ' Three People At A Time Only.' This has done nothing to deter the hardcore smokers who still gather and seem to have trouble recognising the number three.  I don't smoke and it doesn't bother me that people do but I think it would be very interesting to be a fly on the wall, despite the obvious risk to health.

I have no doubt the smoking area is a hot-bed of gossip, rumour and intrigue; a place where information is shared and traded. Where alliances are formed and where certain colleagues are stabbed in the back. It's clearly a place for moaning and bitching but how many affairs and romances have been facilitated there over the years as well. How many 'I'll meet you outside in 10.' texts have been sent, not just a few I should think.

 It's like an information bazaar where people are can blow off steam and swap stories and phone numbers; a small and exclusive enclave in the dull drudgery of work. I know for a fact that the smokers in my department are privy to information that I am not. That doesn't bother me as I don't gossip and am not interested in the politics. However if you wanted to keep you finger on the pulse as they say, that's where you will find it.

I haven't smoked for nearly twenty years now but I sometimes miss the excuse to step out of work for 10 minutes for a moment's reflection and relaxation. One of my reformed colleagues also mentioned that they missed the camaraderie of being one of the oppressed minority in 'leper's corner' as he put it. No doubt if I made a fuss I could pop down to the smoking area but I don't want to stink of cigarettes or die of passive smoking so I don't think I'll bother. 'Fag breaks' are fast becoming a thing of the past and many places don't allow them at all so It won't be long before 'Leper's Corner' and its ilk are stubbed out in the ashtray of history. 

The Music of Love - Is Ska.

I went to my eldest son's wedding last week; many of you will know this as you were also there. I love weddings, not because of some schmaltzy, teary-eyed romanticism but because it's a happy occasion where families get together and have a party which includes the very young and the very old. Of course, it's also a time to raise old grievances and re-open old arguments but that's the joy of families and it generally doesn't mar the proceedings, not in my family anyway; they are quite a cheerful, laid back bunch on the whole. 

I have been to many weddings over the years including two of my own. I can remember when I was young, sliding round on my knees on the wooden floor with my brother and cousins and playing under the tables. We were probably being a real nuisance but I was having a whale of a time. When I was older, I remember going to weddings and hoping I was going to get off with a girl (hopefully not related). It is a well-known fact that everyone pulls at weddings so even I might be in with a chance. There are not many times when you can drink too much and dad-dance to your hearts content, weddings is one of those occasions. 

Every wedding I have been to has been different, and all of them are memorable; unfortunately, not always for the right reasons. But even when adversity strikes the general goodwill sees us through and I have never been to a wedding where a fight has broken out. That's not true if christenings unfortunately. They tend to follow a pattern where the young drink too much, the older folk and very young children fall asleep regardless of how loud the music is and the mothers and grandmothers start surreptitiously clearing up near the end as a signal that it's time to go home.

The Wedding last week had many memorable moments including the Bride in full regalia singing with the choir in the church, The eccentric vicar and his multi-coloured shoes, the bass and drums accompanying the hymns rather than the more traditional organ. The bride and groom dancing up the aisle to ska music and many others including Joe's fabulous dancing, no-one dances like Joe. I am sure everyone has their own memories that will last forever. 

A couple of years ago I met my dad's cousin Alfie; I didn't even know he existed. Alfie got in touch with my dad again after several years and they had been chatting on the phone. Poor old Alfie is not very well, he had a stroke and lost the use of his right side. He is practically house bound and relies on daily visits from carers. He lives in a tiny one-bedroomed council flat somewhere in the back end of West Drayton where we went to visit him. As we were standing in his dark and musty front room he looked at me and said, I remember your wedding, you played ' Nights in White Satin, A good wedding that.' He was right, we did, but I didn't even know he was there. Thirty years on and he can still remember the songs we played at my first wedding and that's why I love them. I am going to another one next month where I shall be a taking up the mantle of Best Man, roll on May the 25th. 

                         ** To Alex and Beth - all our love for the future **

Insufficiently Limp-Wristed.

I play the guitar as many of my readers will know. I'm not a great player but I muddle along in an average kind of way. I have managed to get the hang of most of the techniques required over the years but there is one thing I still can't seem to be able to do effectively; fast strumming. Pete Townshend from the Who was one of my early influences and I tried for years to play Pinball Wizard which involves, for those of my non-musical friends, a very fast strumming pattern. I start off okay but after a bar or so my wrist refuses to co-operate. Despite years of practice I can't seem to get my wrist to move with the same fluidity as Townshend or the masters of funk such as Nile Rogers. I'm currently working on Hendrix's version of 'All Along the Watchtower' and he uses the same effortless strum. It's a breeze if you can do it, it's murder if you can't. The fact that I am rubbish at strumming and have fingers like sausages lead me to believe that I am not a natural guitarist.

If you Google my name, the first few pages of hits are related to a world famous virtuoso of that great rock and roll instrument, the euphonium. My namesake was born a year after me in Bournemouth and has achieved fame and fortune by sticking with the unsexy euphonium while I have achieved sore fingers, frustration, great times and good friends in total obscurity. Perhaps it would have been different had I chosen the xylophone. I can't help feeling it must have been tough for him during the punk years though trying to get into a band as a euphonium player.

What if Mo Farah had taken up discus instead of running because he fancied a girl on the field team? We may never have heard of him. If Bradley Wiggins had taken up boxing instead of cycling he would be just another 'shmo' with dodgy sideburns. The world is brimming with people who have undiscovered talents and talented people who haven't been discovered; that's not to say I am one of them though.

I have just finished a book by Stephen King called ' On Writing' which is a short autobiography followed by a brief synopsis of his approach to writing. In it he discusses having a true passion for your art whatever it may be and I believe I fall short of having the all-consuming desire necessary to be better than average on the guitar. Never mind, I'll keep plugging away as I still enjoy it. My friend and bandmate Rod will be pleased; there's not much room for a xylophone player in a Bob Dylan Tribute duo. 

'Read All About It'

I flicked through the local paper earlier this week; I generally do, just to see if anyone I know has been killed or arrested. Dearly Beloved does the same but she seems to have a particular fascination for the obituaries. I shall have to keep an eye on that, she might be plotting something. I remember having a conversation with a good friend of mine some years ago about how depressing the news is and I remarked that all the happier news stories seem to be in the local paper. Sadly, this is no longer the case.

Gone are the days of headlines such as ' George's Giant Cucumber Impresses the Ladies' with a picture of a smiling George at the WI horticultural show. Unfortunately, George has been relegated to page four behind such juicy snippets as ' Family of Four Die in Blazing inferno or 'Feral Hoodies Run Amok on Local Estate. On a really slow news week they would still rather put a depressing article about potholes or dog crap on the front page. No wonder everyone's so miserable.

There seems to be huge disparity between the how bad the bad news is and how good the good news is. 'Granny Finds Long Lost Fiver Down Back of Sofa' doesn't really stack up to. '15 Injured in Bus Tragedy'. What we need is some really good news to balance the books such as ' A Year's Council Tax Refund for Everyone' or Crime Rate Reaches Zero. How about ' Youth Finds Cure for Cancer in Local Dustbin or even 'Party For All with Free Drink and Recreational Drugs.

It's all about the advertising revenue, that's what pays and creates profit for the paper, so whatever they put in is just filler between the ads. When I was in the estate agency business we had a big weekly spread in the paper. We didn't get many calls from it but it helped keep a high profile and please the vendors. We couldn't afford not to at the time but the world has moved on. No one looks in the papers anymore, that great oracle Google is the first port of call for most people if they want to know something.

 I expect the days of the local rag are numbered. Businesses will spend less money on print advertising and more on internet based exposure. There is no point in reading it anyway because if anyone I know is likely to be appearing, I would find it out via social media way before the paper is out. It would be shame though; all that paper is very handy for painting and decorating. 

High Anxiety

I had a particularly bad day at work last week. Every job seemed to be a problem, wrapped in a fuck up, and hidden in a headache to misquote Churchill. Normally when I go home I leave the job behind and forget about it but that night I was still dwelling on it hours later. My usual antidote is a couple of cans of beer. Particularly bad days require the addition of some stodgy and shockingly bad-for-you comfort food such as pork pies or great slabs of cheese. On very bad days I have to resort to red wine to restore harmony. That night it was red wine and pork pies. Thankfully a very rare occurrence indeed. 

Stress used to be linked to 'high power' business people who throw a wobbly one day, turn into a gibbering heap and have to be nursed back to mental health over a period of months. Now everyone has it. Everyone you speak to claims to have a stressful job. It seems that just turning up for work causes intolerable pressures for some people. In fact you can be unemployed and still stressed. It's claimed that our cat could be suffering from it although I don't know how I'd tell as he sleeps twenty two hours a day.

Since the concept of stress has now been downgraded to the level of ' a pain in the arse' they have come up with a more modern and severe infliction called 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At one time you had to be a battle hardened soldier or involved in a disaster with massive loss of life to be diagnosed with it but apparently I can get it now just by answering the phone. I read an article last week saying that Americans in my occupation have been diagnosed with PTSD; hardly in the same category I feel. I have even spoken to a woman who claimed to have been diagnosed with it after being involved in several shouting matches with her partner. Soon you'll be able to contract it from getting parking ticket.

Luckily there are many prescription drugs, counsellors and alternative remedies to help people cope with the general inconveniences of life and the crooked, self-serving people in it. Personally, I think I'll stick with the red wine and bad food.

The Discontented Pony.

When I was very young and still in infant's school I used to read anything I could lay my hands on. This included such enlightening sources as the back of the Cornflake's packet and the credits at the end of TV shows. I had many books but the one I remember most vividly was one about a pony who lived in a field and one day found the gate open. His curiosity got the better of him so he trotted off down the road until he came across a fairground with one of those carousels with wooden horses that children could ride. He loved the colour and glamour of those majestic wooden horses and wanted to be just like them so he jumped up onto the carousel. Our little hero pony became scared of the flashing lights, the noise of the crowd and the speed of the ride so he jumped back off and hurried back to the field as fast as his fetlocks would carry him. He resolved to be content in his field and never venture out into the big wide world again. The book was called 'The Discontented Pony'. I didn't get it.

In my childish head I was thinking ' how did he know he didn't like it if he hadn't tried it. The thought of staying in one place and never trying anything new seemed ridiculous. Clearly I was born with a more adventurous spirit than the pony and missed the point the author was making, I get the point now but I still think he was talking tosh.

Children seem to be born with certain inclinations already in place. There is a picture of my lovely niece aged about four beaming happily while holding a spider the size of a dinner plate. This is a spider of nightmares that would have grown men fleeing for cover. It didn't bother my niece one bit and she wouldn't have understood what all the fuss was about. I remember my youngest son was very upset when we got rid of our old, battered and broken three-piece suite for a plush new one. He seemed unreasonably attached to it and accused us of a heinous crime. He is still a hoarder today and can't bear to throw anything away. He's the only one in the family.

'The Discontented Pony' popped back into my head last week while I was painting the fence. Enough time had passed for me to contemplate whether I had, metaphorically, left the field. I concluded that I had although I had only
gone a few hundred yards down the road rather than to the four corners of the earth as I had hoped. Still, I can't complain as life has been quite good to me so far. I am rather hoping that I will go a bit further down the road before my time is up and my number is called. I just need to win the lottery.

Daylight Robbery.

Dearly Beloved and I have always been quite lucky with our neighbours. We live at the end of a row of terraces and everyone keeps themselves to themselves, nobody is particularly noisy and we all respect each other's parking. We always say hello and send each other Christmas cards but that's as far as it goes. However this idyllic state of affairs has taken a nasty turn which will require swift and merciless retaliation. The next door neighbours have stolen our front door.

Well it's not our front door exactly but it might as well have been. You may remember my post from a couple of weeks ago saying that we needed a new front door. Dearly beloved and I did a little looking around and found one that we both liked so I filed it away in the back of my memory to go and buy when funds allowed. I was shocked and dismayed to leave the house two days later to find workman fitting the exact same door to my neighbour's house, sly buggers they are. This is actually a triple whammy for us as Dearly Beloved and I will have to find another door we both like which won't be easy. It looks very smart on their house and just proves it would have looked fabulous on our's and thirdly, It makes our house look just that little bit shabbier. This is not an affront that can be taken lying down. 

We have already started our retaliation by sending their cat to coventry. We used to make a fuss of it when it came into our garden but no more. This isn't a
problem for me but Dearly Beloved is finding it hard because she is quite fond of him. I have had to tell her to steel herself and stiffen her upper lip, this is a war and there will be casualties, we can show no weakness. We are going onto phase two next week by scowling over the garden fence at them. I don't know how effective this tactic will be as it's March and they will probably be indoors. We are also considering the strategy of leaping out of the front door when we see them outside just so we can snub them when they say hello. I've heard this is particularly effective.

I don't know how they found out about our plans, it's possible they have been following us around to see what we have been up to, or perhaps they have a network of spies keeping tabs on us. I am also not ruling out some form of mind reading or time travel device. They managed to get it fitted in double quick time which suggests they had help. How smug they must be sitting in their house looking at their new door and laughing about how they got one over on us. It has been suggested that it's a popular style of door and it's just chance they bought the same one. Coincidence? I don't think so.  

'I Found no Thrill, on Shrewsbury Hill.'

Guess what I received for Valentine's day... Can't guess? Well I will tell you. It was a Bath bomb. It's a particularly macho one as It's shaped like a grenade, perfect for a wanna-be terrorist. It came with s

Battle of Shrewbury
Not as tough as finding a restaurant on Valentines.  

ome other shower gels and soaps all with a masculine branding. These types of things always seemed particularly 'girly' to me but as long as it's got a manly picture on it I suppose it's Okay. I come from the carbolic soap, and 'loo paper you could cut yourself on' generation where 'soap on a rope' was an extravagant luxury. The heady sophistication of Hi karate and Brut aftershave was a special indulgence at Christmas. For all their luxuriant beards and toned physique from hours in the gym the modern male is a namby-pamby in comparison. I'd like to see them survive on one cold dip a week in the neighbour's rainwater butt then then drying themselves off with sandpaper like we used to.

Anyway, I received this excellent present from Dearly Beloved while we were away for our annual valentines break in Shrewsbury. I would tell you all about Shrewsbury but unfortunately there is nothing to tell. We strolled around the town and visited the castle museum. It was closed so we tried the Cathedral which was also closed.  We followed the river and walked back through a council estate. I was quite impressed by the young, athletic females rowing on the river but Dearly Beloved didn't seem quite as interested as I was. In fact she hurried me away mumbling something about being arrested. Shrewsbury is notable for a famous battle during the Wars of the Roses and the fact that it floods most spectacularly, as it wasn't flooded and no one was fighting they really isn't much more to say about.

It's now a week since we have been back and my bath grenade remains unused. The reason for this is that the heating is broken. This is no surprise; everyone's heating breaks in February. We have already had it fixed once this year and now it's broken down again for a related reason according to the fellow charged with fixing it. He is supposed to return today with the spare part but so far no show. The original reason it stopped working is because of a drop in pressure and the manual said to check for leaks. Due to my paranoia I thought it might be leaking in the house so I had all the floor boards up. It wasn't, but now I have to replace the bathroom floor, so I might as well decorate the whole room. Oh well, at least when I use my bath grenade I will be able to admire my newly decorated room at the same time. 

Lost Property.

Don't you hate it when you lose something? You spend time retracing your steps trying to find it, look in all the places it might be then look in all the places it couldn't possibly be. Once you have turned everything upside down you begin to suspect that a well-meaning but interfering person may have moved it for safe keeping so you'll never find it. Finally you begin to suspect foul play and run through the list of likely culprits in the manner of Miss Marple. Well I've done all these things but I can't find my sense of humour anywhere.

I'm not even sure about the last time I had it, I must have put it down somewhere or perhaps it fell out of my pocket. It's not as if you can pop to Tesco's and buy another one. I was thinking of borrowing someone else's but it wouldn't fit quite right. 

Humour is not a tangible thing but you certainly know when you've lost it. I become unreasonably annoyed at the smallest things. I take things personally that are not meant that way. I imagine that all the world's gods have my picture on their desk and they wake up every morning thinking ' how can we hassle old Stuka today in a kind of personal vendetta. Things that I should take in my stride become stumbling blocks and I worry about things I have no control of. The world becomes a place of pitfalls instead of opportunity.

I decided many years ago that life was too arbitrary to be taken too seriously. It can be turned to dust by random chance or a turn of fate so it doesn't pay to worry or fret, if you do then the jokes on you. If you can't laugh at yourself and the vagaries of life you're in trouble so I had better find my sense of humour quickly before I lose my marbles as well.

Home Sweet Home.

Dearly Beloved and I need to get a new front door. When we had the double glazing put in some time ago but didn't bother to get it changed as we thought the wood looked nicer than the UPVC. The problem is that during the winter the door swells and it sticks in the frame. We have a couple of methods for getting it open and it doesn't cause me any problems although it is a bit drafty. In fact it adds charm and character to the house; well, that's my excuse for not changing it so far. Whilst it doesn't cause me any issues you can tell that the various tradesmen, delivery drivers and visitors are all thinking 'why doesn't that twat get new door.'

Over the years I have had a handful of guitar lessons and one of my tutors lived in Barnet. The thing I remember most from visiting his house was not the knowledge he imparted or the inspiration he inflamed but the humongous spider that lived in his porch. It was a monstrous black thing that used to hang over his doorway and radiate malevolence, it hung suspended in the air as if intending to drop on your head as you crossed the threshold. Had it tried to live in my house it would have received the shortest possible shrift and would have been sent back to the pits of hell from whence it came. It didn't seem to bother tutor Tim though. Tutor Tim visited our previous house once and had the audacity to comment on some edging I had put round a worktop although admittedly it could be considered a little wonky. ' I couldn't live with that' he said,' I'm quite a perfectionist about such things.' I can't remember what my reply was although I was thinking, ' at least I don't have a bloody demon living in my porch.' 

Some things bother people more than others. I have a thing about locks on the bathroom myself although some people have a much more open door policy about their ablutions. I hate going to people's houses where they say 'oh don't worry about it, we just sing loudly.' My mother has a lock on her bathroom, the problem there is that the loo doesn't flush. I think I know what the problem is and have offered to fix it but she just fobs me off. 'Don't worry about it' she says, just leave it and I'll sort it out later, we'll get it fixed one day.' She says there is a knack to it but I can't work it and neither can anyone else I know. I couldn't live with it.

Some people live with things that others would deem beyond the pale. I'm not talking about cleanliness. I mean those quirks in everyone's house that you learn to live with, at least, until you get round to fixing it like my front door. I expect it's those little imperfections that make a house a home and although I am quite attached to our front door, I'm afraid its days are numbered.

Fiddling About.

I'm a haunted man. Many years ago I came across the Phrase 'Nero fiddled while Rome burned.' I can't remember if I heard it or read it but I took it to mean that the Emperor of Rome was playing his violin and lazing around, while the Empire collapsed around him. This is not actually what it means at all but that was the interpretation I put on it at the time and the phrase has remained in my subconscious as an ominous warning ever since.

It seems to be telling me that if I don't 'look to my laurels' I shall suffer dire but unknown consequences. A good analogy would be decorating your house with 
the finest furniture and fabrics while termites are undermining the foundations. Unfortunately pastimes like music and writing fall firmly into the fiddling category. They are fundamentally, when all is said and done and the fat lady has stopped singing, pointless. In the wider scope of things they do bring pleasure to millions, raise us above the animals and are the essence of culture but someone has to dig the drains to prevent the diseases so we don't all die horrible deaths and can live to enjoy the icing on the cake of life. 

It seems to me that writing and music are frivolous and time spent on them is somehow wasted. I should spend my time on more worthy projects such as DIY, car maintenance, overtime at work or devising a way to earn a second income. I feel that I have been dillying and dallying, day-dreaming and procrastinating rather than getting on with the job in hand. I should stop reading fiction and start reading politics, history and science; put away my CD's and tune into Radio Four. Maybe it's time to stand up, be counted and get political, I'm sure they do tea and biscuits at the meetings. I feel I should start getting involved with life itself rather than a shallow reflection of it. 

No doubt over the coming months I shall take life more seriously. I shall read more factual books which will introduce me to things to get unreasonably annoyed about. I shall become more political and rage at the establishment and shout at the telly. I will start doing more work around the house and become frustrated when it doesn't go as planned. I shall try to lose weight, get fit and give up drinking and then resent the time and effort it takes. Nero has a lot to answer for.

Bear Necessities.

After many years of stress and turmoil I have finally decided to make the ultimate life changing decision. I have spent an age feeling that something is not quite right, that I don't fit in; that I am somehow trapped in the wrong body. I am fundamentally flawed. I have at last decided to do something about it. I expect some of you will be shocked and saddened a few of you may have already guessed it and most of you won't understand but I'm going to do it anyway. I am going to become a bear.

After considerable thought and contemplation over the last five minutes, I have decided I would like to be either a brown or grizzly bear somewhere in North America or Canada. I wouldn't want to be a polar bear as it's bloody cold and there's nothing to look except snow and ice. I wouldn't fancy Eastern Europe or Northern Asia as those buggers have no respect for animals and I would probably find myself on someone's dinner plate. I thought about being a panda but they hardly ever get it on and I would get fed up with bamboo after a while. Bears are pretty much protected in North America, I would have to keep my head down during the hunting season but most of the time would be free and easy. 

Who wouldn't want to be a bear? No natural predators because no one messes with a bear, a nice cosy cave to sleep in. Nothing to do and a whole forest to amuse yourself in. You could have hours of fun frightening and stealing off the tourists. Bears are mainly vegetarian so you don't have to go chasing after your food like those dumb big cats and wolves. Although bears do go fishing just for a change in diet. You get to sleep all winter and eat as much as you can the rest of the year.

I already have the makings of a good bear, I'm stocky and prone to put on weight easily, I am placid and laid back unless riled with a tendency towards cute and cuddly. I am clearly in the wrong body, I'm just surprised it took me so long to realise it. No doubt there is a clinic in Switzerland or Russia that can perform the necessary operations and provide the correct hormones for the transformation. I just need to figure out a way to get the NHS to pay for it.




               ******** For the last part of my story click below *******
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