'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.