Its 9.45 on a Sunday Morning, which is uncivilisedly early even for a week-day and my Mother, The Gulag and I are on a train to Bristol, to go and say good bye to my sister and her boyfriend Jimmy, Jimmie, Jimi, Jimminy, who is in fact one person, it is just i am not sure the proper way to spell his name.
Now i like Bristol, in fact i like Bristol quite a lot, I don't know it that well, which might be one of the reasons i like it so much at the moment, like the girl you never kissed when you were a teenager but wanted to kiss, the fact that you never kissed kept the relationship immaculate, never to spoil.mainly because there was no relationship just a spotty teenage boys fantasy. Anyway this is the current status between me and Bristol. You see, you have to say relationship status these days as we are living in the Facebook status age.
Back to my point about Bristol, it is getting rarer and rarer theses days for me to find a place that I like, as i approach my 35th birthday the only thing that seems to be increasing is my general misanthropy and it is not soley reserved for people, places and objects are regular targets as well, i am hoping to get a call back from grumpy old men soon. The reason we have gone to bid farewell to my sister is because the Gulag and I are about to embark on a new life in Wroclaw, wroswaaaaaaavvv, or Breslau to people who still look at maps of Europe with Prussia on it.Incidentally if you are one of those people, may i suggest investing in a new map purely for diplomatic reasons of course.The day has started off with a magical journey up 9 flights of piss stained stairs in the car park to finally arrive at Reading station a shining monument to the shortcomings of twentieth century architecture. An espresso at the station has done little to improve affairs apart from starting an anxious internal dialogue in my mind for the entire journey to Bristol on the error of judgement by me to decide not to have a poo before leaving this morning. By eleven we are at Bristol station, a far more pleasing station than Reading and with the Great bowel debate of Bath Spa having returned to the darker recesses of my mind everything is looking ok. Then i meet the puppy!!
You see Jessica and Jimmmi are flat sitting, or rather puppy sitting in fact for some friends of theirs. The flat is one of those places that makes you feel older than you are. It brashly reminds you that when you were the tennants age, you were never that good looking, never that cool and unlike one half of this golden couple you were never in a band signed to a record label, Come to think of it I was never in a band, unless you count that one night in Ladbroke grove, very stoned when someone let me play the triangle. and just to ram home their youthful beauty their flat is plastered with images of them being young, cool and sooo in love. After the shock to my system of this, i see the tiny puppy hove into view, all cute and inviting.The puppys name is Lennon, after John Lennon and it quickly becomes apparent that rather than being sweet his behaviour is like an out of control pop star, he is on the lookout for a hotel room to trash but he will start with my mothers handbag just to warm up. After ten minutes of playing with Lennon who turns out to have more in common with a velociraptor than a dog, I am starting to feel more and motre like the egg theif from Jurassic park my flesh ripped by the canine equivalent of those tiny dinosaurs in the movie. Lennon is more Ozzy Ozbourne than our John from Liverpool. I quickly double check with my sister the spelling of Lennon, just in case they meant Lenin, because he is certainly more Stalin than Lenin, more Pol Pot than pop, I could go on.
My sister tell us she has booked us a table at The Pump House, the name conjurs up images of sewage in my mind but i decide not to share that with my sister and anyway after being mauled by the tiny beast, sewage would be a step up.
Jessica suggests we drive, the consesus is that we are all bang up for this idea, that is until Jimmmi cheerily tells us it is only a 10 minute walk, a debate then ensues between the two Js of the validity of this claim.
(Couples wildly differing views of distances is a phenomena i first encountered recently in Poland. It requires either half of the couple to have wildly differing views on a distance to a destination they both know equally well. In Poland whilst staying at the Gulags headquarters, a decision to walk into to town was met by a stern warning from waldy that taking the car would be essential as it takes over an hour to get there, this opinion was met with derision by The Gulags mother Monica, who told us it was a lovely walk about 10 minutes maximum and she was right ten minutes later we foiund ourselves in the center of Mielec.)
After an hours walking we arrive at the Pump house and once again the female species has prevailed as we all shoot Jimmi questioning looks.
Why is it myself included that men feel the need to wildly over or under estimate everything, whereas women are happy to base their estimations on accurate data. Then the man tries to pull rank only always to end up with egg on his face.
I feel this would be a good moment to advocate a female chancellor of the Exchequer, as far as I am aware we have yet to have one, which might go a long way to explaining our current deficit. As it seems that all men from the small boy to the upper echelons of government just cant help guessing the answer and hoping for the best.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
A Writers blockage
So, when is the best time to write, some might say those first few silent hours of a day before the rest of the world awakes, Just you the dawn chorus of the birds, the sunrise and a blank page, could anyone ask for more inspiration?
well those first moments of daybreak are not for me, Morning for me is more of a case of ambush rather than an awakening. In fact it would be safe to say that on finding myself thrust into a new day the last thing on my mind is writing. Firstly there is the first ten minutes in bed, going through a list of my potential ailments I expect to endure that day, a vital procedure as any self respecting hypocondriac will tell you. Finally having decided that I am probably fit enough to get out of bed, i head for my morning meditation on my porcelain throne, then coffee, now i cant have coffee at home because that would suggest that whilst taking my morning coffee at home, I should really be doing something productive, God forbid writing even!
So I grab my jacket and head to the coffee shop to the safety of the T2 crossword and ( if you have read my earlier posts) some pointless list making.
Having successfully wasted two hours now, It is probably coming up to lunchtime, so there is no point trying to start writing now as there would not be nearly enough time to really get stuck in before I would have to stop and eat something. The most sensible thing now would be to make a sandwich and watch a programme about celebrity electricians cooking pancakes in Malaga.
Gosh is it Three a clock already, i better have a cup of tea before I start writing and check my emails, hmm an email suggesting i come and play online monopoly, a few minutes wouldn't hurt would it?
It is now half past Four, The Gulag will be home from work in half an hour and i haven't done the shopping for dinner. Meet The Gulag, have another coffee, cook dinner and It's now Nine pm and the Apprentice is on and there is no way i am going to miss that.
You see there just isn't time in my day to fit any writing in.
Finally its late into the night, nothing left to do the perfect time to write, I plump the cushion, get my notebook out place it carefully down on the coffee table, stretch my hands, sit down, lean forward push a button, game of Pro evo anyone?
well those first moments of daybreak are not for me, Morning for me is more of a case of ambush rather than an awakening. In fact it would be safe to say that on finding myself thrust into a new day the last thing on my mind is writing. Firstly there is the first ten minutes in bed, going through a list of my potential ailments I expect to endure that day, a vital procedure as any self respecting hypocondriac will tell you. Finally having decided that I am probably fit enough to get out of bed, i head for my morning meditation on my porcelain throne, then coffee, now i cant have coffee at home because that would suggest that whilst taking my morning coffee at home, I should really be doing something productive, God forbid writing even!
So I grab my jacket and head to the coffee shop to the safety of the T2 crossword and ( if you have read my earlier posts) some pointless list making.
Having successfully wasted two hours now, It is probably coming up to lunchtime, so there is no point trying to start writing now as there would not be nearly enough time to really get stuck in before I would have to stop and eat something. The most sensible thing now would be to make a sandwich and watch a programme about celebrity electricians cooking pancakes in Malaga.
Gosh is it Three a clock already, i better have a cup of tea before I start writing and check my emails, hmm an email suggesting i come and play online monopoly, a few minutes wouldn't hurt would it?
It is now half past Four, The Gulag will be home from work in half an hour and i haven't done the shopping for dinner. Meet The Gulag, have another coffee, cook dinner and It's now Nine pm and the Apprentice is on and there is no way i am going to miss that.
You see there just isn't time in my day to fit any writing in.
Finally its late into the night, nothing left to do the perfect time to write, I plump the cushion, get my notebook out place it carefully down on the coffee table, stretch my hands, sit down, lean forward push a button, game of Pro evo anyone?
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Game over Lock Keeper stared with a twisted mania at the Depressed Cook, they agreed that steamboat enthusiasts where the work of the devil
I have worried recently that the New Orleans the faux Henley steamboat, will in fact be the vessel used to carry me across the River Styx. But which side is Hades is the question, maybe it is a trip to the nursing home sitting gracefully on the banks of the river? I fear it is more likely that the Angel on the bridge is the entrance to Hades. A quick stop for some wildly over priced Scampi and Chips before you are transported toThe Hades bar and grill, for an eternity spent toiling in its kitchens having food sent back by the moneyed inhabitants of Hades for a plethora of reasons.
"This steak is not right wing enough, i can taste too many socialist tendencies in it"
"My Turbot is showing to much freedom of thought"
"The wine is not pretentious enough"
"My marmite encrusted cock burger doe not seem to have any smug relish with it"
"My wife ordered the bag baked Sea Bass, and we noticed the bag isnt Gucci"
Goodbye Henley Hello Rio Grande
"This steak is not right wing enough, i can taste too many socialist tendencies in it"
"My Turbot is showing to much freedom of thought"
"The wine is not pretentious enough"
"My marmite encrusted cock burger doe not seem to have any smug relish with it"
"My wife ordered the bag baked Sea Bass, and we noticed the bag isnt Gucci"
Goodbye Henley Hello Rio Grande
Lists of Nothingness
About to embark on a new life in Wroclaw with The Gulag, i have spent much of the last month selling my belongings on Ebay. The highlight of this selling spree for me has, not been the money but the opportunity to create lists, league tables, fantasy financial calculations. You see for a man who often lives his life in a perpetual state of disorganisation and dissaray, I have always loved making lists, this love affair has lasted since early childhood. The lists are rarely of any use to anyone who exists outside the deeper recesses of my mind. My most recent list game has revolved around me estimating how much something will sell for on ebay and then comparing it with the actual selling price, hours of endless fun. My earliest recollection of this list addiction goes back to being a 6 year old, my mother and I used to go and stay with my godmother and her sister in London, the Fulham road to be exact. There i used to spend many a happy evening, notebook in hand nose pressed to the window, scanning the street below, then meticulously filling in how many different makes of car passed the house, then at the end of the evening i would convert the results into a league table.
A budding mathmetician you may think? Alas no, maths never became a strong suit in my education, but my love affair with lists and league tables continued. my next serious foray into league tables and lists came at about the age of 8. my mother was the caretaker of a rowing club in Henley and downstairs beneath our flat was this largely unoccupied clubroom for most of the year. I would go down there with my foam football and recreate matches between imaginary teams in my imaginary league, on my own. I cannot remember the rules and stipulations i implemented on myself but i do not think these were of huge importance it was the collating of the results and the league tables that were the point of the exercise, that was when the real excitement began. It is worth noting at this point, that i have never been a big list maker when it comes to important topics, where making a list might actually be of considerable use. My lists have almost always revolved around a fantasy world. I am sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with my love of lists of nothingness but sometimes the internal worlds we create for ourselves are like anchors for our mind. I know that I have always found that something that focuses and concentrates my Inner world is often a great solace to me. it gives some sort of structure, no matter how delicate to the raging seas in my head.
I do not know yet what opportunites Wroclaw will provide me for my list making future, but i am already considering some kind of Pierogi based league table, anyway i will keep you posted.
A budding mathmetician you may think? Alas no, maths never became a strong suit in my education, but my love affair with lists and league tables continued. my next serious foray into league tables and lists came at about the age of 8. my mother was the caretaker of a rowing club in Henley and downstairs beneath our flat was this largely unoccupied clubroom for most of the year. I would go down there with my foam football and recreate matches between imaginary teams in my imaginary league, on my own. I cannot remember the rules and stipulations i implemented on myself but i do not think these were of huge importance it was the collating of the results and the league tables that were the point of the exercise, that was when the real excitement began. It is worth noting at this point, that i have never been a big list maker when it comes to important topics, where making a list might actually be of considerable use. My lists have almost always revolved around a fantasy world. I am sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with my love of lists of nothingness but sometimes the internal worlds we create for ourselves are like anchors for our mind. I know that I have always found that something that focuses and concentrates my Inner world is often a great solace to me. it gives some sort of structure, no matter how delicate to the raging seas in my head.
I do not know yet what opportunites Wroclaw will provide me for my list making future, but i am already considering some kind of Pierogi based league table, anyway i will keep you posted.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)