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.