I'm trying very hard to get back to normality - an adventure constantly thwarted by the likes of Colin and Andrew who consider the best therapy for me to cope with my 'rejection' (their term, I don't consider it a rejection at all, more a polite brush-off barely disguising a distinct lack of interest) by Sarah is for me to talk about at every given opportunity. I question their methodology, and have repeatedly pointed this out to them; as well as the unlikliness of such disparate personalities as Colin and Andrew discovering a common ground.
A pleasant surprise this morning. I have few enemies, or at least I like to think I have. But one habitual thorn in my side throughout the last few years has been the bathroom scales. And today they have been my friend. I weigh the lightest I have weighed all year. I have to quantify that in I mean year as in 2009, rather than year in the last twelve months or so. If I meant the latter, I'd still - sadly - have another twenty or so pounds to go. But I'm not allowing anything to sully the sheen from my achievement, I have lost a little bit of weight.
And a pleasant surprise yesterday during my first one-to-one with Peter Handyman. Completely unexpectedly, he stunned me by singing my praises and at one stage seemed in danger of offering to buff up my dangly bits, metaphorically. As I said, completely unexpected. He said I'm definitively the type of guy he likes having under him, one who requires the bare minimum of management. I was lost for words - was this human being sat in front of me, really the non-human-being known as Peter Handyman, the boss from not quite hell but somewhere only a smidgeon less undesirable? And at times not only did he seem perfectly human, he almost seemed vulnerable and a little child-like. Perhaps that b@st@rd persona is a construct to hide . . . something; no idea what as he keeps it hidden. Or maybe he just wants to get me on his side? I'm not making the decision. He finished off our little chat by claiming he's making inroads at persuading those above him to create a specialist, team-leader/head-developer role for me. They'd be no payrise, he stated (surprise surprise) due to the current salary freeze, but it'd be one step further on the ladder for me. I didn't want to pour a dampner on things by telling him it would be a ladder I'd have no interest in climbing. I'll see how things go. Of course a team leader is somehow who gets designated with all the tasks that the manager who appointed them cannot be @rsed to do. I'll have to be careful.
Made my way home after work to find Colin had re-surfaced from somewhere, and was putting himself together some pasta and sauce concoction. I enquired as to whether any of it could be for me, but he just said if I were him I wouldn't want to eat anything he'd cooked, so he just cooked for one. He then asked if I was feeling less like Yogi Bear after a night on the Absinthe.
I told him I was fine. He immediately brought up Sarah but I held a hand up to that and told him it was not something I wanted to talk about. This, according to my brother, meant I obviously hadn't got over Sarah (not that there is anything to get over) and he'd be there when I was good and ready to talk about it. I thought about telling him not to hold his breath, but then I decided to ask him how long he intended to be 'here'; i.e. a (so far) non-paying lodger, and how his job-hunting activities were progressing. I thought this might provoke an argument but Colin started grating some cheese over his pasta (and sauce) and told me he wouldn't be in all our hair much longer. He said he'd been chasing a promisingly lead all weekend and with a bit of deserved good fortune it could develop into something of promise. I kept my thoughts to myself: But those thoughts were thinking probably the only thing Colin had spent the weekend chasing were things that *had* leads (and went bow wow wow) but then thought I was being a little harsh. Then I decided I wasn't hungry and went to sit in the lounge.
Which turned out not to be my smartest move as Andrew was in there, nibbling on the laste remnants of a salad whilst reading Colin's Telegraph. He smiled as I flopped down into my chair, then asked how I was. This sudden and continued and expressed concern from him continues to flummox me.
So I said I was fine and began to flick through the TV in search of something watchable (and failing, it all seems to be frustrating quiz shows these days). Andrew didn't take the hint and asked if I had any more thoughts about Sarah and I felt my heart sink and thud against the laminate flooring. And I lost it a little.
I said, or rather (almost) shouted: There's nothing to think about - it was nothing, just two people who'd happened to bump into each other once re-acquainting themselves and finding there's nothing worth further pursuing.
Andrew looked a little hurt. He said there's no need to snap, dad. I'm just concerned for your happiness.
I laughed at that. And found myself saying: Since when? Since when have you or your two brothers ever been concerned about my happiness? How many females have I brought back here since your mother topped herself? And how many have you made to feel welcome? And how many have you gone out of your way to make to feel firmly unwelcome? From refusing to speak to them or even acknowledging them to running about in the buff with your todgers on display? How is that concern for *my* happiness?
Andrew looked grim. We were just kids, he said. We didn't want a new mum. Then he zipped his lips, stood up, and walked out of the room.
I watched him go, then returned my gaze to the TV. Then I swore at a contestant on Eggheads who didn't know that Dave Grohl was once the drummer in Nirvana.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Monday, 9 March 2009
Bryn & Poppy Went Up The Hill
I began my Lent-free drinking at lunchtime yesterday, which is far too early for me, even on a Sunday.
In the good old days - the Poppy days and the pre-rugrat days, myself and my still-alive wife had a wonderful Sunday routine. I'd cobbled together some form of stew in the slow cooker in the morning, then around eleven we'd set off for a decent three-mile hike to a welcoming pub we knew up the top of a winding hill, where he'd doubtless bump into a few people we sort of were on first name terms with for chat and (more than less often) hilarity, whilst downing three pints of lager (me) or three bottles of sweet cider (Poppy). This took us a couple of hours, then we stumbled back down the hill, with myself answering at least half-a-dozen calls from nature along the way. We'd make it back home to find the kitchen alive with the odours of my gorgeous stew which we'd gulp down whilst munching on garlic bread. The next step would be for our clothing to be ripped off (by each other) as we climbed the stairs to bed for half-an-hour or so's x-rated action, after which the alcohol, our distended bellies and brain chemicals would combine to send us both slumbering late into the afternoon.
Generally, we would wake up at six with numbed brains, wondering just what bloody day it was and then just what bloody time it was, before spending a exhausting evening in front of the TV catching up on the Star Trek (The Next Generation/Deep Space Nine/Voyager) we'd taped the previous week.
It was the best of times; it was the best of times. Then Andrew, Gabriel, Lukas and finally the Grim Reaper happened along and such activities were bottled and labelled with 'the past'.
Back to the present - I seldom feel the need for afternoon alcohol. I've never consider it the done thing to drink before noon, and it takes both arms twisted around my back to really get me to drink before six. But then of course once I'm sat firmly in the saddle of the whiskey horse and galloping towards that first hurdle...
That day's premature start to my drinking ambitions gained the attention of Andrew, who'd come into the kitchen for a sandwich and passed me one of his looks of dismay and personal disappointment, as if my lack of sobriety was meant as a insult intended purposefully for him and him alone. He said I thought you weren't drinking during Lent, to which I educated him that the forty days of Lent did not officially include Sundays, hence on Sundays if I wanted to go around literally bathing in barrels of beer whilst devouring enough dead animal flesh to sate an entire pack of hyenas then I would do so.
Andrew said I was talking rubbish - he opined that Lent began the day after Shrove Tuesday and lasts for forty days and forty nights, going on to say it's in commemoration of Jesus's time in the wilderness, and that he was say Mr Christ didn't pop out of said wilderness every seventh day to the nearest McDonalds for an Egg McMuffin just because it was a Sunday. I began my response, but then though better of it as may be Andrew had a point, but I'd definitely read somewhere that Lent does not include Sundays. However, I made a show of gulping a swollen mouthful of Stella, just to show him.
I expected further pitying looks, but instead Andrew chose a completely different track. He observed that I was taking the rejection pretty hard. I had to take a couple of steps back at this as this was not something I was expecting to hear. I also said What rejection?
Andrew said The woman you took out to dinner on Thursday. Colin told me you were quite keen but you got rejected because she thinks she lives too far away from us?
I took another swig of beer and told Andrew that Colin hadn't a clue what I he talking about. But Andrew wasn't convinced - he said it didn't matter what Colin said, everyone else in the house had notice the uplift in my spirits over the past week or so, and the way they'd all come crashing down since Thursday.
I thought for a moment, perusing what my son was saying. And perhaps more importantly, why he was even interested, having shown previously no interest whatsoever in my love-life. Not that he's ever had much of an option to of late.
So I admitted yeah, I was a little disappointed. I thought I'd gotten on really well with Sarah, but she seemed to find it very easy to curtail any fledgling buds of romance between us. Andrew said but she had a point - Southampton is quite a distance. Perhaps she thought that the distance would be a problem, so she thought it best not to allow things to develop any further. The closer you are to someone, the more painful it becomes when and if it ends.
Andrew's voice sort of trailed off at that point, and I think he may have thought I'd gauge a double meaning in those last words. As my relationship to his mother definitely ended in the most abrupt way possible and yes, I was hurt. Not as hurt as I could have been if Poppy and I had been closer at the time of her death, but it was painful nonetheless.
So I told Andrew I didn't think the distance would have been a problem; and it would have been nice if Sarah had at least experimented to see if the distance would have become a problem. But then - I continued - that's woman for you; they find it hard to make up their own minds, but they excel at making up everyone else's mind for them.
Andrew sort of half-laughed then said well, that's at least one problem I won't have to contend with. Then he left the room.
I finished off my beer. But I didn't have another one.
In the good old days - the Poppy days and the pre-rugrat days, myself and my still-alive wife had a wonderful Sunday routine. I'd cobbled together some form of stew in the slow cooker in the morning, then around eleven we'd set off for a decent three-mile hike to a welcoming pub we knew up the top of a winding hill, where he'd doubtless bump into a few people we sort of were on first name terms with for chat and (more than less often) hilarity, whilst downing three pints of lager (me) or three bottles of sweet cider (Poppy). This took us a couple of hours, then we stumbled back down the hill, with myself answering at least half-a-dozen calls from nature along the way. We'd make it back home to find the kitchen alive with the odours of my gorgeous stew which we'd gulp down whilst munching on garlic bread. The next step would be for our clothing to be ripped off (by each other) as we climbed the stairs to bed for half-an-hour or so's x-rated action, after which the alcohol, our distended bellies and brain chemicals would combine to send us both slumbering late into the afternoon.
Generally, we would wake up at six with numbed brains, wondering just what bloody day it was and then just what bloody time it was, before spending a exhausting evening in front of the TV catching up on the Star Trek (The Next Generation/Deep Space Nine/Voyager) we'd taped the previous week.
It was the best of times; it was the best of times. Then Andrew, Gabriel, Lukas and finally the Grim Reaper happened along and such activities were bottled and labelled with 'the past'.
Back to the present - I seldom feel the need for afternoon alcohol. I've never consider it the done thing to drink before noon, and it takes both arms twisted around my back to really get me to drink before six. But then of course once I'm sat firmly in the saddle of the whiskey horse and galloping towards that first hurdle...
That day's premature start to my drinking ambitions gained the attention of Andrew, who'd come into the kitchen for a sandwich and passed me one of his looks of dismay and personal disappointment, as if my lack of sobriety was meant as a insult intended purposefully for him and him alone. He said I thought you weren't drinking during Lent, to which I educated him that the forty days of Lent did not officially include Sundays, hence on Sundays if I wanted to go around literally bathing in barrels of beer whilst devouring enough dead animal flesh to sate an entire pack of hyenas then I would do so.
Andrew said I was talking rubbish - he opined that Lent began the day after Shrove Tuesday and lasts for forty days and forty nights, going on to say it's in commemoration of Jesus's time in the wilderness, and that he was say Mr Christ didn't pop out of said wilderness every seventh day to the nearest McDonalds for an Egg McMuffin just because it was a Sunday. I began my response, but then though better of it as may be Andrew had a point, but I'd definitely read somewhere that Lent does not include Sundays. However, I made a show of gulping a swollen mouthful of Stella, just to show him.
I expected further pitying looks, but instead Andrew chose a completely different track. He observed that I was taking the rejection pretty hard. I had to take a couple of steps back at this as this was not something I was expecting to hear. I also said What rejection?
Andrew said The woman you took out to dinner on Thursday. Colin told me you were quite keen but you got rejected because she thinks she lives too far away from us?
I took another swig of beer and told Andrew that Colin hadn't a clue what I he talking about. But Andrew wasn't convinced - he said it didn't matter what Colin said, everyone else in the house had notice the uplift in my spirits over the past week or so, and the way they'd all come crashing down since Thursday.
I thought for a moment, perusing what my son was saying. And perhaps more importantly, why he was even interested, having shown previously no interest whatsoever in my love-life. Not that he's ever had much of an option to of late.
So I admitted yeah, I was a little disappointed. I thought I'd gotten on really well with Sarah, but she seemed to find it very easy to curtail any fledgling buds of romance between us. Andrew said but she had a point - Southampton is quite a distance. Perhaps she thought that the distance would be a problem, so she thought it best not to allow things to develop any further. The closer you are to someone, the more painful it becomes when and if it ends.
Andrew's voice sort of trailed off at that point, and I think he may have thought I'd gauge a double meaning in those last words. As my relationship to his mother definitely ended in the most abrupt way possible and yes, I was hurt. Not as hurt as I could have been if Poppy and I had been closer at the time of her death, but it was painful nonetheless.
So I told Andrew I didn't think the distance would have been a problem; and it would have been nice if Sarah had at least experimented to see if the distance would have become a problem. But then - I continued - that's woman for you; they find it hard to make up their own minds, but they excel at making up everyone else's mind for them.
Andrew sort of half-laughed then said well, that's at least one problem I won't have to contend with. Then he left the room.
I finished off my beer. But I didn't have another one.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Not A Happy Bunny
Little things are annoying me. My sons are annoying me, although they are not little things, except perhaps for Lukas.
Is it not strange how Andrew maintains the tidiness of his room to levels not generally associated with fifteen-year-old boys (even homosexual ones), yet thinks nothing of leaving every other place he randomly inhabits in the house in a state of confusion and dismay? Andrew generally cooks his own meals, which - being vegetarian - usually means a heck of a lot of preparation as vegetables are not renowned for their ready-to-cook status. Preparation leaves the detritus of peel, stalks and other inedible bits. So once Andrew's meal of the day is complete, he has two options, one to sweep said detritus into the bin, the other to leave it coating the chopping board and the space next to the cooker. Guess which option remains his favoured one, despite multiple moans from yours truly?
Why does he think (and Gabriel and Lukas and now, Colin) we possess a miraculous, self-loading dishwasher? Why are pots and plates and mugs and glasses and cutlery left on the work surface above the dishwasher? Is it expected that such elements of the act of consumption magick themselves via teleportation into the belly of the cleaning device?
And of course, when the family run out of pots or plates or mugs or glasses or cutlery, whose fault is it? Who gets the dirty looks? Who is make to feel ridiculously like a magnificently petty criminal just because Lukas is forced to gulp down a can of Shandy Bass without his preferred usage of a tumbler?
Likewise, why is it my fault when a flummoxed Gabriel rushes downstairs with three minutes to go before the school bus arrives, questioning me for explanations why his rugby kit, which has lain crumpled and possibly spawning whole civilisations of dirty microbes on his bedroom floor all evening, has not completed its usual miraculous transformation into a pressed and cleansed garment safely hidden within his chest of drawers?
And where does it say that Lukas is only obliged to do homework after not one, and not two, but four reminders from his concerned-for-the-boy's-education father? And since when has homework evolved from a considered hour or so's contemplative poring over a selection of dusty, mildew-smelling textbooks into five minutes of whipping something down from Wikipedia, tactifully altering at least two words as not to arouse the suspicions of the teacher?
And why am I the last person who gets to spend any of the proceeds of his hard work (okay, half-arsed work) on himself? Why does Andrew require £50 a week to spend on deodorant, aftershave, shower gel and other various smellies? Why does Gabriel require a daily ten pound note to buy one pound fifty's worth of muck from the school canteen, and why does he have to buy the latest release from his latest favourite shouty-rock combo every flipping weekend? And why do I have to pay for it even though I'd never listen to such rubbish even if you suspended me upside down over a trough of freshly-disemboweled rat carcasses and threatened me with a bloody dunking? And why does Lukas have a need for fresh items of sportswear or footwear seemingly every couple of days? And why does everything he wants have to be so brain-sweatingly expensive?
Even the Ripley's started getting on my nerves. Why won't she eat the plain and simple bog standard cat fodder from the local supermarket? Why does she insist on finely chopped venison served with a jelly of fois gras and a jus of liquidised mouse guts? And why cannot she perform her ablutions outside with the rest of cat-kind, insisting instead of laying eye-burning turds in a trayful of rose-scented kitty-litter? And then why is it my job and nobody else's to dispose of said pooh-sausages before the whiff of them annihilates all vegetation within a three mile radius and irreversibly heightens the threat of global warming?
And as for me? Why is it that no matter how little I eat, how many vegetables and fruits I consume instead of kebabs, burgers and pies, how much diet coke I pour down my throat instead of fruit juice, how many potatoes and bread rolls and cakes I leave rotting and mould-coated in the cupboards because even thinking of them adds inches to my wobbly thighs - how come I do all this yet the weight creeps off my bulk at one nanogram per decade? And how come if I *do* succeed in losing a spare ounce, if I then treat myself to say - half a hob-nob with my suger-free and dairy-free coffee, do I immediately put on fourteen stone?
And what happened to my mojo? I used to at least make a half-arsed attempt at keeping fit. I used get up some mornings and put on my trainers and t-shirt and shorts and then run about a bit instead of switching on my laptop and typing 'why exercise is bad for you' into Google. I was using the excuse of cold and wind and hail and rain and snow, but now every time I do leave the house the weather always seems perfect for a spot of alfresco exercise. So why am I not doing it?
And why does Colin have all the fun? Although I can only ever guess at the amount of fun he is having as I seldom see him at weekends. And this is hardly fair is it? He has no job, he has just lost his children (although he never mentions them, which troubles me deeply in the dead of the night when I've run out of other things to think about) and his marriage has collapsed and he sleeps on an unsuitable sofa at his brother's, yet he seems perfectly happy about things. Perhaps it's all bravado; perhaps he spends the weekends kipping under park benches, creating an illusion of being a party-animal for my perverse benefit. Or maybe every weekend is a shag-fest for him and I'm just jealous?
Who knows? Who cares? Well, I for one, obviously.
Is it not strange how Andrew maintains the tidiness of his room to levels not generally associated with fifteen-year-old boys (even homosexual ones), yet thinks nothing of leaving every other place he randomly inhabits in the house in a state of confusion and dismay? Andrew generally cooks his own meals, which - being vegetarian - usually means a heck of a lot of preparation as vegetables are not renowned for their ready-to-cook status. Preparation leaves the detritus of peel, stalks and other inedible bits. So once Andrew's meal of the day is complete, he has two options, one to sweep said detritus into the bin, the other to leave it coating the chopping board and the space next to the cooker. Guess which option remains his favoured one, despite multiple moans from yours truly?
Why does he think (and Gabriel and Lukas and now, Colin) we possess a miraculous, self-loading dishwasher? Why are pots and plates and mugs and glasses and cutlery left on the work surface above the dishwasher? Is it expected that such elements of the act of consumption magick themselves via teleportation into the belly of the cleaning device?
And of course, when the family run out of pots or plates or mugs or glasses or cutlery, whose fault is it? Who gets the dirty looks? Who is make to feel ridiculously like a magnificently petty criminal just because Lukas is forced to gulp down a can of Shandy Bass without his preferred usage of a tumbler?
Likewise, why is it my fault when a flummoxed Gabriel rushes downstairs with three minutes to go before the school bus arrives, questioning me for explanations why his rugby kit, which has lain crumpled and possibly spawning whole civilisations of dirty microbes on his bedroom floor all evening, has not completed its usual miraculous transformation into a pressed and cleansed garment safely hidden within his chest of drawers?
And where does it say that Lukas is only obliged to do homework after not one, and not two, but four reminders from his concerned-for-the-boy's-education father? And since when has homework evolved from a considered hour or so's contemplative poring over a selection of dusty, mildew-smelling textbooks into five minutes of whipping something down from Wikipedia, tactifully altering at least two words as not to arouse the suspicions of the teacher?
And why am I the last person who gets to spend any of the proceeds of his hard work (okay, half-arsed work) on himself? Why does Andrew require £50 a week to spend on deodorant, aftershave, shower gel and other various smellies? Why does Gabriel require a daily ten pound note to buy one pound fifty's worth of muck from the school canteen, and why does he have to buy the latest release from his latest favourite shouty-rock combo every flipping weekend? And why do I have to pay for it even though I'd never listen to such rubbish even if you suspended me upside down over a trough of freshly-disemboweled rat carcasses and threatened me with a bloody dunking? And why does Lukas have a need for fresh items of sportswear or footwear seemingly every couple of days? And why does everything he wants have to be so brain-sweatingly expensive?
Even the Ripley's started getting on my nerves. Why won't she eat the plain and simple bog standard cat fodder from the local supermarket? Why does she insist on finely chopped venison served with a jelly of fois gras and a jus of liquidised mouse guts? And why cannot she perform her ablutions outside with the rest of cat-kind, insisting instead of laying eye-burning turds in a trayful of rose-scented kitty-litter? And then why is it my job and nobody else's to dispose of said pooh-sausages before the whiff of them annihilates all vegetation within a three mile radius and irreversibly heightens the threat of global warming?
And as for me? Why is it that no matter how little I eat, how many vegetables and fruits I consume instead of kebabs, burgers and pies, how much diet coke I pour down my throat instead of fruit juice, how many potatoes and bread rolls and cakes I leave rotting and mould-coated in the cupboards because even thinking of them adds inches to my wobbly thighs - how come I do all this yet the weight creeps off my bulk at one nanogram per decade? And how come if I *do* succeed in losing a spare ounce, if I then treat myself to say - half a hob-nob with my suger-free and dairy-free coffee, do I immediately put on fourteen stone?
And what happened to my mojo? I used to at least make a half-arsed attempt at keeping fit. I used get up some mornings and put on my trainers and t-shirt and shorts and then run about a bit instead of switching on my laptop and typing 'why exercise is bad for you' into Google. I was using the excuse of cold and wind and hail and rain and snow, but now every time I do leave the house the weather always seems perfect for a spot of alfresco exercise. So why am I not doing it?
And why does Colin have all the fun? Although I can only ever guess at the amount of fun he is having as I seldom see him at weekends. And this is hardly fair is it? He has no job, he has just lost his children (although he never mentions them, which troubles me deeply in the dead of the night when I've run out of other things to think about) and his marriage has collapsed and he sleeps on an unsuitable sofa at his brother's, yet he seems perfectly happy about things. Perhaps it's all bravado; perhaps he spends the weekends kipping under park benches, creating an illusion of being a party-animal for my perverse benefit. Or maybe every weekend is a shag-fest for him and I'm just jealous?
Who knows? Who cares? Well, I for one, obviously.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
I'm In Another Mood
Spent the majority of yesterday in a mood that saw me hating the rest of the world. I think my work colleagues (I can never bring myself to call them work-mates) recognise when I'm in one of these moods and establish a clear and present avoidance zone around my desk. And as always, it takes me a small while for me to recognise when I myself am in one of these moods, so I go through all the stages, from being in a mood, to thinking so what if I am in a mood? Finishing up with feeling guilty for being in a mood, then coming out of a mood. I attempted to atone at about three o'clock by fetching a coffee (or alternative) for anyone who wanted one. It's a tiny price to pay.
So, no rewards for being the one millionth person to guess who caused me to descend into a fugue of annoyance and dis-satisfaction. Someone I know as I write this is safely back in her house in Southampton with her daughter and hopefully some pleasant memories of two evenings she spent with a decent enough chap whilst stuck in a Travelodge in the midlands.
Colin thinks I am a complete failure. Mainly because I failed to get Sarah to blow the cobwebs off my rusty genitalia. I can't see that myself. I am sure Colin finds the only reasons to engage with the allegedly fairer sex are carnal ones. Actually, that's a bit unfair, I'm sure his bluster and bravado and willingness to be seen to be flying over the ashes of his marriage are a temporary state of affairs. No one can miss their family and former wife as easily as Colin is showing the world that he apparently doesn't.
I don't think it's too conceited for me to consider myself as having one or two more dimensions than Colin is claiming I ought to have. Perhaps if I simply was a one-dimensional entity I wouldn't feel so chuffing let down. You meet someone - or rather you re-meet someone - and you have a pleasant enough time with them (twice) and because you and that person have significantly different plumbing arrangements in the underwear department you think you might be able to carry such a relationship a little forwards only for the question of geography to raise up and smite you.
Southampton. Is it such a long way away? Is it on a different continent? Or a different galaxy? Can it only be reached by negotiating space-time-contiunuum-bending wormholes that exist solely at a quantum level and say yah-boo-sucks to the laws of physics? Nope. It's one hundred and fifty miles. This hardly qualifies as some unfathomable distance. I have actually been to Southampton, I just forgot that I had the other day; I saw Villa play at the Dell during my shameful 'I'm not actually a dad' days when Andrew was born. But that was a bus in and a bus out, so I had no chance to gain anything other than a fleeting impression of the place; although I was in a bad mood as I think Villa lost 1-0, thanks to a Matt Le Tissier penalty. No that any of that matters.
So I assume that Sarah has other reasons she is unwilling to share with me as to why she see no point in taking our relationship any further. Well, yah-boo-sucks to her. Guess I'll just have to get back to my female-free life again. It's something I've gotten used to, and I see no problem in returning to that mind-set. Especially after what was nothing but than a brief meteor flashing across my sky of celibacy and non-companionship.
And I did try.
I wondered whether I should contact her, or just leave things at the point of 'there's no point in us going on with this', so I took the modern-day coward's way out. I texted her. And it took me an hour to compose my textual masterpiece. God how I hate communicating to the ladies. No matter how much you scan what you write I'm sure there's some hidden meaning any woman could uncover lurking slightly beneath your words. Must be a genetic thing. However, this is what I texted: Hi Sarah. Thx 4 another lovely evening. Hope you got back to Southampton ok. And Ruth is ok! Call me? Bryn. No doubt Sarah has read this as meaning I had a bloody awful time and I'd rather thrust my testicles into the jet engine of a Boeing 747 than ever see her again, as she has not texted (or phoned) me back.
I'm trying to pretend that I don't give a hoot. I don't think I am being successful.
Felt like being cheered up last night so me, Gabe and Lukas had a bit of a chilling movie night. We armed ourselves with popcorn and beer and coke and sat through 'The Devil's Backbone' followed by the exquistive zombie-fest that is Dead Set. I had to explain to Lukas later that not every film has to have a satisfactory and generally appealing ending, where all the pieces slot together nicely, the guy gets the gal, the Earth is saved and all the ikkle bunny-buns live happily ever after. He remains unconvinced.
This morning I have been in an extremely militant mood. I asked Gabriel about Germany again and he repeated his fear that Lian will use his absence to audition every other thirteen-year-old boy in her peer group at tongue-technique and breathy-freshness. I told him if Lian meant anything as a girlfriend he would have to trust her. Gabriel replied that if he stayed in England whilst the rest of us jetted of to kraut-land trusting Lian would not be an issue. I said it wasn't possible, he was too young to be left on his own and that I would entertain no further discussion on this matter. Myself, Andrew, Gabriel, Lukas and Colin will all be journeying to Germany over Easter - end of the debate. Gabriel engaged his grumpy mode, which I eased somewhat by promising to take him (and possibly Lian) somewhere suitably wonderful for his fourteenth, which (unbelievably) in in twelve days time.
I would have sorted everything out there and then but Colin was not around and hadn't been since going out Friday night. Some guys have all the luck.
So, no rewards for being the one millionth person to guess who caused me to descend into a fugue of annoyance and dis-satisfaction. Someone I know as I write this is safely back in her house in Southampton with her daughter and hopefully some pleasant memories of two evenings she spent with a decent enough chap whilst stuck in a Travelodge in the midlands.
Colin thinks I am a complete failure. Mainly because I failed to get Sarah to blow the cobwebs off my rusty genitalia. I can't see that myself. I am sure Colin finds the only reasons to engage with the allegedly fairer sex are carnal ones. Actually, that's a bit unfair, I'm sure his bluster and bravado and willingness to be seen to be flying over the ashes of his marriage are a temporary state of affairs. No one can miss their family and former wife as easily as Colin is showing the world that he apparently doesn't.
I don't think it's too conceited for me to consider myself as having one or two more dimensions than Colin is claiming I ought to have. Perhaps if I simply was a one-dimensional entity I wouldn't feel so chuffing let down. You meet someone - or rather you re-meet someone - and you have a pleasant enough time with them (twice) and because you and that person have significantly different plumbing arrangements in the underwear department you think you might be able to carry such a relationship a little forwards only for the question of geography to raise up and smite you.
Southampton. Is it such a long way away? Is it on a different continent? Or a different galaxy? Can it only be reached by negotiating space-time-contiunuum-bending wormholes that exist solely at a quantum level and say yah-boo-sucks to the laws of physics? Nope. It's one hundred and fifty miles. This hardly qualifies as some unfathomable distance. I have actually been to Southampton, I just forgot that I had the other day; I saw Villa play at the Dell during my shameful 'I'm not actually a dad' days when Andrew was born. But that was a bus in and a bus out, so I had no chance to gain anything other than a fleeting impression of the place; although I was in a bad mood as I think Villa lost 1-0, thanks to a Matt Le Tissier penalty. No that any of that matters.
So I assume that Sarah has other reasons she is unwilling to share with me as to why she see no point in taking our relationship any further. Well, yah-boo-sucks to her. Guess I'll just have to get back to my female-free life again. It's something I've gotten used to, and I see no problem in returning to that mind-set. Especially after what was nothing but than a brief meteor flashing across my sky of celibacy and non-companionship.
And I did try.
I wondered whether I should contact her, or just leave things at the point of 'there's no point in us going on with this', so I took the modern-day coward's way out. I texted her. And it took me an hour to compose my textual masterpiece. God how I hate communicating to the ladies. No matter how much you scan what you write I'm sure there's some hidden meaning any woman could uncover lurking slightly beneath your words. Must be a genetic thing. However, this is what I texted: Hi Sarah. Thx 4 another lovely evening. Hope you got back to Southampton ok. And Ruth is ok! Call me? Bryn. No doubt Sarah has read this as meaning I had a bloody awful time and I'd rather thrust my testicles into the jet engine of a Boeing 747 than ever see her again, as she has not texted (or phoned) me back.
I'm trying to pretend that I don't give a hoot. I don't think I am being successful.
Felt like being cheered up last night so me, Gabe and Lukas had a bit of a chilling movie night. We armed ourselves with popcorn and beer and coke and sat through 'The Devil's Backbone' followed by the exquistive zombie-fest that is Dead Set. I had to explain to Lukas later that not every film has to have a satisfactory and generally appealing ending, where all the pieces slot together nicely, the guy gets the gal, the Earth is saved and all the ikkle bunny-buns live happily ever after. He remains unconvinced.
This morning I have been in an extremely militant mood. I asked Gabriel about Germany again and he repeated his fear that Lian will use his absence to audition every other thirteen-year-old boy in her peer group at tongue-technique and breathy-freshness. I told him if Lian meant anything as a girlfriend he would have to trust her. Gabriel replied that if he stayed in England whilst the rest of us jetted of to kraut-land trusting Lian would not be an issue. I said it wasn't possible, he was too young to be left on his own and that I would entertain no further discussion on this matter. Myself, Andrew, Gabriel, Lukas and Colin will all be journeying to Germany over Easter - end of the debate. Gabriel engaged his grumpy mode, which I eased somewhat by promising to take him (and possibly Lian) somewhere suitably wonderful for his fourteenth, which (unbelievably) in in twelve days time.
I would have sorted everything out there and then but Colin was not around and hadn't been since going out Friday night. Some guys have all the luck.
Friday, 6 March 2009
It's A Long Way To Southampton
Let's weigh events against each other. Yesterday afternoon - terrible. Silly questions doing laps around my silly mind. I kept having to get my driver's license out to check I am actually a forty-six year old bloke. What if she didn't ring? Does it mean she never wants to see me again? Or does it mean she hasn't checked her messages? Or that her phone is out of charge and she forgot to bring a charger all the way up from Southampton? Which would mean she couldn't ring. Unless she used a different phone. But then what if my phone number was stored on her battery-dead phone and she had no other way of accessing it? Why hadn't she written my number down elsewhere? Does that mean I really don't mean anything to her? Let's face it, she must have been pretty desperate for a bit of company being away from her friends and family. Perhaps I was just a one-night respite from boredom. And I ended up being so uninspiring and boring she didn't want to repeat the experience. Or maybe immediately after our date a group of aliens fresh from the third planet orbiting Proxima Centauri swooped down in their FTL pod and snatched Sarah from the Earth, and have since crudely and painfully dissected her. Perhaps it was all a delusion, and Sarah doesn't exist, and I spent an hour talking to myself in the pub on Tuesday? Perhaps I *am* Sarah, a cross-gender delusional scitzophrenic?
Yesterday evening - brilliant (until the end). Because she *did* eventually ring.
And as for yesterday night, well. Heh heh heh. Let's just say my performance in bed was magnificient. I went to sleep, straight away.
As suggested, I could not concentrate at all during yesterday afternoon. All my figures didn't add up, all my code ducked into infinite loops and none of my emails made the slightest modicum of sense. So I gave up (and hence gave up looking at my phone, which I had set beside my work phone (it's usually secreted deeply in my bag, forgotten by myself and the few people who actually know me)), shut down my computer and went home, taking the slight advantage of Peter Handyman having the afternoon off to attend a funeral (sadly, not his).
Arrived home to a houseful of boisterous males. Andrew and Gabriel appeared embroiled in some heated discussion regarding a can of Coke Zero that I had no intention of become involved within. Lukas and Danny seemed at odds with each other over a deal of explosions and noises emanating from the PS2, whilst Colin attempted to negociate all this carnage and cook himself a toasted bacon sandwich. I suceeded in surveying all this in a microsecond. Indeed the microsecond before my phone went off.
Yey! Sarah! She immediately launched into an apology for not returning my call earlier, explaining that her sister had rung to tell her Ruth has been sick at school and they'd been a few dealings that needed dealing with. I told her I hoped Ruth was okay, to which Sarah said yeah, it was a lot of fuss that didn't really need fussing about. Then she paused, and asked So, where are you taking me then?
So I told her about Indigo, the vegetarian restaurant, and by the sound of her approval I'd just scored several goodie points for remembering that she was a vegetarian. She asked if I was sure I'd be all right, eating a meal that contained no meat, to which I said I'm actually a vegetarian at the moment as I've given up meat for Lent. There was a further pause, but I didn't know if I'd just added to or subtracted from by brownie-point total. She asked for directions but I said we may as well share a cab, so I asked for directions to her hotel. Sarah told me it wasn't a hotel, it was one of those god-awful soul-sucking Travelodge affairs, but gave me directions anyhow. I told her I'd pick her up at half-seven, and the call ended.
I went upstairs and scrubbed off the 'work' me, replacing it with a slightly more polished version. Back downstairs I suffered a grumpy Gabriel, moaning that Colin was taking him to kick-boxing but "he doesn't know where it is". I pointed out that Gabe himself knew where it was, to which he said yes, he knew where it was, but he had no idea how to get there. I told him I'm sure it'd come back to him. Further grumpiness was interupted by Lukas, who with improper timing wanted to know how he was going to get to basketball once he was fit, if - as seemed likely - Gabriel continued with the kick-boxing. I told Lukas we'd find a solution when the time came, but that time was not now. This answer failed to satisfy both of them, so now I had two moaning kids on my tail. I ignored them and phoned a taxi.
Taxi came at seven and conveyed me to the Travelodge, where Sarah was waiting for me outside. She immediately passed me a present: A very genuine-looking pleased-to-see-you-smile. It took the whole journey to Indigo for my heart-beat to find a healthy equilibrium again.
Indigo provided exactly the kind of dining experience I'd hoped it would. I won't go into the dull details, but the food was exquisitely prepared and undeniably satisfying. Sarah offered to share a bottle of red with me, but I declined, saying I'd given up drinking for Lent as well. She said I seemed to be taking this Lent thing pretty seriously; and that she hadn't taken me for a Christian. I nodded and swiftly changed the subject; just in case Jesus Loved Sarah.
The hours in that afternoon that had become days received their revenge when the two hours I was with Sarah became minutes, and all too soon we were back at the Travelodge.
Sarah asked me to step out of the cab with her, whilst telling the cabbie to wait. I'd no expectation of the evening prolonging beyond the meal, so wondering what was coming. Sarah took my hand and led me almost to the door to the Travelodge. Then she said: You're very sweet, Bryn, and you're fun. So you're going to think I'm a right bitch now when I tell you I'm not going to ask you in.
I laughed and said that wasn't the case at all. Sarah smiled and continued. You do understand the only reason I'm not asking you in is because I live in Southampton, don't you? This I found a bit odd, as I've never been to Southampton so didn't see it as being relative. I told her I didn't see the connection.
Then she said a few further things I didn't really understand, kissed me fleetingly on the lips and was gone.
I returned to the cab a very puzzled boy. I feel into a zombie-state, hardly even complaining when the cab-fare came to £35. Then I went to bed, and fell into a confused and dis-satisfied sleep.
Yesterday evening - brilliant (until the end). Because she *did* eventually ring.
And as for yesterday night, well. Heh heh heh. Let's just say my performance in bed was magnificient. I went to sleep, straight away.
As suggested, I could not concentrate at all during yesterday afternoon. All my figures didn't add up, all my code ducked into infinite loops and none of my emails made the slightest modicum of sense. So I gave up (and hence gave up looking at my phone, which I had set beside my work phone (it's usually secreted deeply in my bag, forgotten by myself and the few people who actually know me)), shut down my computer and went home, taking the slight advantage of Peter Handyman having the afternoon off to attend a funeral (sadly, not his).
Arrived home to a houseful of boisterous males. Andrew and Gabriel appeared embroiled in some heated discussion regarding a can of Coke Zero that I had no intention of become involved within. Lukas and Danny seemed at odds with each other over a deal of explosions and noises emanating from the PS2, whilst Colin attempted to negociate all this carnage and cook himself a toasted bacon sandwich. I suceeded in surveying all this in a microsecond. Indeed the microsecond before my phone went off.
Yey! Sarah! She immediately launched into an apology for not returning my call earlier, explaining that her sister had rung to tell her Ruth has been sick at school and they'd been a few dealings that needed dealing with. I told her I hoped Ruth was okay, to which Sarah said yeah, it was a lot of fuss that didn't really need fussing about. Then she paused, and asked So, where are you taking me then?
So I told her about Indigo, the vegetarian restaurant, and by the sound of her approval I'd just scored several goodie points for remembering that she was a vegetarian. She asked if I was sure I'd be all right, eating a meal that contained no meat, to which I said I'm actually a vegetarian at the moment as I've given up meat for Lent. There was a further pause, but I didn't know if I'd just added to or subtracted from by brownie-point total. She asked for directions but I said we may as well share a cab, so I asked for directions to her hotel. Sarah told me it wasn't a hotel, it was one of those god-awful soul-sucking Travelodge affairs, but gave me directions anyhow. I told her I'd pick her up at half-seven, and the call ended.
I went upstairs and scrubbed off the 'work' me, replacing it with a slightly more polished version. Back downstairs I suffered a grumpy Gabriel, moaning that Colin was taking him to kick-boxing but "he doesn't know where it is". I pointed out that Gabe himself knew where it was, to which he said yes, he knew where it was, but he had no idea how to get there. I told him I'm sure it'd come back to him. Further grumpiness was interupted by Lukas, who with improper timing wanted to know how he was going to get to basketball once he was fit, if - as seemed likely - Gabriel continued with the kick-boxing. I told Lukas we'd find a solution when the time came, but that time was not now. This answer failed to satisfy both of them, so now I had two moaning kids on my tail. I ignored them and phoned a taxi.
Taxi came at seven and conveyed me to the Travelodge, where Sarah was waiting for me outside. She immediately passed me a present: A very genuine-looking pleased-to-see-you-smile. It took the whole journey to Indigo for my heart-beat to find a healthy equilibrium again.
Indigo provided exactly the kind of dining experience I'd hoped it would. I won't go into the dull details, but the food was exquisitely prepared and undeniably satisfying. Sarah offered to share a bottle of red with me, but I declined, saying I'd given up drinking for Lent as well. She said I seemed to be taking this Lent thing pretty seriously; and that she hadn't taken me for a Christian. I nodded and swiftly changed the subject; just in case Jesus Loved Sarah.
The hours in that afternoon that had become days received their revenge when the two hours I was with Sarah became minutes, and all too soon we were back at the Travelodge.
Sarah asked me to step out of the cab with her, whilst telling the cabbie to wait. I'd no expectation of the evening prolonging beyond the meal, so wondering what was coming. Sarah took my hand and led me almost to the door to the Travelodge. Then she said: You're very sweet, Bryn, and you're fun. So you're going to think I'm a right bitch now when I tell you I'm not going to ask you in.
I laughed and said that wasn't the case at all. Sarah smiled and continued. You do understand the only reason I'm not asking you in is because I live in Southampton, don't you? This I found a bit odd, as I've never been to Southampton so didn't see it as being relative. I told her I didn't see the connection.
Then she said a few further things I didn't really understand, kissed me fleetingly on the lips and was gone.
I returned to the cab a very puzzled boy. I feel into a zombie-state, hardly even complaining when the cab-fare came to £35. Then I went to bed, and fell into a confused and dis-satisfied sleep.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Here we go, In-di-go-ho
I think Colin had waited up for me specially Tuesday night, and was up off the sofa with dancing eyes as soon as I walked through the door. No boys were present so I assumed they were all safely despatched to the realm of dreams. Colin waited impatiently for me to remove my coat and pop the kettle on for a late night hot chocolate (as I am still managing to remain deaf to the call of the whiskey bottle) before beginning to pump my arm for information.
So I told him it began brightly and I was really enjoying the first hour or so, although certains aspects of it did not quite ring true and seemed gratuitously simplified and a little cliched, whilst whole areas of inexplicability were simply glossed over. The last forty minutes or so saw the real decline, with everything taking a rather convenient and almost hackneyed path, including one element so blunderingly predictible it was almost an insult. The conclusion seemed inevitable and not really worth the effort that had gone before, and it was relief, not sadness, that greeted the end.
Colin looked both crestfallen and confused, then asked me what the hell was I going on about. I told him I thought he was asking for thoughts over Slumdog Millionaire. My brother then gave me a dark look and told me to stop toying with him.
So I told him about the date, firstly chastising me for leading me to believe that Sarah had anything to do with the speed-dating experience. Colin just frowned and said Wasn't she? So explained to him that Sarah was someone I'd met through work a couple of months ago. Again, Colin just dismissed this and said it didn't really matter how you knew her, did it? I guess not, I admitted, except that I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering whether she may have been one too many cocktail sausages short of a buffet; time wasted that would not have been wasted if I knew I'd met Sarah on more reasonable terms than an eight-minute flash-date. Colin gave me an impatient look and told me to spill the beans.
So I said, it went very well, there were no awkward gaps in the conversation, nothing seemed forced, Sarah laughed appropriately at my jokes, and she didn't climb out of the window and fashion her escape when she nipped to the loo. Plus - when we spoke about it breifly - she too thought that Slumdog Millionaire was a little disappointing, and certainly not Oscar-worthy.
Then Colin asked how the night ended, getting out a small cardboard box and affixing the waggling version of his eyebrows to his brow. I told him Sarah said she felt tired, we parted and she drove off. So Colin said, so you blew it then? I leapt on to the defensive and said of course I didn't blow it. Colin countered Yes, but there was no trouser action, was there? I replied that this was not my intention, and I didn't blow it as I'm taking her going for dinner tomorrow night. At this news, Colin's face adopted an instant warming light and he gave me a slight round of applause. He said this could be the start of something beautiful - to which I responded that that was hardly likely as Sarah lives in Southampton. Colin shook his, started to reply, got as far as Well I-, and then thought better of it. Instead he asked, what she's like?
I began with the Catherine Tate resemblance, but this meant nothing to Colin who of course has spent the last few years of his life living in Germany, where I think The Catherine Tate Show or "Arzt Wer" may not have permeated their cultural consciousness. So I described her as best I could. This all seemed to meet with Colin's approval (not that I needed such) except for the parts about her having a daughter (Colin: uh, baggage) and being a vegetarian.
I'd had enough of the German inquisition (but I was expecting it) so with half a mug of hot chocolate I ascended up to bed to contemplate one of the nicest evenings I've experienced for far too long. Sadly.
Today has been dreadful, for many reasons, mostly the unexpected trepidation I suffered from all day until half twelve arrived - the arbitary time I decided I would ring Sarah and attempt to make arrangements for tonight. I'm pretty sure I chastised myself a record number of times for being ridiculous. It didn't help that I had a pay review with the unarguably unlovely Peter Hardyman scheduled at half eleven, so I spent the morning not looking forwards to two things. However, the pay review was thankfully brief as Peter seemed in a hurry - my payrise is a largely useless 1.49%, although I have also been awarded a £750 bonus. Peter made sure I understood my bonus had been awarded by Alan, and not by him.
The hands on the office clock, which I checked three times during the day hadn't been glued to the face of the dial, finally swung around to half twelve and I punched in Sarah's number. Almost the worse case scenario happened and I heard that slightly sexy-sounding answerphone lady telling me Sarah's phone was switched off, although I was welcome to leave a message. This I did, saying hello, who I was and what I was calling about. Then it was back to the thumb-twiddling and the being-distracted.
I've everything organised and planned. I'm aiming to take Sarah to a vegetarian restaurant I know - okay, the *only* vegetarian restaurant I know, one we took Andrew to on his fouteenth birthday, which left an extremely favourable impression on me. It's called Indigo. Of course tonight is Gabe's kick-boxing, but I'm going to get Colin to take him. Dinner (for me) will be at half seven. Everyone else can make their own arrangements.
No dates for years, now two in three days. And with the same person. Bizarre.
Now, if only Sarah'll ring back, I'm sure I'd feel a whole lot better.
So I told him it began brightly and I was really enjoying the first hour or so, although certains aspects of it did not quite ring true and seemed gratuitously simplified and a little cliched, whilst whole areas of inexplicability were simply glossed over. The last forty minutes or so saw the real decline, with everything taking a rather convenient and almost hackneyed path, including one element so blunderingly predictible it was almost an insult. The conclusion seemed inevitable and not really worth the effort that had gone before, and it was relief, not sadness, that greeted the end.
Colin looked both crestfallen and confused, then asked me what the hell was I going on about. I told him I thought he was asking for thoughts over Slumdog Millionaire. My brother then gave me a dark look and told me to stop toying with him.
So I told him about the date, firstly chastising me for leading me to believe that Sarah had anything to do with the speed-dating experience. Colin just frowned and said Wasn't she? So explained to him that Sarah was someone I'd met through work a couple of months ago. Again, Colin just dismissed this and said it didn't really matter how you knew her, did it? I guess not, I admitted, except that I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering whether she may have been one too many cocktail sausages short of a buffet; time wasted that would not have been wasted if I knew I'd met Sarah on more reasonable terms than an eight-minute flash-date. Colin gave me an impatient look and told me to spill the beans.
So I said, it went very well, there were no awkward gaps in the conversation, nothing seemed forced, Sarah laughed appropriately at my jokes, and she didn't climb out of the window and fashion her escape when she nipped to the loo. Plus - when we spoke about it breifly - she too thought that Slumdog Millionaire was a little disappointing, and certainly not Oscar-worthy.
Then Colin asked how the night ended, getting out a small cardboard box and affixing the waggling version of his eyebrows to his brow. I told him Sarah said she felt tired, we parted and she drove off. So Colin said, so you blew it then? I leapt on to the defensive and said of course I didn't blow it. Colin countered Yes, but there was no trouser action, was there? I replied that this was not my intention, and I didn't blow it as I'm taking her going for dinner tomorrow night. At this news, Colin's face adopted an instant warming light and he gave me a slight round of applause. He said this could be the start of something beautiful - to which I responded that that was hardly likely as Sarah lives in Southampton. Colin shook his, started to reply, got as far as Well I-, and then thought better of it. Instead he asked, what she's like?
I began with the Catherine Tate resemblance, but this meant nothing to Colin who of course has spent the last few years of his life living in Germany, where I think The Catherine Tate Show or "Arzt Wer" may not have permeated their cultural consciousness. So I described her as best I could. This all seemed to meet with Colin's approval (not that I needed such) except for the parts about her having a daughter (Colin: uh, baggage) and being a vegetarian.
I'd had enough of the German inquisition (but I was expecting it) so with half a mug of hot chocolate I ascended up to bed to contemplate one of the nicest evenings I've experienced for far too long. Sadly.
Today has been dreadful, for many reasons, mostly the unexpected trepidation I suffered from all day until half twelve arrived - the arbitary time I decided I would ring Sarah and attempt to make arrangements for tonight. I'm pretty sure I chastised myself a record number of times for being ridiculous. It didn't help that I had a pay review with the unarguably unlovely Peter Hardyman scheduled at half eleven, so I spent the morning not looking forwards to two things. However, the pay review was thankfully brief as Peter seemed in a hurry - my payrise is a largely useless 1.49%, although I have also been awarded a £750 bonus. Peter made sure I understood my bonus had been awarded by Alan, and not by him.
The hands on the office clock, which I checked three times during the day hadn't been glued to the face of the dial, finally swung around to half twelve and I punched in Sarah's number. Almost the worse case scenario happened and I heard that slightly sexy-sounding answerphone lady telling me Sarah's phone was switched off, although I was welcome to leave a message. This I did, saying hello, who I was and what I was calling about. Then it was back to the thumb-twiddling and the being-distracted.
I've everything organised and planned. I'm aiming to take Sarah to a vegetarian restaurant I know - okay, the *only* vegetarian restaurant I know, one we took Andrew to on his fouteenth birthday, which left an extremely favourable impression on me. It's called Indigo. Of course tonight is Gabe's kick-boxing, but I'm going to get Colin to take him. Dinner (for me) will be at half seven. Everyone else can make their own arrangements.
No dates for years, now two in three days. And with the same person. Bizarre.
Now, if only Sarah'll ring back, I'm sure I'd feel a whole lot better.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Call Me Alvin
I'm trying to decide who's the bigger idiot, me or Colin. Naturally I am biased, so Colin wins hands down.
Came home from a teeth-grindingly dull day at work, just for a change, and immediately attended to the unenviable task of making myself look pretty. In a masculine way, of course. Part of me didn't want to hand Colin the victory of choosing my attire as he did so for me yesterday, but I couldn't be bothered to rustle through my clothing archives, so after showering and shaving and splashing on the Old Spice I covered myself in Colin's recommendations and swept downstairs.
Colin chastised me for not getting my hair cut, saying that only rock stars are allowed to wear their hair long once they gotten their fortieth birthday out of the way (it is not *that* long), but on the whole his positive nods and expression seemed to afford me a thumbs-up as far as he was concerned. None of the boys were present to see me off - which of course was a good thing.
Drove to the rendezvous pub, parked up, and gave myself a few moments of contemplation, as I was ten minutes early anyhow. I felt ridiculous; nervous and wary. I kept having to tell myself that I was a forty-six year old bloke, not some trembling teenager, his head in the clouds with little cherubs firing arrows at him. This wasn't a date - I had no agenda; no desire for anything to go any further. So I wondered? Why was I here?
Now I felt stupid. I felt my fingers on the car key, which had magicked itself back into the ignition. One little turn, the ignition would fire, and I could go and hide somewhere before returning to my house and my brother with the news that the whole thing had been a slight disaster and further encounters with this Sarah were not going to happen.
Then I had a heart attack when a tap tap at the window yanked me from my reverie. I jolted in my seat, turned to my right to see Catherine Tate (ha! The Doctor Who connection! Tis fate I tell you) smiling down at me from the driver's side window.
No, it wasn't Catherine Tate. It was Sarah. She was wearing a long, light brown coat and clutched a little red handbag to her bosom.
Your brain is full of gears. Don't believe what you see on Horizon about your brain being blancmange-like in consistency and grey and slimy. It's not true - your brain is made up of thousands and thousands of tiny gears. Most of the time they run and spin and rotate perfectly like well-oiled, bejeweled machinery. But very occasionally they crunch and grind to a halt and send your head into spasms. And that is what precisely happened to me the second I saw Sarah's face. My number-crunchers just crunched; the spanner of too much realisation thrown into them.
Yes, it was Sarah. And I recognised her.
Because this Sarah had nothing to do with the speed-dating farce I subjected myself to now nearly a fortnight ago.
This Sarah was the Sarah I'd met down in Watford via a turgid software vendor conference nearly three months ago. Instantly, everything made sense - the over-familiarity with my life I'd perceived, the unashamed friendliness on the phone, the fact she didn't know the area, the fact that she's be tired because of the drive (from Southampton!) on Monday night.
And with that, my nerves evaporated, replaced with an unsuspected sensation of bliss and happiness. It even did not occur to me to think of killing my brother until much, much later.
My car exploded and me out of it. I felt like hugging her but instead chose a more respectful handshake, reinforced with a genuine lovely to see you. Sarah returned my smile and said she hoped I didn't mind her tapping on the window but she'd just pulled up beside me and as she recognised me thought she'd start the hellos there and then. I said of course it was okay. She could have smashed my window with a tyre iron and I couldn't have cared less, to be more honest.
We walked into the pub, ordered non-alcoholic drinks and found a suitable corner.
I asked how she was and she said she was fine, apart from being away from Ruth, her daughter, especially as she'd just turned eleven on Friday. Ruth was staying at her sister's (Sarah's sisters, not Ruth's), whilst Sarah was up in a place called Clifton, just south of Nottingham, on a people management course. As to how that was going, she said terrible - a too-compact room full of superficial twenty-somethings. Sarah said there was barely enough room for all the egos, let alone the people. She's no idea why her firm had sent her.
The conversation moved on to my life, so I kept to the minimal facts, such as Colin's temporary (I hope - although his welcome is hardly overstayed at present) accommodation with us and Gabriel's first proper girlfriend. I advisedly (I think) left out all the stuff about Andrew - especially the Kevin saga and the Mr Aldridge fling that turned out to happen mostly in Andrew's head.
I'd just moved onto Lukas' broken arm when something nagged at me. I looked at my watch then instigated a mad dash to down drinks and rush across the road to Slumdog Millionaire. Which was ... okay (the film, not the mad dash).
By the end of the film it was approaching ten, and it was clear Sarah had grown tired, so she politely refused my offer of further boozeless drinks, saying she felt a little whacked and needed her bed. My heart dipped a little, but I didn't force any issues.
I escorted her back to her car, then we had the nervous parting experience. She did say though: Thanks for a nice evening, we must do it again.
Now this is quite unlike me. I avoid bulls. I don't even go into fields with signs saying 'Beware of the Bull'. I certainly don't grasp them by the horns. So why did I find myself saying: Dinner? Thursday? And in a too-high voice that trembled so much I sounded worse than Andrew when his voice was breaking.
Sarah seemed a little taken aback, but just for a moment, then she said thank you, that'd be nice. Phone me?
I nodded, then waited as she started up her car and pull away. We both waved.
I now had a face like a chipmunk on happy pills, and it was an expression that stayed with me as I climbed into my own car and drove all the way home.
Came home from a teeth-grindingly dull day at work, just for a change, and immediately attended to the unenviable task of making myself look pretty. In a masculine way, of course. Part of me didn't want to hand Colin the victory of choosing my attire as he did so for me yesterday, but I couldn't be bothered to rustle through my clothing archives, so after showering and shaving and splashing on the Old Spice I covered myself in Colin's recommendations and swept downstairs.
Colin chastised me for not getting my hair cut, saying that only rock stars are allowed to wear their hair long once they gotten their fortieth birthday out of the way (it is not *that* long), but on the whole his positive nods and expression seemed to afford me a thumbs-up as far as he was concerned. None of the boys were present to see me off - which of course was a good thing.
Drove to the rendezvous pub, parked up, and gave myself a few moments of contemplation, as I was ten minutes early anyhow. I felt ridiculous; nervous and wary. I kept having to tell myself that I was a forty-six year old bloke, not some trembling teenager, his head in the clouds with little cherubs firing arrows at him. This wasn't a date - I had no agenda; no desire for anything to go any further. So I wondered? Why was I here?
Now I felt stupid. I felt my fingers on the car key, which had magicked itself back into the ignition. One little turn, the ignition would fire, and I could go and hide somewhere before returning to my house and my brother with the news that the whole thing had been a slight disaster and further encounters with this Sarah were not going to happen.
Then I had a heart attack when a tap tap at the window yanked me from my reverie. I jolted in my seat, turned to my right to see Catherine Tate (ha! The Doctor Who connection! Tis fate I tell you) smiling down at me from the driver's side window.
No, it wasn't Catherine Tate. It was Sarah. She was wearing a long, light brown coat and clutched a little red handbag to her bosom.
Your brain is full of gears. Don't believe what you see on Horizon about your brain being blancmange-like in consistency and grey and slimy. It's not true - your brain is made up of thousands and thousands of tiny gears. Most of the time they run and spin and rotate perfectly like well-oiled, bejeweled machinery. But very occasionally they crunch and grind to a halt and send your head into spasms. And that is what precisely happened to me the second I saw Sarah's face. My number-crunchers just crunched; the spanner of too much realisation thrown into them.
Yes, it was Sarah. And I recognised her.
Because this Sarah had nothing to do with the speed-dating farce I subjected myself to now nearly a fortnight ago.
This Sarah was the Sarah I'd met down in Watford via a turgid software vendor conference nearly three months ago. Instantly, everything made sense - the over-familiarity with my life I'd perceived, the unashamed friendliness on the phone, the fact she didn't know the area, the fact that she's be tired because of the drive (from Southampton!) on Monday night.
And with that, my nerves evaporated, replaced with an unsuspected sensation of bliss and happiness. It even did not occur to me to think of killing my brother until much, much later.
My car exploded and me out of it. I felt like hugging her but instead chose a more respectful handshake, reinforced with a genuine lovely to see you. Sarah returned my smile and said she hoped I didn't mind her tapping on the window but she'd just pulled up beside me and as she recognised me thought she'd start the hellos there and then. I said of course it was okay. She could have smashed my window with a tyre iron and I couldn't have cared less, to be more honest.
We walked into the pub, ordered non-alcoholic drinks and found a suitable corner.
I asked how she was and she said she was fine, apart from being away from Ruth, her daughter, especially as she'd just turned eleven on Friday. Ruth was staying at her sister's (Sarah's sisters, not Ruth's), whilst Sarah was up in a place called Clifton, just south of Nottingham, on a people management course. As to how that was going, she said terrible - a too-compact room full of superficial twenty-somethings. Sarah said there was barely enough room for all the egos, let alone the people. She's no idea why her firm had sent her.
The conversation moved on to my life, so I kept to the minimal facts, such as Colin's temporary (I hope - although his welcome is hardly overstayed at present) accommodation with us and Gabriel's first proper girlfriend. I advisedly (I think) left out all the stuff about Andrew - especially the Kevin saga and the Mr Aldridge fling that turned out to happen mostly in Andrew's head.
I'd just moved onto Lukas' broken arm when something nagged at me. I looked at my watch then instigated a mad dash to down drinks and rush across the road to Slumdog Millionaire. Which was ... okay (the film, not the mad dash).
By the end of the film it was approaching ten, and it was clear Sarah had grown tired, so she politely refused my offer of further boozeless drinks, saying she felt a little whacked and needed her bed. My heart dipped a little, but I didn't force any issues.
I escorted her back to her car, then we had the nervous parting experience. She did say though: Thanks for a nice evening, we must do it again.
Now this is quite unlike me. I avoid bulls. I don't even go into fields with signs saying 'Beware of the Bull'. I certainly don't grasp them by the horns. So why did I find myself saying: Dinner? Thursday? And in a too-high voice that trembled so much I sounded worse than Andrew when his voice was breaking.
Sarah seemed a little taken aback, but just for a moment, then she said thank you, that'd be nice. Phone me?
I nodded, then waited as she started up her car and pull away. We both waved.
I now had a face like a chipmunk on happy pills, and it was an expression that stayed with me as I climbed into my own car and drove all the way home.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Nerves
Let's organise these questions about Sarah. There is no particular order, they're just as they come to me:
Q. What if she's a nutter?
A weird one to start off with, but it's a decent enough concern. The facts are thus: I have met her once, for eight whole minutes, and even after looking under every cushion of every sofa in every corner of my head I cannot remember a single thing about her, or indeed meeting her at all, and yet, despite this brevity, she gave the impression that she knows me a lot better than an eight-minute meeting would proportionally allow. This means I made an overwhelming impression on her, which seems extremely unlikely. Not that I utterly incapable of making an overwhelming impression on anyone - it's just that (a) I am very unlikely to succeed in making an overwhelming impression within an eight-minute time-slot and (b) I certainly gained no evidence during last Saturday's depressing affair that I may such an impression, as far as I can remember, anyhow.
Q. What it this is a set up?
Colin gave me her number, which makes me feel I am lurching straight into a suspiciously sprung-looking contraption in the hunt for a tasty chunk of cheese (not that cheese works, I've heard, chocolate is much more likely to be met with success, allegedly). I've asked him where he got the number from, but he claims he can't really remember. He mumbled something about taking a call when I wasn't around at some point, but nothing more concrete than that. Perhaps if he had a different and more detailed explanation - one that I could at least pick the bones out of - I'd have cause to be more suspicious. Colin has never disguised his opinion since he popped back into my life that I have grown unnecessarily in turns distrustful and even afraid of the female form, and I ought to climb aboard the dating horse before my shelf-life evaporates and I am consigned to the bin of pipe, slippers and prostrate problems. Maybe he's pushing. But then I have to ask myself, what have I got to lose? Especially if he's right.
Q. Have the rules changed?
Let's talk facts here. The last time I went on a date, I was more excited about the revival of Doctor Who starring the proper thesbian Christopher Ecclestone (but considerably less excited - erroneously as it turned out - at the casting of teen songstress Billie Piper as his assistant) than I was about the date itself. That would make it early 2005, nearly four years ago. And that date was a dud. I can't even remember who it was with; some female from work who guffawed like a slightly-pi$$ed hyena at all my jokes then just as (I thought) the evening was warming up told me she felt no spark and would we mind if we called it a night as some girlfriends had texted her whilst I was in the loo and asked if she wanted to join her for a girlie evening.
So, have the rules of the dating game changed? I am still expected to buy the first drink? And possibly all the subsequent ones? Am I still supposed to nod enthusiastically and smile enigmatically as the lady pours out every tiny aspect of her life, one percent of which I will find anything of interest in? Will I still not be able to burp, f@rt or scratch my @rse?
Q. What if Slumdog Millionaire is terrible?
It won the Best Picture Oscar, but it's unlikely the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will get it right two years running, and they were right in spades with No Country For Old Men last year. I don't mind if it's terrible, or if it's brilliant, but if it is either of those extremes I'll just have to talk to someone about it, and Sarah will be there. No doubt I'll bore the knickers off her unless she's a film buff. Then there's the things she might say: "Ooh, I love films! I saw Mamma Mia four times last year! It's the best film, like, ever!!" Once I've killed her, at least I know I'll only be charged with manslaughter, and perhaps I'll get off on a mercy killing charge, but it'll still dampen the evening, somewhat.
Q. What do I wear?
Well, Colin's sorted that out for me. He cast a perusing eye over the content of my wardrobe, and - after he'd had a bit of a cry and a couple of shots of Glenfiddich - picked out a very pale blue shirt with a weird collar that I've never liked, and a pair of light grey trousers. He told me to dress up in them so he could see how I looked. I told him to get lost. By use of some very strong words.
A. What if $exy stuff happens?
It won't.
As usual, I'm thinking too much. I ought just to go into the pub, hunt out my escape routes, just in case, then hunt for Sarah. I've absolutely no idea how I am going to recognise her - I'm just hoping some neurons in my brain will fire as I peruse all the female faces and alert me to her presence. Else the pub will be empty besides her, and now me. I've always the mobile phone trick - phone her up then see whose phone goes off. Hopefully the God of Coincidences won't be in a mischievous mood else I could spend the evening chatting to a seven-foot tall rugby-player called Bruce with forearms the size of cartoon hams.
Of course, Colin has blabbed to my lads about my plans for tonight, and they've been as supportive as you'd expected, by ribbing me greatly about it. Lukas offered me a refresher course on the facts of life, explaining the necessity of contraception as he doesn't think we've room for another sibling. Gabriel made an unfortunate joke about me not taking any notice of any advice from Andrew, as "his love-life is always a complete disaster". Andrew moved to thump Gabriel one but Gabe just adopted a martial arts stance (as he always does, now) and my eldest thought better of offering a bit of violence, instead just yelling "f*ck you, fatty", before wandering off to his room.
Oh well. Three hours and counting.
Q. What if she's a nutter?
A weird one to start off with, but it's a decent enough concern. The facts are thus: I have met her once, for eight whole minutes, and even after looking under every cushion of every sofa in every corner of my head I cannot remember a single thing about her, or indeed meeting her at all, and yet, despite this brevity, she gave the impression that she knows me a lot better than an eight-minute meeting would proportionally allow. This means I made an overwhelming impression on her, which seems extremely unlikely. Not that I utterly incapable of making an overwhelming impression on anyone - it's just that (a) I am very unlikely to succeed in making an overwhelming impression within an eight-minute time-slot and (b) I certainly gained no evidence during last Saturday's depressing affair that I may such an impression, as far as I can remember, anyhow.
Q. What it this is a set up?
Colin gave me her number, which makes me feel I am lurching straight into a suspiciously sprung-looking contraption in the hunt for a tasty chunk of cheese (not that cheese works, I've heard, chocolate is much more likely to be met with success, allegedly). I've asked him where he got the number from, but he claims he can't really remember. He mumbled something about taking a call when I wasn't around at some point, but nothing more concrete than that. Perhaps if he had a different and more detailed explanation - one that I could at least pick the bones out of - I'd have cause to be more suspicious. Colin has never disguised his opinion since he popped back into my life that I have grown unnecessarily in turns distrustful and even afraid of the female form, and I ought to climb aboard the dating horse before my shelf-life evaporates and I am consigned to the bin of pipe, slippers and prostrate problems. Maybe he's pushing. But then I have to ask myself, what have I got to lose? Especially if he's right.
Q. Have the rules changed?
Let's talk facts here. The last time I went on a date, I was more excited about the revival of Doctor Who starring the proper thesbian Christopher Ecclestone (but considerably less excited - erroneously as it turned out - at the casting of teen songstress Billie Piper as his assistant) than I was about the date itself. That would make it early 2005, nearly four years ago. And that date was a dud. I can't even remember who it was with; some female from work who guffawed like a slightly-pi$$ed hyena at all my jokes then just as (I thought) the evening was warming up told me she felt no spark and would we mind if we called it a night as some girlfriends had texted her whilst I was in the loo and asked if she wanted to join her for a girlie evening.
So, have the rules of the dating game changed? I am still expected to buy the first drink? And possibly all the subsequent ones? Am I still supposed to nod enthusiastically and smile enigmatically as the lady pours out every tiny aspect of her life, one percent of which I will find anything of interest in? Will I still not be able to burp, f@rt or scratch my @rse?
Q. What if Slumdog Millionaire is terrible?
It won the Best Picture Oscar, but it's unlikely the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will get it right two years running, and they were right in spades with No Country For Old Men last year. I don't mind if it's terrible, or if it's brilliant, but if it is either of those extremes I'll just have to talk to someone about it, and Sarah will be there. No doubt I'll bore the knickers off her unless she's a film buff. Then there's the things she might say: "Ooh, I love films! I saw Mamma Mia four times last year! It's the best film, like, ever!!" Once I've killed her, at least I know I'll only be charged with manslaughter, and perhaps I'll get off on a mercy killing charge, but it'll still dampen the evening, somewhat.
Q. What do I wear?
Well, Colin's sorted that out for me. He cast a perusing eye over the content of my wardrobe, and - after he'd had a bit of a cry and a couple of shots of Glenfiddich - picked out a very pale blue shirt with a weird collar that I've never liked, and a pair of light grey trousers. He told me to dress up in them so he could see how I looked. I told him to get lost. By use of some very strong words.
A. What if $exy stuff happens?
It won't.
As usual, I'm thinking too much. I ought just to go into the pub, hunt out my escape routes, just in case, then hunt for Sarah. I've absolutely no idea how I am going to recognise her - I'm just hoping some neurons in my brain will fire as I peruse all the female faces and alert me to her presence. Else the pub will be empty besides her, and now me. I've always the mobile phone trick - phone her up then see whose phone goes off. Hopefully the God of Coincidences won't be in a mischievous mood else I could spend the evening chatting to a seven-foot tall rugby-player called Bruce with forearms the size of cartoon hams.
Of course, Colin has blabbed to my lads about my plans for tonight, and they've been as supportive as you'd expected, by ribbing me greatly about it. Lukas offered me a refresher course on the facts of life, explaining the necessity of contraception as he doesn't think we've room for another sibling. Gabriel made an unfortunate joke about me not taking any notice of any advice from Andrew, as "his love-life is always a complete disaster". Andrew moved to thump Gabriel one but Gabe just adopted a martial arts stance (as he always does, now) and my eldest thought better of offering a bit of violence, instead just yelling "f*ck you, fatty", before wandering off to his room.
Oh well. Three hours and counting.
Monday, 2 March 2009
e = π
Prior to yesterday, the quota of my children considering joining myself and Colin for our sort-of holiday to sort-of Germany (and other bits of Europe) stood at 66.67%, a figure it remains at, although the personal have performed a bit of a switch.
Andrew has agreed to go. Colin has purposefully been nice to him for a few days, or at least has ignored him aside from the usual cordial exchanges. My brother has not even mentioned that Andrew The Vegetarian returned to dairy milk three days after the soya milk switch. This was due to Andrew's discovery if you leave soya milk out of the fridge for longer than half-an-hour it goes off with almost radioactive swiftness. Plus it's pretty horrible in tea, and coffee (I know, I tried it).
But as one son says yes, another son says no. Gabriel now claims he does not want to go, which is an eyebrow-raiser as previously he's seem the keenest out of all three to go (normally, this would have been Lukas but he remembers how Holly and Amber habitually pestered him which they were around at Christmas and although I've explained to him we will be unlikely to see much of that pair I don't think he quite believes me). Gabriel's claim is that he would miss Lian too much, which I think is only partly true. I'm sure any sort of relationship would be able to sustain despite a week or so's separation, even a fledgling, juvenile one. I think's Gabe's a little too concerned that Lian may find someone else with which to practise her newly-discovered hobby of prolonged kissing with. But then again, I do remember relationships when I such an age to be uniform in brevity and lacking in solidity. The good-looking boys and the good-looking girls seem to swap partners almost on a hourly-basis. You need some kind of colour-coded filing system if you so desired to keep track of things.
So maybe Gabe has a point. But I have the better point as he will only *just* be fourteen when we skedaddle over to Deutschland, so cannot be left on his own. I'll have to persuade gently, and if that fails, it'll be me donning my voice-changing dalek helmet and yelling "YOU WILL OBEY!!!"
I have a date with Sarah, on Tuesday. Or at least I think I do. Yes - I do. I phoned her on her mobile last yesterday evening, but she didn't reply. So I left a message: I suggested meeting at half six on Tuesday at a pub near the nearest cinema, then going to see Slumdog Millionaire, then further drinking and Oscar-winning film discussion over further beverages, then back to mine for coffee and rampant carnal activities all over the kitchen. I made that last bit up, but you can but hope. It was a while before I got a reply, half ten in fact, and then it was just a text: OK :). Realised by phoning Sarah on my mobile she now has my mobile number *and* landline number, so if she turns out to be some weirdo stalker type lady, and her over-familiarity with my life after an eight-minute encounter points in that direction, getting shot of her will now be doubly difficult.
But I'm being ridiculous. She's probably perfectly lovely, far too good for me, I'll fall for her and she'll avoid me like I avoid any film starring Steve Martin made in the last ten years. One chicken's egg, two chicken's eggs, three chicken's eggs, four chicken's eggs...
Told Colin this morning that my date is confirmed. He immediately decided he was now in control of the whole affair. His first task he says is to review my wardrobe. I wish him luck and I've been keeping my eye plastered on www.reviewmywardrobe.com all morning. It is rather lovely that my brother seems forever willing to educate me in - well - *all* matters, really.
Speaking of education, I have severe questions now concerning the education my children are receiving, or at least my youngest child is receiving. For yesterday's dinner, only Lukas was around out of my three, although we had a special guest in Danny. During the meal, Danny suddenly came out with the startling news that he knew the equation for an atom. No idea where this came from, or where it was going to end up, so I let it flow a little while. Lukas asked what the equation was, and Danny announced it was e=π. I explained the error of his ways (which took some time), pointing out that π was a symbol, representing the number you get if you divide the circumference of a circle by it's diameter, and had nothing to do with atoms. Danny explained that I was wrong, as his uncle told him this to me the case. So I asked if Danny's uncle was a research particle physicist working on the Large Hadron Collidor. But no, Danny said he was a milkman, so that told me.
Lukas said that he'd heard of π, and it was something like three point one four six recurring. I spat out my mashed potato and told him that the whole point of π was that it didn't recur, it went on infinitely [puzzled looks] forever. Danny said that that wasn't possible, as "you can divide any number by any number, sometimes you get fractions and stuff". I said that π did probably end somewhere but there was no computer yet devised on Earth that had got there.
Danny went on: How can the circumference/diameter thing be true? So I repeated my explanation, and he all snubbed this, saying that if you got a really big circle, say something as big as the sun, then when you divided the circumference by the diameter you'd get "a really big number, certainly bigger than three."
Lukas, perhaps upset that his mate knew more about the elemental secrets of the Universe, asked if we knew that one day the sun will explode. To test, I asked why this would happen, to which he brightly announced "when all the methane runs out".
I *almost* gave up. But went on to explain that methane was what cows f@rt, and the gas in question was helium. Professor Danny dismissed this as well as helium is 'what makes balloons float'. I moved on to making jokes around a giant, continually-farting cow powering the sun, which were met with approval.
Eduction Schmeducation.
Andrew has agreed to go. Colin has purposefully been nice to him for a few days, or at least has ignored him aside from the usual cordial exchanges. My brother has not even mentioned that Andrew The Vegetarian returned to dairy milk three days after the soya milk switch. This was due to Andrew's discovery if you leave soya milk out of the fridge for longer than half-an-hour it goes off with almost radioactive swiftness. Plus it's pretty horrible in tea, and coffee (I know, I tried it).
But as one son says yes, another son says no. Gabriel now claims he does not want to go, which is an eyebrow-raiser as previously he's seem the keenest out of all three to go (normally, this would have been Lukas but he remembers how Holly and Amber habitually pestered him which they were around at Christmas and although I've explained to him we will be unlikely to see much of that pair I don't think he quite believes me). Gabriel's claim is that he would miss Lian too much, which I think is only partly true. I'm sure any sort of relationship would be able to sustain despite a week or so's separation, even a fledgling, juvenile one. I think's Gabe's a little too concerned that Lian may find someone else with which to practise her newly-discovered hobby of prolonged kissing with. But then again, I do remember relationships when I such an age to be uniform in brevity and lacking in solidity. The good-looking boys and the good-looking girls seem to swap partners almost on a hourly-basis. You need some kind of colour-coded filing system if you so desired to keep track of things.
So maybe Gabe has a point. But I have the better point as he will only *just* be fourteen when we skedaddle over to Deutschland, so cannot be left on his own. I'll have to persuade gently, and if that fails, it'll be me donning my voice-changing dalek helmet and yelling "YOU WILL OBEY!!!"
I have a date with Sarah, on Tuesday. Or at least I think I do. Yes - I do. I phoned her on her mobile last yesterday evening, but she didn't reply. So I left a message: I suggested meeting at half six on Tuesday at a pub near the nearest cinema, then going to see Slumdog Millionaire, then further drinking and Oscar-winning film discussion over further beverages, then back to mine for coffee and rampant carnal activities all over the kitchen. I made that last bit up, but you can but hope. It was a while before I got a reply, half ten in fact, and then it was just a text: OK :). Realised by phoning Sarah on my mobile she now has my mobile number *and* landline number, so if she turns out to be some weirdo stalker type lady, and her over-familiarity with my life after an eight-minute encounter points in that direction, getting shot of her will now be doubly difficult.
But I'm being ridiculous. She's probably perfectly lovely, far too good for me, I'll fall for her and she'll avoid me like I avoid any film starring Steve Martin made in the last ten years. One chicken's egg, two chicken's eggs, three chicken's eggs, four chicken's eggs...
Told Colin this morning that my date is confirmed. He immediately decided he was now in control of the whole affair. His first task he says is to review my wardrobe. I wish him luck and I've been keeping my eye plastered on www.reviewmywardrobe.com all morning. It is rather lovely that my brother seems forever willing to educate me in - well - *all* matters, really.
Speaking of education, I have severe questions now concerning the education my children are receiving, or at least my youngest child is receiving. For yesterday's dinner, only Lukas was around out of my three, although we had a special guest in Danny. During the meal, Danny suddenly came out with the startling news that he knew the equation for an atom. No idea where this came from, or where it was going to end up, so I let it flow a little while. Lukas asked what the equation was, and Danny announced it was e=π. I explained the error of his ways (which took some time), pointing out that π was a symbol, representing the number you get if you divide the circumference of a circle by it's diameter, and had nothing to do with atoms. Danny explained that I was wrong, as his uncle told him this to me the case. So I asked if Danny's uncle was a research particle physicist working on the Large Hadron Collidor. But no, Danny said he was a milkman, so that told me.
Lukas said that he'd heard of π, and it was something like three point one four six recurring. I spat out my mashed potato and told him that the whole point of π was that it didn't recur, it went on infinitely [puzzled looks] forever. Danny said that that wasn't possible, as "you can divide any number by any number, sometimes you get fractions and stuff". I said that π did probably end somewhere but there was no computer yet devised on Earth that had got there.
Danny went on: How can the circumference/diameter thing be true? So I repeated my explanation, and he all snubbed this, saying that if you got a really big circle, say something as big as the sun, then when you divided the circumference by the diameter you'd get "a really big number, certainly bigger than three."
Lukas, perhaps upset that his mate knew more about the elemental secrets of the Universe, asked if we knew that one day the sun will explode. To test, I asked why this would happen, to which he brightly announced "when all the methane runs out".
I *almost* gave up. But went on to explain that methane was what cows f@rt, and the gas in question was helium. Professor Danny dismissed this as well as helium is 'what makes balloons float'. I moved on to making jokes around a giant, continually-farting cow powering the sun, which were met with approval.
Eduction Schmeducation.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Remember You're A Veggie
Better sleep last night, but then you can't get that much more unsatisfying than the four hours of yesterday, which was the sort of slumber Mrs Thatcher famously got by with during her daily routine of ruining the country. But then she was barely human; at least certainly less human than me. I need between six and eight hours else I become a semi-functioning grizzle struggling to cope with migraine symptoms. So last night I was in bed by midnight, must have been asleep by one, and was up a little after nine. I cannot, however, claim to be suitably refreshed, as evident when I offered the incorrect chip & pin card to the preteen (or so it seemed) serving me in the local supermarket this morning, which I'd nipped into after visiting work very briefly to do an hour's tidying up of some documentation. I rabidly insisted I was putting in the number correctly, even on the third try when the machine vomited my card across the supermarket floor and told me in a steely voice that my PIN was now blocked. Had to use a credit card instead. It was only when I was home, had packed away the shopping, had made myself two fried eggs on fried bread for breakfast, and was enjoying a large mug of coffee with the new edition of Total Film that I realised I'd used the wrong card completely (I'd used the one from the bills account, not the one from the disposable cash account).
After one hour's housework (with Colin lending a disgruntled and world-weary hand) I was feeling a bit ill. All washed out, stressed and sucked dry of energy like a pretty maiden who's just enjoyed a quick nibble on the neck from someone with suspiciously pointy incisors and a hairstyle based on Ray Reardon's. And yes, again, I am showing my age in that I can remember who Ray Reardon is. Plus the fact I have to have a bit of a sit down after barely an hour's housework. I currently feel like I'll be sucking Wether's Originals and securing my belt about an inch beneath my nipples within a fortnight. I'm hoping it's just my body winding down a bit after a handful of days without alcohol or meat. And the lack of beauty sleep.
Speaking of meat, had a slightly embarrassing moment in the Thai restaurant when I perused the menu for a perhaps inappropriate length of deliberating time and made my selections. Then had to call the waiter back as I'd ordered meat dishes, and of course I am currently a Lent vegetarian (today has been a day off so I temporarily reintroduced my palette to red meat with a saliva-overflow inducing cooked breakfast this morning) and changed all my orders to vegetarian ones. I ended up with a vegetarian coconut curry, which I don't now think was the wisest choice I've ever made, but it was pleasant enough.
Lian didn't say much throughout the meal. I'd hope she didn't think it was a case of her potential father-in-law (not that I am in any way her potential father-in-law as Gabe and her are only fourteen, or at least Gabe will be in a few weeks) running a qualifying eye over a potential bride for his precious son, as this certainly was not the case, which is why I insisted in Lukas coming along to make up a family foursome, as it were. I suppose the day will soon arrive where Gabriel and Lukas will want nothing to do with me (I think Andrew is largely a member of that club already, although he pretends not to me), so it's nice they still consider me someone worth wasting some leisure time with.
We had a laugh - I think that's the best desciption of the (early) evening. Naturally, Lukas likes an audience whom he can beguil and bewitch via the power of personality. Lian laughed politely at his jokes and most of his antics, but even she was struggling after an hour or so of jollity, so I calmed Lukas down and suggested he spare us from further jokes. He barely spoke for the rest of the night, but I think it was worth it to stop my sides from - ahem - splitting.
Lian didn't say much, despite much prompting from yours truly. She certainly didn't initiate any of the conversations, and every time I asked her a question she just game me a reply that was perfectly polite but hardly bulging with information:
Me: How are you doing at school?
Lian: [Smile] I am doing well, I think.
Me: Have you given any thought to what you want to do when you leave school?
Lian: [Smile] My family expects me to attend University, and I am happy to do so.
Me: And after that?
Lian: [Smile] I am keeping my options open, so have not given it that much thought.
Me: Once you and Gabriel are married, how many children do you think you're going to pop out?
Lian: [Smile] We have a tradition of large families, so I am hoping for between eight and ten.
Gabriel: What a what?
Okay, so I'm making the last one up, but I was tempted. I don't think I did anything to embarrass Gabe, or Lian, even though as a father, it was my duty to do precisely that. I did show the photo of all three boys I keep in my wallet, the one where Gabe is about seven, which Lian looked at politely (of course) before handing it back with a smile (of course). I'll be keeping the big guns - such as the video of Gabe at the age of four head-banging to Smells Like Teen Spirit wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots - for later years.
In conclusion, an oddly successful early evening. Gabriel seemed in a positive mood for the rest in the night, so I guess the whole thing met with his approval. There won't be an immediate repeat though, my wallet cannot take these £70 hits that often.
So finally, I've been on a date with a female! I wonder if Tuesday'll go so easily?
After one hour's housework (with Colin lending a disgruntled and world-weary hand) I was feeling a bit ill. All washed out, stressed and sucked dry of energy like a pretty maiden who's just enjoyed a quick nibble on the neck from someone with suspiciously pointy incisors and a hairstyle based on Ray Reardon's. And yes, again, I am showing my age in that I can remember who Ray Reardon is. Plus the fact I have to have a bit of a sit down after barely an hour's housework. I currently feel like I'll be sucking Wether's Originals and securing my belt about an inch beneath my nipples within a fortnight. I'm hoping it's just my body winding down a bit after a handful of days without alcohol or meat. And the lack of beauty sleep.
Speaking of meat, had a slightly embarrassing moment in the Thai restaurant when I perused the menu for a perhaps inappropriate length of deliberating time and made my selections. Then had to call the waiter back as I'd ordered meat dishes, and of course I am currently a Lent vegetarian (today has been a day off so I temporarily reintroduced my palette to red meat with a saliva-overflow inducing cooked breakfast this morning) and changed all my orders to vegetarian ones. I ended up with a vegetarian coconut curry, which I don't now think was the wisest choice I've ever made, but it was pleasant enough.
Lian didn't say much throughout the meal. I'd hope she didn't think it was a case of her potential father-in-law (not that I am in any way her potential father-in-law as Gabe and her are only fourteen, or at least Gabe will be in a few weeks) running a qualifying eye over a potential bride for his precious son, as this certainly was not the case, which is why I insisted in Lukas coming along to make up a family foursome, as it were. I suppose the day will soon arrive where Gabriel and Lukas will want nothing to do with me (I think Andrew is largely a member of that club already, although he pretends not to me), so it's nice they still consider me someone worth wasting some leisure time with.
We had a laugh - I think that's the best desciption of the (early) evening. Naturally, Lukas likes an audience whom he can beguil and bewitch via the power of personality. Lian laughed politely at his jokes and most of his antics, but even she was struggling after an hour or so of jollity, so I calmed Lukas down and suggested he spare us from further jokes. He barely spoke for the rest of the night, but I think it was worth it to stop my sides from - ahem - splitting.
Lian didn't say much, despite much prompting from yours truly. She certainly didn't initiate any of the conversations, and every time I asked her a question she just game me a reply that was perfectly polite but hardly bulging with information:
Me: How are you doing at school?
Lian: [Smile] I am doing well, I think.
Me: Have you given any thought to what you want to do when you leave school?
Lian: [Smile] My family expects me to attend University, and I am happy to do so.
Me: And after that?
Lian: [Smile] I am keeping my options open, so have not given it that much thought.
Me: Once you and Gabriel are married, how many children do you think you're going to pop out?
Lian: [Smile] We have a tradition of large families, so I am hoping for between eight and ten.
Gabriel: What a what?
Okay, so I'm making the last one up, but I was tempted. I don't think I did anything to embarrass Gabe, or Lian, even though as a father, it was my duty to do precisely that. I did show the photo of all three boys I keep in my wallet, the one where Gabe is about seven, which Lian looked at politely (of course) before handing it back with a smile (of course). I'll be keeping the big guns - such as the video of Gabe at the age of four head-banging to Smells Like Teen Spirit wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots - for later years.
In conclusion, an oddly successful early evening. Gabriel seemed in a positive mood for the rest in the night, so I guess the whole thing met with his approval. There won't be an immediate repeat though, my wallet cannot take these £70 hits that often.
So finally, I've been on a date with a female! I wonder if Tuesday'll go so easily?
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