The smallest things please me. I found myself this afternoon wandering the aisles of a branch of Superdrug, when I came across a whole aisle full of seemingly miniaturised products.
At first I just saw a small tube of toothpaste and wondered what was so special about it and why it was so expensive. But further looking revealed that there were lots more tiny items like this.
Apparently these are for 'travel' purposes, because modern security dictates that anyone trying to take more than 100ml of toothpaste onto an aeroplane is obviously a no-good terrorist and that therefore the general public is restricted in the amount of highly explosive shower gel, handcream and roll-on deodorants they are allowed to take with them on their flight.
Nonetheless, these tiny-sized facsimiles of the full-sized products filled me with a sense of both delight and nostalgia. There's something about tiny versions of real-life things which I find terribly pleasing. A fascination shared during my childhood, as I well recall the amazement of a school friend who proudly displayed their collection of shrunken crisp packets, tiny and perfect and in every way real, just smaller.
(Apparently this is - or was - achieved by putting empty crisp packets in the oven, causing them to shrink. Or at least it did back in the 1970s. It probably doesn't work like that any more because they almost certainly make crisp packets out of something different now, which does not shrink as well, or at all.)
I had the briefest of flashbacks where I was reminded that these are the sorts of things that I would have been very happy to form into a collection, in my younger years. This may well account for the popularity of the far-too-expensive-to-afford-at-the-time boxes of Kellogg's Variety cereal. Eight little cereal boxes! Who could resist such a thing.
But even back in the present day and in my older age, I did briefly consider purchasing some of these pint-sized items, until I reminded myself with my adult hat on that they were expensive, and that I did not need them.
I am all grown-up and sensible now. For shame.
Friday 21 January 2011
Thursday 20 January 2011
The Man With 48 Toilet Rolls
You can never have too many toilet rolls.
Toilet rolls are, after all, an essential human requirement. In 1957, American Psychologist Robert Maslow identified the 'heirarchy of needs', the things that all people need in order to feel safe, secure, and happy. Flat screen televisions were there, I am sure, as were fast access to the internet, chocolate biscuits, and toilet rolls.
So it is therefore entirely correct that I should ensure that my home always has an adequate supply. You never know when there may be a shortage, after all.
I am, nonetheless, quite frugal when it comes to actually spending money on these essential luxuries. Some toilet rolls are very expensive, and I will not buy them. Mentally I have resigned myself to the knowledge that 12 toilet rolls cost £5. This is a baseline price of 'the cheapest decent toilet rolls from Tesco' and therefore when I am buying toilet rolls, especially in quantities other than 12, I perform the correct mental calculations to ascertain whether the toilet rolls in front of me are in fact the very best value that can be obtained.
The Co-op at the bottom of my road is usually a very expensive place to buy toilet rolls, but sometimes there are special offers which sometimes swing the balance in their favour. The Co-op's own toilet rolls are often £2.35 for 4 - which, as I'm sure you've already worked out, is £7.05 for 12 and therefore not good value. A recent "Buy 2 for £3.25" offer swung the balance in their favour, calculating at an effective price of £4.87 for 12, which is better. More so if I factor in the implicit 10% discount that comes from a "£2 off when you spend more than £20" voucher which they keep giving me and which I therefore keep having to use. So I bought some of those, and placed them in my bathroom for a special occasion.
Today, upon arriving in my nearest Co-op, the whole place was filled with toilet rolls! Stocks had been specially brought in for this week's offer, which is on Andrex 9 packs. £5.89 each, or 2 for £6.50. I couldn't do this in my head but I never go shopping without a calculator in my pocket (OK, my phone) and from this I was able to do the numbers. 18 toilet rolls for £6.50 works out at £4.33 for 12. £4.33 is less than £5, so the deal is good, and I can purchase them in good conscience. I made a note of this, in case it would come in useful.
Since I only needed about £7 worth of groceries this afternoon, but mindful of the fact that I had not just one but two "£2 off when you spend £20" vouchers in my pocket, I decided to take advantage of the offer, so I bought four packs of 9 toilet rolls for £13. Plus £7 groceries equals £20 and a few pence, plus voucher knocks off £2! A finer deal could not be had anywhere, I am sure. This is absolutely the optimum spending that could be achieved.
So if I factor in the 10% discount of the voucher, actually those toilet rolls only cost me £3.90 for 12! A 22% saving on already very cheap toilet rolls from Tesco. Yes indeed, it is a fine deal, and I am very smart for having noticed it and used it so well.
I did receive some very strange looks from the other customers as I helped myself to several armfuls of toilet rolls from the display in the middle of the store. They probably thought that they were observing some kind of lunatic. Ha, the fools, they have no idea. When the revolution comes, I will be the one with all the toilet rolls, and all the money I saved by only buying the right ones.
My bathroom now has 48 toilet rolls in it (18 Andrex Yellow, 18 Andrex White, and 12 Co-Op others, which I have not yet used from last time) so I think that I am adequately stocked for toilet rolls right now. Even if a good offer came around, I would not buy any more, not just yet, until I had used up most of these ones.
After all, there's no point in being silly about it.
Toilet rolls are, after all, an essential human requirement. In 1957, American Psychologist Robert Maslow identified the 'heirarchy of needs', the things that all people need in order to feel safe, secure, and happy. Flat screen televisions were there, I am sure, as were fast access to the internet, chocolate biscuits, and toilet rolls.
So it is therefore entirely correct that I should ensure that my home always has an adequate supply. You never know when there may be a shortage, after all.
I am, nonetheless, quite frugal when it comes to actually spending money on these essential luxuries. Some toilet rolls are very expensive, and I will not buy them. Mentally I have resigned myself to the knowledge that 12 toilet rolls cost £5. This is a baseline price of 'the cheapest decent toilet rolls from Tesco' and therefore when I am buying toilet rolls, especially in quantities other than 12, I perform the correct mental calculations to ascertain whether the toilet rolls in front of me are in fact the very best value that can be obtained.
The Co-op at the bottom of my road is usually a very expensive place to buy toilet rolls, but sometimes there are special offers which sometimes swing the balance in their favour. The Co-op's own toilet rolls are often £2.35 for 4 - which, as I'm sure you've already worked out, is £7.05 for 12 and therefore not good value. A recent "Buy 2 for £3.25" offer swung the balance in their favour, calculating at an effective price of £4.87 for 12, which is better. More so if I factor in the implicit 10% discount that comes from a "£2 off when you spend more than £20" voucher which they keep giving me and which I therefore keep having to use. So I bought some of those, and placed them in my bathroom for a special occasion.
Today, upon arriving in my nearest Co-op, the whole place was filled with toilet rolls! Stocks had been specially brought in for this week's offer, which is on Andrex 9 packs. £5.89 each, or 2 for £6.50. I couldn't do this in my head but I never go shopping without a calculator in my pocket (OK, my phone) and from this I was able to do the numbers. 18 toilet rolls for £6.50 works out at £4.33 for 12. £4.33 is less than £5, so the deal is good, and I can purchase them in good conscience. I made a note of this, in case it would come in useful.
Since I only needed about £7 worth of groceries this afternoon, but mindful of the fact that I had not just one but two "£2 off when you spend £20" vouchers in my pocket, I decided to take advantage of the offer, so I bought four packs of 9 toilet rolls for £13. Plus £7 groceries equals £20 and a few pence, plus voucher knocks off £2! A finer deal could not be had anywhere, I am sure. This is absolutely the optimum spending that could be achieved.
So if I factor in the 10% discount of the voucher, actually those toilet rolls only cost me £3.90 for 12! A 22% saving on already very cheap toilet rolls from Tesco. Yes indeed, it is a fine deal, and I am very smart for having noticed it and used it so well.
I did receive some very strange looks from the other customers as I helped myself to several armfuls of toilet rolls from the display in the middle of the store. They probably thought that they were observing some kind of lunatic. Ha, the fools, they have no idea. When the revolution comes, I will be the one with all the toilet rolls, and all the money I saved by only buying the right ones.
My bathroom now has 48 toilet rolls in it (18 Andrex Yellow, 18 Andrex White, and 12 Co-Op others, which I have not yet used from last time) so I think that I am adequately stocked for toilet rolls right now. Even if a good offer came around, I would not buy any more, not just yet, until I had used up most of these ones.
After all, there's no point in being silly about it.
Wednesday 19 January 2011
Real Men Use No Product
I am a man. Therefore I do not spend a whole lot of time thinking about frilly froo-froo things like what kind of moisturiser to wear, or where to buy the best skin conditioner, or how to tame my curly, flyaway hair. I have even treated some types of shampoo with suspicion if they come with 'added conditioner'. I have always been of the opinion that such things are unnecessary, and that all a head of hair needs is some shampoo and some water every so often.
But no, now in my bathroom, by means of my mother having sighted my hair, considered the issue, and formulated a solution to the problem, I have a bottle of fancy frilly froo-froo hair treatment. I have not yet tried it, because it is supposed to be applied to wet hair, and my hair has not been wet recently. It is called something like "Aussie Hair Insurance" or a similar improbable name. It is to be applied to wet hair, and it makes things better. That's about as much as I know or understand about how it works.
The name "Aussie" of course, is supposed to conjure up reassuring images of the outback, a haven of nature, kangaroos, and really great hair. It is a name which modern 'brand consultants' would class as one which scores high on the index of being 'authentic', such that the consumer presumes that this elixir has been individually obtained by flaxen-haired rugged Australian womens, directly from kookabara trees, eucalyptus plants, and freshly-pressed kangaroo juice... that sort of thing.
Reading the back of the bottle I could not adequately assess the 'authenticity' of any of the ingredients. A big part of the "Hair Insurance" elixir is something called 'Aqua'. As it happens I am a scientist and I know what that means - water. All of the rest seem to be names of complex and industrial sounding chemicals with names suffixed by '-enzene' and '-flourozene' and such. Even in its unopened state, the bottle smells of permanent markers.
I am sure it is very good. I will have to give it a try the next time my hair is wet. The delivery arrived just too late for my quarterly hairwash yesterday, so today my hair is big and frizzy, but this will pass. If the forces of Aussie are aligned, I may never have another big hair day again. Until I am 80 and they stop making 'Hair Insurance' because it's something that only really really really old men use, like Brylcreem. Then again, if I have any hair left when I am 80, I think I will be entirely delighted by any bigness that it may display.
But no, now in my bathroom, by means of my mother having sighted my hair, considered the issue, and formulated a solution to the problem, I have a bottle of fancy frilly froo-froo hair treatment. I have not yet tried it, because it is supposed to be applied to wet hair, and my hair has not been wet recently. It is called something like "Aussie Hair Insurance" or a similar improbable name. It is to be applied to wet hair, and it makes things better. That's about as much as I know or understand about how it works.
The name "Aussie" of course, is supposed to conjure up reassuring images of the outback, a haven of nature, kangaroos, and really great hair. It is a name which modern 'brand consultants' would class as one which scores high on the index of being 'authentic', such that the consumer presumes that this elixir has been individually obtained by flaxen-haired rugged Australian womens, directly from kookabara trees, eucalyptus plants, and freshly-pressed kangaroo juice... that sort of thing.
Reading the back of the bottle I could not adequately assess the 'authenticity' of any of the ingredients. A big part of the "Hair Insurance" elixir is something called 'Aqua'. As it happens I am a scientist and I know what that means - water. All of the rest seem to be names of complex and industrial sounding chemicals with names suffixed by '-enzene' and '-flourozene' and such. Even in its unopened state, the bottle smells of permanent markers.
I am sure it is very good. I will have to give it a try the next time my hair is wet. The delivery arrived just too late for my quarterly hairwash yesterday, so today my hair is big and frizzy, but this will pass. If the forces of Aussie are aligned, I may never have another big hair day again. Until I am 80 and they stop making 'Hair Insurance' because it's something that only really really really old men use, like Brylcreem. Then again, if I have any hair left when I am 80, I think I will be entirely delighted by any bigness that it may display.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Ghosts
It has been suggested, by those who might be placed to know, that one of the valuable qualities of human beings is their ability to forget things. That in these modern times, when everything can be stored and recalled almost literally forever, that nothing will ever be forgotten, and that this, in fact, may not be a good thing.
I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the face of it i have always been against losing things of any sort, and precious memories and knowledge must surely be things to preserve. The value and historical context of something, and the nostalgia which it would bring in the future, cannot possibly be known in the present, and so it logically follows that everything should be preserved, so that nothing is lost to future historians.
Then again, while searching for easily-recyclable words of wisdom of the past which I can use to fill my blogging backlog, most of what I've found so far leaves me very slightly detached from myself. Did I really write these things? I have almost no memory of them.
I note that I stored various bits and pieces, which others had written and that I had read online, along with the things I wrote myself at about the same time. It is not always obvious which ones are which. One or two things have surprised me as I have almost no modern-day recollection of writing them, or why, or what on earth I was thinking, yet it seems highly likely that I did.
As a child I was used to always knowing where things were, and remembering things that had happened. My recall was so clear, so true, that there was never any question that I was absolutely always right. Part of that still remains, but the memories do seem to have faded. There genuinely does seem to be much that I've forgotten, and yet surely it cannot have been that long, surely my life is still young and my memory should be strong for decades to come yet.
Alas, I fear that it was never the case. I know I forget things, and yet even with the comforting thought that perhaps I only forget what is not important, I know too that it does not seem to turn out that way. That already thoughts and ideas, communications and conversations that I have had with others may already have left me.
Since I don't record all my phone calls or carry a tape recorder around with me all the time (perhaps I should) it does not seem that there will be many chances to remember what I have lost. Unlike these random bits of text on my computer, the most recent troublesome writings which I have been examining dating from around 1992 or so.
I really have almost no memory of this. Why on earth did I write these things down? Did I ever consider these phrases and ridiculous attitude to be noteworthy? What on earth could have been wrong with my mind at this time? How could I have ever chosen to express myself in such a thoroughly artless manner? Fundamentally, who wrote this? 19 years ago is not that long - it could seem that way, but I've been in my current employment for 16, and that does give the timeline some context. But this is a complete other person, a side of me I'd forgotten I had and still don't quite recognise.
In a sense, whoever it was, it wasn't the person I became. Then again, with another 20 years, maybe even the person I am now is not the person I will become. Even this period of my life, well covered by blogs and email archives, will offer a less thorough recall of my life than my future self would seek, I am sure.
Perhaps another good reason to blog every day, even if what I have to say does not seem interesting now, maybe these memories will apall, or hopefully amuse, me in a future life. So it can't be all bad, eh.
I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the face of it i have always been against losing things of any sort, and precious memories and knowledge must surely be things to preserve. The value and historical context of something, and the nostalgia which it would bring in the future, cannot possibly be known in the present, and so it logically follows that everything should be preserved, so that nothing is lost to future historians.
Then again, while searching for easily-recyclable words of wisdom of the past which I can use to fill my blogging backlog, most of what I've found so far leaves me very slightly detached from myself. Did I really write these things? I have almost no memory of them.
I note that I stored various bits and pieces, which others had written and that I had read online, along with the things I wrote myself at about the same time. It is not always obvious which ones are which. One or two things have surprised me as I have almost no modern-day recollection of writing them, or why, or what on earth I was thinking, yet it seems highly likely that I did.
As a child I was used to always knowing where things were, and remembering things that had happened. My recall was so clear, so true, that there was never any question that I was absolutely always right. Part of that still remains, but the memories do seem to have faded. There genuinely does seem to be much that I've forgotten, and yet surely it cannot have been that long, surely my life is still young and my memory should be strong for decades to come yet.
Alas, I fear that it was never the case. I know I forget things, and yet even with the comforting thought that perhaps I only forget what is not important, I know too that it does not seem to turn out that way. That already thoughts and ideas, communications and conversations that I have had with others may already have left me.
Since I don't record all my phone calls or carry a tape recorder around with me all the time (perhaps I should) it does not seem that there will be many chances to remember what I have lost. Unlike these random bits of text on my computer, the most recent troublesome writings which I have been examining dating from around 1992 or so.
I really have almost no memory of this. Why on earth did I write these things down? Did I ever consider these phrases and ridiculous attitude to be noteworthy? What on earth could have been wrong with my mind at this time? How could I have ever chosen to express myself in such a thoroughly artless manner? Fundamentally, who wrote this? 19 years ago is not that long - it could seem that way, but I've been in my current employment for 16, and that does give the timeline some context. But this is a complete other person, a side of me I'd forgotten I had and still don't quite recognise.
In a sense, whoever it was, it wasn't the person I became. Then again, with another 20 years, maybe even the person I am now is not the person I will become. Even this period of my life, well covered by blogs and email archives, will offer a less thorough recall of my life than my future self would seek, I am sure.
Perhaps another good reason to blog every day, even if what I have to say does not seem interesting now, maybe these memories will apall, or hopefully amuse, me in a future life. So it can't be all bad, eh.
Monday 17 January 2011
Stuff What I Made: 1992
When faced with a lack of inspiration in the present day, austere times call for austere measures. So here's a wordsearch which I made - for actual money - in 1992. Unfortunately I didn't get paid. Puh.
E L G N I S I A R F L E S P N
R O L L I N G P I N A L E R U
S L P A S T R Y C R E E V O B
T T L A S M A I I E M W O V E
R L O A F T I N N X E O L E R
A D A E N K N C G I L T G E B
T B S P O O N E R M O A N K I
M S E P I Z Z A I O H E E I F
A E E K R U O L F D W T V T Y
J L L V A I L C A K E A O C R
N D A E R B D N I R H R V H A
I O V E N A B O W L U G G E T
A H E A L T H Y E A S T U N E
L Y R E K A B L A E M T A O I
P A S T R Y C U T T E R E N D
And here are the missing words. When you have found all the missing words, the remaining letters spell out a very popular phrase or saying. Enjoy.
E L G N I S I A R F L E S P N
R O L L I N G P I N A L E R U
S L P A S T R Y C R E E V O B
T T L A S M A I I E M W O V E
R L O A F T I N N X E O L E R
A D A E N K N C G I L T G E B
T B S P O O N E R M O A N K I
M S E P I Z Z A I O H E E I F
A E E K R U O L F D W T V T Y
J L L V A I L C A K E A O C R
N D A E R B D N I R H R V H A
I O V E N A B O W L U G G E T
A H E A L T H Y E A S T U N E
L Y R E K A B L A E M T A O I
P A S T R Y C U T T E R E N D
And here are the missing words. When you have found all the missing words, the remaining letters spell out a very popular phrase or saying. Enjoy.
| Flour | Kitchen | Bun | Ingredients |
| Mill | Grain | Oven Gloves | Oatmeal |
| Bread | Dough | Pastry | Granary |
| Bake | Pizza | Pastry Cutter | Bakery |
| Knead | Egg | Jam Tarts | Healthy |
| Prove | Self Raising | Mixing Bowl | Cooking |
| Gingerbread | Rolling Pin | Dietary Fibre | Natural |
| Wholemeal | Plain | Yeast | Wheat |
| Loaf Tin | Oven | Tea Towel | Microwave |
| Cake | Icing | Table Spoon | Harvest |
| Family |
Sunday 16 January 2011
Local Business
As a responsible member of the community, I'm all about supporting local business whenever and wherever I can.
OK, this is not true. Local business is usually less convenient and more expensive than proper national retailers and harsh conglomerates who would mortgage their grandmothers if they thought it'd earn them a quarter of a penny more than the alternative.
But nonetheless, there are some local businesses of which I approve, and am filled with a feeling that it is nice to have them around. A good fish-and-chip shop, for example, is always important in any civilised society. Luckily there is one at the bottom of my street, although this week it is closed, not to reopen until the end of the month. No matter, it is not good to eat chips too often anyway. Nutritious, life-giving fish in batter, perhaps, is more allowable.
Post Offices are good things to have in your locality. My Post Office is filled with staff who are generally surly and unhelpful. Generally I avoid using it, except when I have to. But when I do have to, it's nice that it's there, and not further away.
Corner shops are wonderful things, and of those I have none, but I do have three Co-operatives of various sizes. Co-ops are often more expensive than Tesco Home Delivery, but they are at least closer and more convenient. On the whole, this is to be welcomed.
There was a nice local barber's just up the road from me, which I have of course never used, being a hairy thing, but I was thinking that one day I might wish to take advantage of their services. Unfortunately it seems that they have just decided to close down.
The loss of a local service is a sad thing, which has brought my thoughts to other local shops whose absence would make me unhappy. Certainly high on that list would be the little local cake shop, at the bottom of my road and on the left a bit. It is a very nice shop, making all kinds of cakes of any size and type that you may ask.
I enjoy their service and so they do benefit from my business at any opportunity. If I scout around my close family for birthdays, and include myself, this presents three opportunities for delicious cake each year. Including Christmas, and it would be rude not to, makes this up to four months of the year where I have a good reason to order bespoke cake.
Thing is, I could just go for a slice of cake right now, and yet I have none in the house. Normally a good thing, as that situation, when it occurs, does not persist, much to the detriment of my waistline. But even with my incredible willpower and overall rock-hard sturdiness, I figure that maybe it would be OK to have cake once a month. This seems only fair, after all.
But with only four months of the year accounted for by 'good reasons' for cake, this leaves eight months where there is no cake at all: January, March, April, June, July, August, October and November.
And it does strike me that, not for personal gain you understand, It is incumbent on me... nay, it is an obligation for me to support my local business, and that therefore I should think of good excuses to frequent the cake shop more often. Thing is, since these cakes are custom made, the usual request is what message I would like to have iced on the top. Months with birthdays are easy, and a December order can always be justified with "Merry Christmas". But what of the other months of the year?
Should I made up birthdays for relatives I do not have? It would be convenient to have a stray Aunt Gladys whose occasion could be celebrated with a nice iced sponge. Perhaps I can look for other celebratory occasions by which I may perpetrate the subterfuge. I figure that I could get away with a couple of unspecified "Happy Aniversary" cakes in a year. What of the other months? "Happy Pirate Day" would be quite allowable in September, but in the year this still leaves several un-iced cakes without a cause.
I shall have to give this more thought. I wonder if there's still time to sneak in a January order too...
OK, this is not true. Local business is usually less convenient and more expensive than proper national retailers and harsh conglomerates who would mortgage their grandmothers if they thought it'd earn them a quarter of a penny more than the alternative.
But nonetheless, there are some local businesses of which I approve, and am filled with a feeling that it is nice to have them around. A good fish-and-chip shop, for example, is always important in any civilised society. Luckily there is one at the bottom of my street, although this week it is closed, not to reopen until the end of the month. No matter, it is not good to eat chips too often anyway. Nutritious, life-giving fish in batter, perhaps, is more allowable.
Post Offices are good things to have in your locality. My Post Office is filled with staff who are generally surly and unhelpful. Generally I avoid using it, except when I have to. But when I do have to, it's nice that it's there, and not further away.
Corner shops are wonderful things, and of those I have none, but I do have three Co-operatives of various sizes. Co-ops are often more expensive than Tesco Home Delivery, but they are at least closer and more convenient. On the whole, this is to be welcomed.
There was a nice local barber's just up the road from me, which I have of course never used, being a hairy thing, but I was thinking that one day I might wish to take advantage of their services. Unfortunately it seems that they have just decided to close down.
The loss of a local service is a sad thing, which has brought my thoughts to other local shops whose absence would make me unhappy. Certainly high on that list would be the little local cake shop, at the bottom of my road and on the left a bit. It is a very nice shop, making all kinds of cakes of any size and type that you may ask.
I enjoy their service and so they do benefit from my business at any opportunity. If I scout around my close family for birthdays, and include myself, this presents three opportunities for delicious cake each year. Including Christmas, and it would be rude not to, makes this up to four months of the year where I have a good reason to order bespoke cake.
Thing is, I could just go for a slice of cake right now, and yet I have none in the house. Normally a good thing, as that situation, when it occurs, does not persist, much to the detriment of my waistline. But even with my incredible willpower and overall rock-hard sturdiness, I figure that maybe it would be OK to have cake once a month. This seems only fair, after all.
But with only four months of the year accounted for by 'good reasons' for cake, this leaves eight months where there is no cake at all: January, March, April, June, July, August, October and November.
And it does strike me that, not for personal gain you understand, It is incumbent on me... nay, it is an obligation for me to support my local business, and that therefore I should think of good excuses to frequent the cake shop more often. Thing is, since these cakes are custom made, the usual request is what message I would like to have iced on the top. Months with birthdays are easy, and a December order can always be justified with "Merry Christmas". But what of the other months of the year?
Should I made up birthdays for relatives I do not have? It would be convenient to have a stray Aunt Gladys whose occasion could be celebrated with a nice iced sponge. Perhaps I can look for other celebratory occasions by which I may perpetrate the subterfuge. I figure that I could get away with a couple of unspecified "Happy Aniversary" cakes in a year. What of the other months? "Happy Pirate Day" would be quite allowable in September, but in the year this still leaves several un-iced cakes without a cause.
I shall have to give this more thought. I wonder if there's still time to sneak in a January order too...
Saturday 15 January 2011
House Fancy
"People stop and stare. They don't bother me. For there's no where else on earth that I would rather be.
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Can be here on the street where you live."
- "On The Street Where You Live",
music and lyrics by Frederick Loewe and Alan Jay.
Aside from my stunning progress in struggling to keep up with my new year's resolution of blogging every day, it seemed today that another promise to myself was in danger of being broken.
For some time, and for no particular reason, I have found a most pleasant way to while away my spare hours, by sitting down with my iPad (yes, thankyou, I rock) and idly browsing through details of properties for sale in my local area. It really is quite entrancing.
I'm not quite sure what the attraction is, although it certainly seems an innocent enough way to pass the time, looking at nice photographs of other people's houses. Especially the big one with the staircase and the open-air kitchen and indoor swimming pool. That might be nice.
I do also notice how many homes which are up for sale seem to have very old-style television sets in them. I wonder if there's a reason for that.
Anyway, although I don't really have the money to buy a house, I probably could buy something on the cheap side if I really really had to. From quite a young age I knew that mortgages were not for me, and I told myself that I would buy my first house with cash money. It would be mine from day one.
It's certainly nice to have a dream - even if an unattainable one. I suspect that my grand notions of cash purchase may have actually been more of a kind of 'psychological insurance', insulating myself from the harsher realities that (1) if I had a mortgage, I would have to work for a living even on occasions when I did not necessarily want to or even feel like it, and by (2) making the prospect desirable but unachievable, therefore placing it just far enough out of reach not to be dangerous.
And that said, while I have nosed around to see what mortgages are all about (I have decided that I like offset mortgages very much, and ones which incorporate ISAs even more so, although these are harder to find) this is to satisfy my curiosity only. If I were to buy a house at the moment, it seems that even with my preferred mortgage I would need a deposit of at least 25%. This doesn't seem unreasonable but does place all but the smallest and noisiest properties entirely out of bounds.
And that may be no bad thing. No harm in inertia, after all.
But all of that said.... for the right property, maybe I would make an exception. One of my more fanciful notions that I have is that, if they should ever become available, I would buy one or both of the houses that I grew up in. Now this revelation will probably have all the psychologists in the public gallery jumping up and running towards the payphones in the lobby because it probably says a lot about me - doubtless some latent desire to revert to childhood or something - or, then again, perhaps it doesn't. Who knows? But I do kind of take the view that the houses I lived in as a child were actually mine, and that buying them back after all these years is nothing more than reclaiming what was taken from me.
Guess what popped up on my computer screen at the weekend?
It's pretty rare to see any houses for sale in the street where I lived, so seeing the street name listed came as a bit of a surprise. I took a look and saw a house. A good start. That street does have a few blocks of flats at the bottom of the road, but, no, this was a house. It didn't say which number it was, but that didn't matter, because the asking price was a pretty chunky £450,000.
That's a lot of money for an old house. But there are photos too. It seems that the current owner has engaged in a 'money-no-object' restoration. Certainly it does look very nice from the supplied pictures.
I wonder if this was my house?
Not having seen it for over 30 years, my memories were slightly hazy, but I suppose that could be the cupboard under the stairs, and that bedroom on the floorplan could be the old upstairs kitchen. More pictures. Is this my bedroom? Is this the back garden where I planted my tomato tree and fed the fish?
It doesn't say. You'd think there'd at least be some kind of blue plaque on the wall indicating my previous presence at this location. Not so. How on earth can I find out which house this is?
I suppose that if all else fails, I could actually leave the house and go for a walk up the road in question. It's not actually that far away from where I live now. But happily, modern technology makes such travel unncessary. Step forward Google Street View. Unfortunately even this is not as helpful as I'd hoped, since it seems to think that every house in the road is number thirty-one. I'm thinking that's unlikely. And for whatever reason, many of the houses in the road seem strangely coy about displaying their house numbers in a manner prominent enough to come out on my fuzzy computer screen.
But eventually, after much attention to detail, and cross-referencing several other photographs, it becomes clear. It's not my house up for sale. It's next door. You can tell because the tree with the yellow and red leaves is on the right hand side of the photo, so that means this must be next door.
I find myself somewhat relieved. Although there is indeed absolutely no possibility of me dropping a cool half-mill on a house, it would have been quite a terrible thing for the purchase opportunity to have arisen before I had the necessary funds available.
A little further research shows that the house-next-door was sold at the end of 2008 for about £240,000, so the "current owner" with their "money-no-object" restoration would seem to be engaged in what I am informed is called "flipping". Good luck to them. I'm sure I'll make the new buyers' acquaintance one day.
Friday 14 January 2011
Confirmation Bias
I mentioned some time ago, having been spooked by the co-inky-dink of getting a till receipt for £6.66, and then having an identical credit card balance two months in a row, that I suspected that Satan was interfering in my financial affairs.
Today I have cause to revisit that hypothesis. For various boring reasons I sometimes buy my shopping on one credit card, sometimes on another. My life is a constant series of such decisions. And I noticed this afternoon that the balances on both of these two cards were similar. £333.78 on one and £333.98 on the other. Significant in itself - what are the odds of the balances being so similar, and the difference being so neat, just 20p difference between them. And there's nobody who doesn't like a nice shiny 20 pee piece, after all.
Then I turned my attention to the other numbers. 333. Wait! 333! Three hundred and thirty three! The internationally recognised number of half-a-beast! Which means that the combined total balances on these two credit cards is £667.76. Six.. six.. irrelevant.. irrelevant.. six! The number of the entire beast. Or, £666, the sterling currency of the beast, plus £1.76, no doubt the pocket change of the beast. And that part I had not even noticed until I started writing this.
It is probably fortunate for me that I conducted my month's spending in this fashion, across two cards, for who knows what might have happened if one single card would have hit a £666 balance. Clearly that would have been the point where dark forces would have taken me, and it is only my habit of using different cards to get the most cashback that has saved me from my doom. My financial prudence has neutralised the beast once more. But it has reminded me that it is there, and that I must remain vigilant at all times in future.
Pray for me, won't you? :)
Today I have cause to revisit that hypothesis. For various boring reasons I sometimes buy my shopping on one credit card, sometimes on another. My life is a constant series of such decisions. And I noticed this afternoon that the balances on both of these two cards were similar. £333.78 on one and £333.98 on the other. Significant in itself - what are the odds of the balances being so similar, and the difference being so neat, just 20p difference between them. And there's nobody who doesn't like a nice shiny 20 pee piece, after all.
Then I turned my attention to the other numbers. 333. Wait! 333! Three hundred and thirty three! The internationally recognised number of half-a-beast! Which means that the combined total balances on these two credit cards is £667.76. Six.. six.. irrelevant.. irrelevant.. six! The number of the entire beast. Or, £666, the sterling currency of the beast, plus £1.76, no doubt the pocket change of the beast. And that part I had not even noticed until I started writing this.
It is probably fortunate for me that I conducted my month's spending in this fashion, across two cards, for who knows what might have happened if one single card would have hit a £666 balance. Clearly that would have been the point where dark forces would have taken me, and it is only my habit of using different cards to get the most cashback that has saved me from my doom. My financial prudence has neutralised the beast once more. But it has reminded me that it is there, and that I must remain vigilant at all times in future.
Pray for me, won't you? :)
Thursday 13 January 2011
Vic Reeves Is A Brand I Trust
Some online surveys ask some pretty batty questions but this one takes the biscuit. Good to know that my opinions about key issues of the day are important, though.
Wednesday 12 January 2011
TV Review
I don’t watch much TV, as it is mostly stupid, but today I have a house guest and this evening they have been watching Midsomer Murders, a hardy staple of British television starring ace detective Mr John Nettles.
I regret to announce that this programme also appears to be mostly stupid.
In the programme this evening, someone was Murdered. A very common occurrence in the village of Midsomer, it appears, hence the name. But nonetheless, ace detective Barnaby whatsisface-oh-it’s-John-Nettles-isn’t-it was on the scene to investigate the deadly doings.
Needless to say, one Murder was not enough, and as the Murderer sought to cover their tracks (or at least fill two hours on a Wednesday evening), more and more Murders were committed. One unfortunate gentleman, who had come to fix the automatic sliding doors, was killed by those self same automatic sliding doors, a remarkable display of what might be called irony. The Murderer, in an astonishingly well-thought-out scenario, observes Mr Door Repair Man making the doors open, and close, and open, and close, and then just as the door is a little bit closed, cuts off the power. The door therefore remains mostly closed, with just a small space between it and the wall.
Mr Door Repair Man scratches his head and seeks to address this problem by (firstly), taking the Sliding Door Remote Control and throwing it into the room, apparently quite deliberately, just beyond his reach. Then he sticks his head through the gap between the door and the wall and grunts a bit. Quite what this was meant to achieve is not certain. I am not an expert in sliding door repair and I could not seek to speak for that industry. Nonetheless, the repair attempts are successful for Mr Door Repair Man has fallen into the Murderer’s incredibly far-sighted trap, as now all they have to do is restore the power to the house. The doors inevitably attempt to close once more, despite the presence of someone’s head in between them and the wall, and the carelessness of Mr Repair Man having (for no good reason) thrown the remote control just beyond his grasp results in a certain amount of dramatic tension.
Presumably these are especially high-powered and unsafe doors, as instead of Mr Door Repair Man saying “Oh, gosh, blast, dearie me, that’s not very comfortable”, and giving the door a shove to stop it (which is of course what would happen in real life), instead he goes “Urgh! Urrgh! Uck! Aargh!”, and slumps to the ground, entirely dead and Murdered.
Later on while questioning, suspicion falls upon the village tradesperson who installs sliding doors, because, and I quote: “He would know how to use sliding doors as a weapon.” This particular line of dialogue, apparently entirely serious, passed completely without comment or incident, despite its entirely preposterous nature.
It’s not them, of course. But later on they get killed too, by the entirely incongruous means of sitting in the back of a Landrover which has been filled with concrete. Apparently by a Murderer who somehow wanted to choose the loudest, noisiest, most easily-observable means of sending someone to an early end. However, it doesn’t seem that there are any other obvious villagers who would know how to use concrete as a weapon.
Suspicion then fell on the vet. He has a collection of tropical fish, and it is certain that he would know how to use tropical fish as a weapon. But some ace detective questioning, of the sort of “Was Mrs X with you at all times, in which case only you can be the murderer, or did she step out of your sight, in which case it might have been her?” reveals that it wasn’t him either. Good job it wasn’t him, really. A guilty man would surely never have jumped at such an obvious get-out.
Mrs X, it seems, was really interested in the vet for the other inevitable perks of his job, and therefore being the only one in the village who genuinely did know how to use ketamine, jellyfishes, scotch glasses, concrete and sliding doors as a weapon, the case naturally concluded itself.
Don’t forget to unplug your set. Goodnight.
I regret to announce that this programme also appears to be mostly stupid.
In the programme this evening, someone was Murdered. A very common occurrence in the village of Midsomer, it appears, hence the name. But nonetheless, ace detective Barnaby whatsisface-oh-it’s-John-Nettles-isn’t-it was on the scene to investigate the deadly doings.
Needless to say, one Murder was not enough, and as the Murderer sought to cover their tracks (or at least fill two hours on a Wednesday evening), more and more Murders were committed. One unfortunate gentleman, who had come to fix the automatic sliding doors, was killed by those self same automatic sliding doors, a remarkable display of what might be called irony. The Murderer, in an astonishingly well-thought-out scenario, observes Mr Door Repair Man making the doors open, and close, and open, and close, and then just as the door is a little bit closed, cuts off the power. The door therefore remains mostly closed, with just a small space between it and the wall.
Mr Door Repair Man scratches his head and seeks to address this problem by (firstly), taking the Sliding Door Remote Control and throwing it into the room, apparently quite deliberately, just beyond his reach. Then he sticks his head through the gap between the door and the wall and grunts a bit. Quite what this was meant to achieve is not certain. I am not an expert in sliding door repair and I could not seek to speak for that industry. Nonetheless, the repair attempts are successful for Mr Door Repair Man has fallen into the Murderer’s incredibly far-sighted trap, as now all they have to do is restore the power to the house. The doors inevitably attempt to close once more, despite the presence of someone’s head in between them and the wall, and the carelessness of Mr Repair Man having (for no good reason) thrown the remote control just beyond his grasp results in a certain amount of dramatic tension.
Presumably these are especially high-powered and unsafe doors, as instead of Mr Door Repair Man saying “Oh, gosh, blast, dearie me, that’s not very comfortable”, and giving the door a shove to stop it (which is of course what would happen in real life), instead he goes “Urgh! Urrgh! Uck! Aargh!”, and slumps to the ground, entirely dead and Murdered.
Later on while questioning, suspicion falls upon the village tradesperson who installs sliding doors, because, and I quote: “He would know how to use sliding doors as a weapon.” This particular line of dialogue, apparently entirely serious, passed completely without comment or incident, despite its entirely preposterous nature.
It’s not them, of course. But later on they get killed too, by the entirely incongruous means of sitting in the back of a Landrover which has been filled with concrete. Apparently by a Murderer who somehow wanted to choose the loudest, noisiest, most easily-observable means of sending someone to an early end. However, it doesn’t seem that there are any other obvious villagers who would know how to use concrete as a weapon.
Suspicion then fell on the vet. He has a collection of tropical fish, and it is certain that he would know how to use tropical fish as a weapon. But some ace detective questioning, of the sort of “Was Mrs X with you at all times, in which case only you can be the murderer, or did she step out of your sight, in which case it might have been her?” reveals that it wasn’t him either. Good job it wasn’t him, really. A guilty man would surely never have jumped at such an obvious get-out.
Mrs X, it seems, was really interested in the vet for the other inevitable perks of his job, and therefore being the only one in the village who genuinely did know how to use ketamine, jellyfishes, scotch glasses, concrete and sliding doors as a weapon, the case naturally concluded itself.
Don’t forget to unplug your set. Goodnight.
Tuesday 11 January 2011
Intermission
Well, we have some time to fill until our next blog post. So until then, some music from the house band. Take it away, boys:
Monday 10 January 2011
Grand Prize Winning Fiction
A small assortment of astonishingly loud brass instruments raced each other lustily to the respective ends of their distinct musical choices like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built. The notes blatted skyward as the sun rose over the Canada geese, like a flat stone forever skipping across smooth water. Sultry it was and humid, but no whisper of air caused the plump, laden spears of golden grain to nod their burdened heads, eyes flashing like bright hubcaps, her creamy bosom rising and falling like a temperamental soufflé. Portia was sleek, shapely, and gorgeous, impishly drizzled with glistening rivulets of vintage balsamic vinegar and roasted garlic oil; Professor Frobisher couldn't believe he had missed seeing it for so long -- as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.
"Ace, watch your head!" hissed Wanda urgently, when the strong, clear voice of the poetic and heroic Handsomas roared, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf Romeo. So I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth.
The camel died quite suddenly on the second day, her red jumpsuit molding her body, feathered rumps mooning the day, webbed appendages frantically peddling unseen bicycles in their search for sustenance. It was, after all, right there under his nose, and Selena fretted sulkily with his barbarous tribe now stacking wood at her nubile feet. The corpse exuded the irresistible aroma of a piquant, ancho chili glaze enticingly enhanced with a hint of fresh cilantro as it lay before him, but in all his years of research into the intricate and mysterious ways of the universe, theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, which was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires, driven by Nature's maxim, "Ya wanna eat, ya gotta work,"
Dolores breezed along the surface of her life, he had never noticed that the freckles on his upper lip, just below and to the left of the nostril, her and her lips as dewy as the beads of fresh rain on the hood during what would prove to be the longest, and most memorable, space voyage of my career. The lovely woman-child Kaa was mercilessly chained to a single accelerant--and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from his views, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, he and his colleagues had only today discovered an exploding nova.
She wasn't really my type, the first female ape to go up in space, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, partially hidden until now by the heather-encrusted Headlands, veiled in fog as thick as smoke in a crowded pub, and, buffing her already impeccable nails--not for the first time since the journey began— on reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky.
They had but one last remaining night together, so they hunched precariously over the moors, their rocky elbows slipping off land's end, while overhead the burning orb of luminescence ascended its ever-upward path toward a sweltering celestial apex, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.
Roger stood over his victim with a smoking .45, surprised at the serenity that filled him after pumping six Bic slugs into the bloodless tyrant. She was a woman driven--fueled by a hairy mole he had just removed a week before, the cruel post of the warrior-chief Beast, their bulbous, craggy noses thrust into the thick foam of the North Sea like bearded old men falling asleep in their pints.
The countdown had stalled at T minus 69 seconds when the bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, down to the angry red zit that had just popped up where my sixth sense said seventh heaven was, for although it is not in Kansas that our story takes place, it looks godawful like it.
She finally lost momentum, sank, due to an overdose of fluoride as a child and pondered snidely if this would dissolve into a vignette of minor inconveniences like all the other holidays spent with Basil. Desiree winked at me slyly and pouted, her thick, rubbery lips exactly matched the pattern of the stars in the Pleides, as the newest Lady Turnpot descended into the kitchen wrapped only in her celery-green dressing gown as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.
As he stared at her ample bosom, she resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight, her tart mouth pursed in distaste, rippling reality sporadically but oblivious to it consistently, until through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, he shuffled out of the office with one last look back at the shattered computer terminal lying there like a silicon armadillo left to rot on the information superhighway.
As blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape --the first of many such advances -- I swept her into my longing arms, causing her to reflect once again as they unheedingly awaited the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein.
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, comprised of angry yapping lips, but he couldn't you know, since nobody can actually watch more than part of his nose or a little period of time during the month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair. Though the term "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism . . . not unlike "sand vein," which is after all that gleaming treasure, and like the city, their passion was open 24/7, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant, and that tarry substance along the greasy, cracked paving-stones certainly isn't sand . . . and that brought her back to Ramon.
Gerald began—but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently. Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blown’ off Nantucket Sound from nor’ east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, Stanley Ruddlethorp wearily trudged up the hill from the cemetery where his wife, sister, brother, and three children were all buried, the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito that was a stupid idea like Martha Stewart begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.
For those who hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist breath through manhole covers stamped “Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N. J.”.
Paul Revere had just discovered that someone in Boston was a spy for the British, coyly garnished by a garland of variegated radicchio intestine and caramelized onions, and yes, as he surveyed the body of the slain food critic slumped on the floor of the cozy, but nearly empty, bistro, the Detective Leary knew she had committed suicide with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth.
Discounting the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know, which caused her to lie forever on the floor of her life as useless as an appendix and as lonely as a five-hundred-pound barbell in a steroid-free fitness center, slick from the sputum of the sky, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, that was soon to devastate his life. Not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash—to pee, when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, and when he saw the young woman believed to be the spy's girlfriend in an Italian restaurant he said to the waiter, “Your last meal," thus ending her life.
For the first they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean, grasping the cap on the tamper-proof bottle, pushing down and twisting while she kept her thumb firmly pressed against the spot the arrow pointed to, until she hit the exact spot where the tab clicks into place, and forced open the door of his decaying house that mocked him day after day, and then, As the fading light of a dying day filtered through the window blinds, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, and, humming "The Twelfth of Never," on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned.
The moment he laid eyes on the lifeless body of the nude socialite sprawled across the bathroom floor, a quick inventory of his senses told corpulent Inspector Moreau that this was, in all likelihood, an inside job. Summarily, he daydreamed of that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.
You can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler. "Hold the spumoni--I'm going to follow the chick an' catch a Tory.", for it was captained by John McTavish the sous-chef, allowing her to remove the cap through red, full, sensuous little cheek or lips that nipped at Desdemona's ripping ankles, as big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.
“You’ll feel my steel bullets through sand crisp shrimp’s”, the entire contents of the bottle, summarily embraced each other unmistakably, inside as tightly by the cyclic tail, yet somehow provocatively, if he really tries, but not of their.
“Flick to your naïve and swallow. The ape ran out of a vein chick flick. You’ll feel my…” -- He appreciated her warning.
"I don't know what to make of her." whispered the scullery boy.
And at last I knew Pittsburgh.
"What the hell was all that?" you might ask. Not the first chapter of my award-winning space detective mystery, but more a curious synthesis of some of the very worst fiction in the world. Since 1982, San Jose State University has sponsored the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, a literary competition challenging entrants to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels. Sentences are well and good, but they're not very long. So, armed with only the last 17 year's winners, I sort of cut-and-pasted bits of the sentences together to get the above clear and cohesive narrative. (Individual words and even letters by the end, when as you may have noticed things got slightly desperate.) So no, none of this is mine, but the compilation is, and that sort of counts, doesn't it?
"Ace, watch your head!" hissed Wanda urgently, when the strong, clear voice of the poetic and heroic Handsomas roared, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf Romeo. So I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth.
The camel died quite suddenly on the second day, her red jumpsuit molding her body, feathered rumps mooning the day, webbed appendages frantically peddling unseen bicycles in their search for sustenance. It was, after all, right there under his nose, and Selena fretted sulkily with his barbarous tribe now stacking wood at her nubile feet. The corpse exuded the irresistible aroma of a piquant, ancho chili glaze enticingly enhanced with a hint of fresh cilantro as it lay before him, but in all his years of research into the intricate and mysterious ways of the universe, theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, which was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires, driven by Nature's maxim, "Ya wanna eat, ya gotta work,"
Dolores breezed along the surface of her life, he had never noticed that the freckles on his upper lip, just below and to the left of the nostril, her and her lips as dewy as the beads of fresh rain on the hood during what would prove to be the longest, and most memorable, space voyage of my career. The lovely woman-child Kaa was mercilessly chained to a single accelerant--and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from his views, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, he and his colleagues had only today discovered an exploding nova.
She wasn't really my type, the first female ape to go up in space, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, partially hidden until now by the heather-encrusted Headlands, veiled in fog as thick as smoke in a crowded pub, and, buffing her already impeccable nails--not for the first time since the journey began— on reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky.
They had but one last remaining night together, so they hunched precariously over the moors, their rocky elbows slipping off land's end, while overhead the burning orb of luminescence ascended its ever-upward path toward a sweltering celestial apex, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.
Roger stood over his victim with a smoking .45, surprised at the serenity that filled him after pumping six Bic slugs into the bloodless tyrant. She was a woman driven--fueled by a hairy mole he had just removed a week before, the cruel post of the warrior-chief Beast, their bulbous, craggy noses thrust into the thick foam of the North Sea like bearded old men falling asleep in their pints.
The countdown had stalled at T minus 69 seconds when the bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, down to the angry red zit that had just popped up where my sixth sense said seventh heaven was, for although it is not in Kansas that our story takes place, it looks godawful like it.
She finally lost momentum, sank, due to an overdose of fluoride as a child and pondered snidely if this would dissolve into a vignette of minor inconveniences like all the other holidays spent with Basil. Desiree winked at me slyly and pouted, her thick, rubbery lips exactly matched the pattern of the stars in the Pleides, as the newest Lady Turnpot descended into the kitchen wrapped only in her celery-green dressing gown as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.
As he stared at her ample bosom, she resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight, her tart mouth pursed in distaste, rippling reality sporadically but oblivious to it consistently, until through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, he shuffled out of the office with one last look back at the shattered computer terminal lying there like a silicon armadillo left to rot on the information superhighway.
As blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape --the first of many such advances -- I swept her into my longing arms, causing her to reflect once again as they unheedingly awaited the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein.
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, comprised of angry yapping lips, but he couldn't you know, since nobody can actually watch more than part of his nose or a little period of time during the month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair. Though the term "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism . . . not unlike "sand vein," which is after all that gleaming treasure, and like the city, their passion was open 24/7, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant, and that tarry substance along the greasy, cracked paving-stones certainly isn't sand . . . and that brought her back to Ramon.
Gerald began—but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently. Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blown’ off Nantucket Sound from nor’ east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, Stanley Ruddlethorp wearily trudged up the hill from the cemetery where his wife, sister, brother, and three children were all buried, the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito that was a stupid idea like Martha Stewart begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.
For those who hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist breath through manhole covers stamped “Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N. J.”.
Paul Revere had just discovered that someone in Boston was a spy for the British, coyly garnished by a garland of variegated radicchio intestine and caramelized onions, and yes, as he surveyed the body of the slain food critic slumped on the floor of the cozy, but nearly empty, bistro, the Detective Leary knew she had committed suicide with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth.
Discounting the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know, which caused her to lie forever on the floor of her life as useless as an appendix and as lonely as a five-hundred-pound barbell in a steroid-free fitness center, slick from the sputum of the sky, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, that was soon to devastate his life. Not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash—to pee, when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, and when he saw the young woman believed to be the spy's girlfriend in an Italian restaurant he said to the waiter, “Your last meal," thus ending her life.
For the first they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean, grasping the cap on the tamper-proof bottle, pushing down and twisting while she kept her thumb firmly pressed against the spot the arrow pointed to, until she hit the exact spot where the tab clicks into place, and forced open the door of his decaying house that mocked him day after day, and then, As the fading light of a dying day filtered through the window blinds, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, and, humming "The Twelfth of Never," on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned.
The moment he laid eyes on the lifeless body of the nude socialite sprawled across the bathroom floor, a quick inventory of his senses told corpulent Inspector Moreau that this was, in all likelihood, an inside job. Summarily, he daydreamed of that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.
You can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler. "Hold the spumoni--I'm going to follow the chick an' catch a Tory.", for it was captained by John McTavish the sous-chef, allowing her to remove the cap through red, full, sensuous little cheek or lips that nipped at Desdemona's ripping ankles, as big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.
“You’ll feel my steel bullets through sand crisp shrimp’s”, the entire contents of the bottle, summarily embraced each other unmistakably, inside as tightly by the cyclic tail, yet somehow provocatively, if he really tries, but not of their.
“Flick to your naïve and swallow. The ape ran out of a vein chick flick. You’ll feel my…” -- He appreciated her warning.
"I don't know what to make of her." whispered the scullery boy.
And at last I knew Pittsburgh.
"What the hell was all that?" you might ask. Not the first chapter of my award-winning space detective mystery, but more a curious synthesis of some of the very worst fiction in the world. Since 1982, San Jose State University has sponsored the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, a literary competition challenging entrants to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels. Sentences are well and good, but they're not very long. So, armed with only the last 17 year's winners, I sort of cut-and-pasted bits of the sentences together to get the above clear and cohesive narrative. (Individual words and even letters by the end, when as you may have noticed things got slightly desperate.) So no, none of this is mine, but the compilation is, and that sort of counts, doesn't it?
Sunday 9 January 2011
Something I Wrote in 1989
You can't have failed to notice the impending threat to certain flavours of British Crisps coming from Europe recently - it's certainly received enough publicity from the media.
If there's one thing guaranteed to arouse media, it's a threat to a British institution (like Lager, Sausages, and of course the great British Pound) from the Eurocrats.
But why are our great British crips on the Euro-hit list? Apparently certain flavours of crisp contain artificial sweeteners - the first reason given for the impending ban is that Crisps were accidentally omitted from a list of foods in which the EEC would allow artificial sweeteners.
Other reports claim that the ban is because such sweeteners could be harmful - the British crisp industry quickly retorted that you'd have to eat 18 bags a day to exceed danger levels.
However sensible, or crazy, this sounds, the media would have you believe that Britain is up in arms at the prospect of losing Prawn Cocktail crisps, amongst other flavours. "They stopped our lamb but they won't stop our crisps!", etc.. Tabloid hacks at The Sun desperately trying to find something to rhyme with the name of the Eurocrat who brought this all about so they can run a snappy front-page headline like "Up Yours Delors!"
Heaven knows how much worse the fuss would have been if crisps were produced by British Farmers!
Frankly, it's somewhat preposterous. Europeans threatening the "Great British Crisp" brought about a sense of Deja Vu in me... Remember Yes, Minister? If you do, then you'll remember the (ficticious) storyline whereby the "Great British Sausage" was under threat from the EEC.
Jim Hacker (the Minister) forced the EEC to back down and swept into public favour - and subsequently became Prime Minister.
Do you get the impression that the Great British Crisp Ban could be no more than a scam instigated by Conservative Central Office? After all - all voters like Prawn Cocktail crisps... No.. Surely not.
Oh, the conspiracy theories! Of course that was 1989, deep in the mistrustful era that only a decade of harsh Conservative government can foster in a rebellious young lad. More to the point, though, since this story was reported in newspapers, it's hard to say whether it was actually even remotely true. (Some web pages suggest that Prawn Cocktail and Spring Onion flavoured crisps were very briefly banned until some legislation was re-worded, but I can find no primary sources supporting this.) Proving that some things never go out of style, a similar story turned up more than a decade later in 2003 with a European threat to smokey bacon crisps, causing widespread hoo-hah, but I suspect that the the EU's rebuttal was too trifling a concern to be reported with equal prominence.
If there's one thing guaranteed to arouse media, it's a threat to a British institution (like Lager, Sausages, and of course the great British Pound) from the Eurocrats.
But why are our great British crips on the Euro-hit list? Apparently certain flavours of crisp contain artificial sweeteners - the first reason given for the impending ban is that Crisps were accidentally omitted from a list of foods in which the EEC would allow artificial sweeteners.
Other reports claim that the ban is because such sweeteners could be harmful - the British crisp industry quickly retorted that you'd have to eat 18 bags a day to exceed danger levels.
However sensible, or crazy, this sounds, the media would have you believe that Britain is up in arms at the prospect of losing Prawn Cocktail crisps, amongst other flavours. "They stopped our lamb but they won't stop our crisps!", etc.. Tabloid hacks at The Sun desperately trying to find something to rhyme with the name of the Eurocrat who brought this all about so they can run a snappy front-page headline like "Up Yours Delors!"
Heaven knows how much worse the fuss would have been if crisps were produced by British Farmers!
Frankly, it's somewhat preposterous. Europeans threatening the "Great British Crisp" brought about a sense of Deja Vu in me... Remember Yes, Minister? If you do, then you'll remember the (ficticious) storyline whereby the "Great British Sausage" was under threat from the EEC.
Jim Hacker (the Minister) forced the EEC to back down and swept into public favour - and subsequently became Prime Minister.
Do you get the impression that the Great British Crisp Ban could be no more than a scam instigated by Conservative Central Office? After all - all voters like Prawn Cocktail crisps... No.. Surely not.
Oh, the conspiracy theories! Of course that was 1989, deep in the mistrustful era that only a decade of harsh Conservative government can foster in a rebellious young lad. More to the point, though, since this story was reported in newspapers, it's hard to say whether it was actually even remotely true. (Some web pages suggest that Prawn Cocktail and Spring Onion flavoured crisps were very briefly banned until some legislation was re-worded, but I can find no primary sources supporting this.) Proving that some things never go out of style, a similar story turned up more than a decade later in 2003 with a European threat to smokey bacon crisps, causing widespread hoo-hah, but I suspect that the the EU's rebuttal was too trifling a concern to be reported with equal prominence.
Saturday 8 January 2011
The email I won't end up sending
Dear Colleagues,
I wanted to send you a quick note to thank you for the lovely Christmas surprise that you left me.
Firstly, thank you for making completely new versions of the two programmes I subtitled before Christmas, without telling me. As you know, it's my job to put the subtitles on these programmes, which takes quite a long time, so it's always lovely to get a chance to throw away that work and repeat it for a second time.
Thank you also for making the new programme almost identical to the old one, except with numerous random timing and content changes throughout, thereby making it almost completely impossible to use any of the material I created for the old version. It's lovely to get a chance to repeat a complete day's work over again.
Thank you especially for making this such a nice surprise, by going, I am sure, to such special effort not to tell me that this was happening. Thank you also for only scheduling the new version where you knew I wouldn't see it, leaving the old version in the place where it should be, thereby ensuring that this wonderful surprise was not spoiled.
Thank you to the gods for arranging that I would only discover this late on the night before the programmes are broadcast, and coincidentally when our corporate network connection would be running at such a glacial pace that it would take me nearly four hours to retrieve these new versions of the programme onto my computer before I could even start working on them. Again.
Thank you too for timing this so that it would occur on a weekend, on my holiday, making sure that I get the maximum possible value from my time off by not having any opportunity to sleep on Saturday night so that I may instead enjoy those otherwise wasted hours by being awake. And working.
Coridally yours,
Humphrey Q Horsequarters
(OK, that last bit was a bit dramatic, but otherwise it's a terribly positive and and friendly email, wouldn't you say? Or is this what they call passive-agressive?)
Still, it's not so bad. It didn't take that long to fix it all in the end... :)
I wanted to send you a quick note to thank you for the lovely Christmas surprise that you left me.
Firstly, thank you for making completely new versions of the two programmes I subtitled before Christmas, without telling me. As you know, it's my job to put the subtitles on these programmes, which takes quite a long time, so it's always lovely to get a chance to throw away that work and repeat it for a second time.
Thank you also for making the new programme almost identical to the old one, except with numerous random timing and content changes throughout, thereby making it almost completely impossible to use any of the material I created for the old version. It's lovely to get a chance to repeat a complete day's work over again.
Thank you especially for making this such a nice surprise, by going, I am sure, to such special effort not to tell me that this was happening. Thank you also for only scheduling the new version where you knew I wouldn't see it, leaving the old version in the place where it should be, thereby ensuring that this wonderful surprise was not spoiled.
Thank you to the gods for arranging that I would only discover this late on the night before the programmes are broadcast, and coincidentally when our corporate network connection would be running at such a glacial pace that it would take me nearly four hours to retrieve these new versions of the programme onto my computer before I could even start working on them. Again.
Thank you too for timing this so that it would occur on a weekend, on my holiday, making sure that I get the maximum possible value from my time off by not having any opportunity to sleep on Saturday night so that I may instead enjoy those otherwise wasted hours by being awake. And working.
Coridally yours,
Humphrey Q Horsequarters
(OK, that last bit was a bit dramatic, but otherwise it's a terribly positive and and friendly email, wouldn't you say? Or is this what they call passive-agressive?)
Still, it's not so bad. It didn't take that long to fix it all in the end... :)
Friday 7 January 2011
Observation
Reading this book by Tom Reynolds, and I notice that one of his “chapters” only has two paragraphs in it! You’d have thought that he could at least make the effort. What a slacker.
And one of his chapters is about him having his hair cut! Who’s going to be interested in that?
But if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me, with a deadline to meet and no ideas to fill it with. :)
And one of his chapters is about him having his hair cut! Who’s going to be interested in that?
But if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me, with a deadline to meet and no ideas to fill it with. :)
Thursday 6 January 2011
The King Of Gift Tokens
This morning, The King of Gift Tokens hereby announces complete and full victory over the forces of WH Smith Nuisance Giftcard Fifteen Pounds.
Victory was swift, and brutal. Despite the incursion of the Giftcard some 15 months ago, the King was not in the slightest bit bothered by its presence and disregarded it in a regal manner. This morning, at a time of the King’s choosing, a comprehensive analysis and cross-referencing of assets was performed.
The King’s imperial good self drew up a ‘wish list’ of books which he was thinking about reading. Futhermore he then proceeded to cross-check the prices of each of these books, in their various formats, across several key battlegrounds. Amazon, WH Smith, HMV, and Tesco.
A short while later the King identified two books which were cheaper at WH Smith than in any other store. Furthermore, the combined cost of these two books was exactly £15.01 – enough not only to secure free delivery of the analogue printed books by analogue Royal Mail King’s Postal Horses, but also to ensure that only the token sum of one New English Pee was payable from the King’s Treasury.
The value-for-money obtained was of the highest possible excellence. The Giftcard’s annihilation was complete and total. The King declares victory, and warns the remaining forces of Tesco (£28.73), M&S (£21.64), HMV (£25), and To-Be-Allocated (£20 and £5) that they too will be dealt with in the same ruthlessly excellent manner.
By Order Of The King,
This Day, Thursday 6th January 2011
Victory was swift, and brutal. Despite the incursion of the Giftcard some 15 months ago, the King was not in the slightest bit bothered by its presence and disregarded it in a regal manner. This morning, at a time of the King’s choosing, a comprehensive analysis and cross-referencing of assets was performed.
The King’s imperial good self drew up a ‘wish list’ of books which he was thinking about reading. Futhermore he then proceeded to cross-check the prices of each of these books, in their various formats, across several key battlegrounds. Amazon, WH Smith, HMV, and Tesco.
A short while later the King identified two books which were cheaper at WH Smith than in any other store. Furthermore, the combined cost of these two books was exactly £15.01 – enough not only to secure free delivery of the analogue printed books by analogue Royal Mail King’s Postal Horses, but also to ensure that only the token sum of one New English Pee was payable from the King’s Treasury.
The value-for-money obtained was of the highest possible excellence. The Giftcard’s annihilation was complete and total. The King declares victory, and warns the remaining forces of Tesco (£28.73), M&S (£21.64), HMV (£25), and To-Be-Allocated (£20 and £5) that they too will be dealt with in the same ruthlessly excellent manner.
By Order Of The King,
This Day, Thursday 6th January 2011
Wednesday 5 January 2011
Free Money Is Such A Nuisance
Free money is such a nuisance. Collect bonus points with every purchase, get so-much off when you spend such-and-such, and of course the ever-present menace of Gift Vouchers for proper shops that must be visited in person, or any websites which are not Amazon.co.uk.
A very strange part of my brain kicks in when it comes to things that ‘should be’ money, but aren’t. Gift vouchers, coupons, anything with a monetary value shown on them. Theoretically, sound as a pound. But often, not. So many strings attached! Such a nuisance to spend or redeem.
Somewhere in my coat pocket, I have £21.65 worth of assorted gift vouchers for Marks & Spencer. I have had them for a number of years, and despite many attempts, have never been able to find one single thing that I can spend them on. The one time I went into M&S recently (to buy a shirt and some proper trousers, because I’m all about being well-dressed,) I had forgotten to bring them with me. It was the ideal opportunity to use them, wasted. Now if I go back, I’ll be saddled with the desperation that I absolutely “must spend these today” but there probably won’t be anything that I really want, and anything I do want will probably be too expensive, once again shutting down the ‘buy’ reflex.
One of the £1 M&S vouchers indicates that it will be no good as of February 28th 2011, so the clock is ticking. The pressure really is quite intolerable. While writing this I have had a quick look through the M&S website. Not even one thing vaguely wantable. And my local store is even less good, since it demolished its electronics section, previously selling proper things which people actually want like telephones and radios and televisions and computers, and now selling stupid things like mugs and jugs and ladles.
I suppose I could go and buy another pair of trousers or something. But where’s the fun in that? I already have enough trouser. It’s not like I can wear more than one pair at once anyway. What point is there in having more than that?
I have a £15 giftcard to spend at WH Smith. Even this is a nuisance. WH Smith is wonderful, but it sells almost nothing I want, or at a price which isn’t hideous. Even this giftcard was itself a replacement for a long-since-discontinued ‘Clubcard’ collect-your-points kind of deal, which I had accrued some £14.97 worth of points on in the previous 12 years before the good people at WH decided that it was too much of a nuisance to bother with. So the one time I did manage to drag myself into a shop and eventually find something which I had just-about considered I could use the points on, the woman behind the till looked at me as if I were trying to pay with loose pebbles.
WH Smith giftcards run out after a certain amount of time. The card I had was issued.. hm, about 15 months ago. It might already have gone, I really can’t be certain. I’m going to have to check now. Hold on.. [Time passes] ... Ah, OK, apparently that’s good until September 2011. And in the last few days, WH Smith have rejigged their website so that I can spend it online instead of having to actually attend a store. Yay! But it’s not working at the moment. Bah.
Even infused with the knowledge that I can spend this surplus currency online, WH Smith’s website also has nothing that I want. I mean, they have some nice USB flash drives, but they’re about half the size and twice the price of ones I could get elsewhere. So using my precious, yet time-limited, voucher on that would be nothing other than a waste of money which I will have no part of. No sir.
And don’t even get me started on HMV.com vouchers. I have spent weeks looking around their site. There’s nothing I want, and even the things I could put up with are more expensive than anywhere else.
Thanks to my swift and astute selection of credit cards, I also have some ‘points’ which I can redeem by converting them into vouchers for anywhere except Amazon. This makes my life even worse. Should I turn them into vouchers for yet another shop that I don’t use? Should I convert them into HMV or WH Smith vouchers so that I my pre-existing useless vouchers have more buying power? Oh, what is a boy to do?
The whole thing is torture, and yes, I think that word is entirely appropriate, because I am sure that even international malfeasant types locked up in Guantanamo Bay would swiftly confess to anything in preference to visiting HMV.
If that weren’t bad enough, the nice little Co-op at the bottom of my road has now gotten in on the act, trying to give me free money. Every time I buy something, their till machine prints out a little voucher. “£2 off when you spend £20 or more. Valid until this time next week.”
Aaargh! I can’t not use this voucher, because it’s £2 of free money. The Co-op is where I shop anyway, so it’s not like I’m really spending money I don’t need to. The Co-op has lots of things that I can use and would buy – just not right away. Not within the next 7 days. I have enough coffee and toilet rolls and kitchen towel from the last lot of these vouchers I spent my way through. And Co-op coffee is unnecessarily expensive anyway.
So I have to plan my shopping carefully. For best results I have to spend JUST over £20 (not too much), but spend it wisely, and only on things I need and can use in the future. And really it should be on one of those excellent “buy one get one free” offers which are such good value and mean that I’m really getting the very best possible deal. Plus I have to be careful not to buy something which might be much more expensive in the Co-op than in, say, Tesco. I know mentally that 12 toilet rolls cost about £5, and that 150g of something that costs £1.87 in Tesco would cost about £2.75 in the 220g jars that they sell in the Co-op for £2.99. That difference is probably alright, depending on my mood.
This does all mean that I’m always idly pressing buttons on my mobile (in calculator mode) while browsing the shelves. I have got this down to a reasonable art now (barring unexpected mispricing or addition errors) and the last time I did it I came in with a basketful of shopping at exactly £20.04. I’ll be collecting my £2 discount now, please. Whoohoo!
And then the till prints out another identical voucher. “See you next week…”, it thinks, I am sure.
A very strange part of my brain kicks in when it comes to things that ‘should be’ money, but aren’t. Gift vouchers, coupons, anything with a monetary value shown on them. Theoretically, sound as a pound. But often, not. So many strings attached! Such a nuisance to spend or redeem.
Somewhere in my coat pocket, I have £21.65 worth of assorted gift vouchers for Marks & Spencer. I have had them for a number of years, and despite many attempts, have never been able to find one single thing that I can spend them on. The one time I went into M&S recently (to buy a shirt and some proper trousers, because I’m all about being well-dressed,) I had forgotten to bring them with me. It was the ideal opportunity to use them, wasted. Now if I go back, I’ll be saddled with the desperation that I absolutely “must spend these today” but there probably won’t be anything that I really want, and anything I do want will probably be too expensive, once again shutting down the ‘buy’ reflex.
One of the £1 M&S vouchers indicates that it will be no good as of February 28th 2011, so the clock is ticking. The pressure really is quite intolerable. While writing this I have had a quick look through the M&S website. Not even one thing vaguely wantable. And my local store is even less good, since it demolished its electronics section, previously selling proper things which people actually want like telephones and radios and televisions and computers, and now selling stupid things like mugs and jugs and ladles.
I suppose I could go and buy another pair of trousers or something. But where’s the fun in that? I already have enough trouser. It’s not like I can wear more than one pair at once anyway. What point is there in having more than that?
I have a £15 giftcard to spend at WH Smith. Even this is a nuisance. WH Smith is wonderful, but it sells almost nothing I want, or at a price which isn’t hideous. Even this giftcard was itself a replacement for a long-since-discontinued ‘Clubcard’ collect-your-points kind of deal, which I had accrued some £14.97 worth of points on in the previous 12 years before the good people at WH decided that it was too much of a nuisance to bother with. So the one time I did manage to drag myself into a shop and eventually find something which I had just-about considered I could use the points on, the woman behind the till looked at me as if I were trying to pay with loose pebbles.
WH Smith giftcards run out after a certain amount of time. The card I had was issued.. hm, about 15 months ago. It might already have gone, I really can’t be certain. I’m going to have to check now. Hold on.. [Time passes] ... Ah, OK, apparently that’s good until September 2011. And in the last few days, WH Smith have rejigged their website so that I can spend it online instead of having to actually attend a store. Yay! But it’s not working at the moment. Bah.
Even infused with the knowledge that I can spend this surplus currency online, WH Smith’s website also has nothing that I want. I mean, they have some nice USB flash drives, but they’re about half the size and twice the price of ones I could get elsewhere. So using my precious, yet time-limited, voucher on that would be nothing other than a waste of money which I will have no part of. No sir.
And don’t even get me started on HMV.com vouchers. I have spent weeks looking around their site. There’s nothing I want, and even the things I could put up with are more expensive than anywhere else.
Thanks to my swift and astute selection of credit cards, I also have some ‘points’ which I can redeem by converting them into vouchers for anywhere except Amazon. This makes my life even worse. Should I turn them into vouchers for yet another shop that I don’t use? Should I convert them into HMV or WH Smith vouchers so that I my pre-existing useless vouchers have more buying power? Oh, what is a boy to do?
The whole thing is torture, and yes, I think that word is entirely appropriate, because I am sure that even international malfeasant types locked up in Guantanamo Bay would swiftly confess to anything in preference to visiting HMV.
If that weren’t bad enough, the nice little Co-op at the bottom of my road has now gotten in on the act, trying to give me free money. Every time I buy something, their till machine prints out a little voucher. “£2 off when you spend £20 or more. Valid until this time next week.”
Aaargh! I can’t not use this voucher, because it’s £2 of free money. The Co-op is where I shop anyway, so it’s not like I’m really spending money I don’t need to. The Co-op has lots of things that I can use and would buy – just not right away. Not within the next 7 days. I have enough coffee and toilet rolls and kitchen towel from the last lot of these vouchers I spent my way through. And Co-op coffee is unnecessarily expensive anyway.
So I have to plan my shopping carefully. For best results I have to spend JUST over £20 (not too much), but spend it wisely, and only on things I need and can use in the future. And really it should be on one of those excellent “buy one get one free” offers which are such good value and mean that I’m really getting the very best possible deal. Plus I have to be careful not to buy something which might be much more expensive in the Co-op than in, say, Tesco. I know mentally that 12 toilet rolls cost about £5, and that 150g of something that costs £1.87 in Tesco would cost about £2.75 in the 220g jars that they sell in the Co-op for £2.99. That difference is probably alright, depending on my mood.
This does all mean that I’m always idly pressing buttons on my mobile (in calculator mode) while browsing the shelves. I have got this down to a reasonable art now (barring unexpected mispricing or addition errors) and the last time I did it I came in with a basketful of shopping at exactly £20.04. I’ll be collecting my £2 discount now, please. Whoohoo!
And then the till prints out another identical voucher. “See you next week…”, it thinks, I am sure.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
Introducing The Hardline, Volume One
(I hasten to add that this is not 'hardline-unfinished' which I referred to yesterday. This is different and new.)
During the course of my ‘professional’ employment, there was a time when I had a few people whose boss I, notionally, was. During that period I lost count of the number of emails I sent using the abrasive subject ‘Introducing The Hardline’. These emails were usually intended to put right that which had once went wrong – to outline new practices and procedures designed to lay out exactly what I wanted people to do, and how I wanted them to do it, in order to prevent whatever had just happened from ever happening again.
I do recall that most of the time, these emails were roundly ignored and never made even the slightest bit of difference, but it did at least make me feel like I was doing something like proper work and fulfilling the duties of a manager. I mean, I really was trying my best. Somewhere in the ‘Big Book Of Management’ there probably is a chapter entitled ‘Always reference obscure album titles in your email subject lines’, and while this was not necessarily my conscious intention in sending my ‘hardline’ emails, I do have to admit that there is a part of me which just loved the title of, if not the music on, the 1987 album “Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D'arby”. There’s just something so terribly self-reverential about such a title, sounding like the product of a wildly out of control, super boosted-up ego. (You can see how it would therefore sound exactly like something I would say, and say often.)
Such egotripping was probably not Mr D’arby’s intention, I’m sure – just as the unintended implied threat of George Michael’s “Listen Without Prejudice... Volume One” suggests that listening in an incorrect manner will result in further and further volumes being sent to your door, like mail-order encyclopaedias, until you finally submit and behave more reasonably while operating your stereo equipment.
This is really all I have to say on the matter, so as blog posts go, this idea has come up a little short. That said, there is precedent for short writing, as not so long ago I chanced across a copy of “Blood, Sweat and Tea” by Tom Reynolds, a book which has no less than TWO HUNDRED AND SIX chapters, perhaps because they are mostly recycled blog posts. Just like my little blog, and the best-selling book which no doubt it will one day become.
I take this all to be a very good sign. And although I clearly have prior claim to - in fact, maybe even invented - the idea of turning a blog into an actual proper book (if we ignore Belle de Jour,) I am perfectly content to let that slide. It’s much easier to blaze a trail if someone has already set fire to most of the trees ahead of you. My style of writing is clearly in fashion, and I shall be off to Harper-Collins in the morning to collect my advance.
Another couple of hundred chapters and we should be good, I reckon.
During the course of my ‘professional’ employment, there was a time when I had a few people whose boss I, notionally, was. During that period I lost count of the number of emails I sent using the abrasive subject ‘Introducing The Hardline’. These emails were usually intended to put right that which had once went wrong – to outline new practices and procedures designed to lay out exactly what I wanted people to do, and how I wanted them to do it, in order to prevent whatever had just happened from ever happening again.
I do recall that most of the time, these emails were roundly ignored and never made even the slightest bit of difference, but it did at least make me feel like I was doing something like proper work and fulfilling the duties of a manager. I mean, I really was trying my best. Somewhere in the ‘Big Book Of Management’ there probably is a chapter entitled ‘Always reference obscure album titles in your email subject lines’, and while this was not necessarily my conscious intention in sending my ‘hardline’ emails, I do have to admit that there is a part of me which just loved the title of, if not the music on, the 1987 album “Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D'arby”. There’s just something so terribly self-reverential about such a title, sounding like the product of a wildly out of control, super boosted-up ego. (You can see how it would therefore sound exactly like something I would say, and say often.)
Such egotripping was probably not Mr D’arby’s intention, I’m sure – just as the unintended implied threat of George Michael’s “Listen Without Prejudice... Volume One” suggests that listening in an incorrect manner will result in further and further volumes being sent to your door, like mail-order encyclopaedias, until you finally submit and behave more reasonably while operating your stereo equipment.
This is really all I have to say on the matter, so as blog posts go, this idea has come up a little short. That said, there is precedent for short writing, as not so long ago I chanced across a copy of “Blood, Sweat and Tea” by Tom Reynolds, a book which has no less than TWO HUNDRED AND SIX chapters, perhaps because they are mostly recycled blog posts. Just like my little blog, and the best-selling book which no doubt it will one day become.
I take this all to be a very good sign. And although I clearly have prior claim to - in fact, maybe even invented - the idea of turning a blog into an actual proper book (if we ignore Belle de Jour,) I am perfectly content to let that slide. It’s much easier to blaze a trail if someone has already set fire to most of the trees ahead of you. My style of writing is clearly in fashion, and I shall be off to Harper-Collins in the morning to collect my advance.
Another couple of hundred chapters and we should be good, I reckon.
Monday 3 January 2011
Mechanically Recovered Meat
In seeking inspiration, I am looking through a cache of unpublished or briefly-published-and-then-deleted writings. I forgot that I was so tortured and prolific. One day, like Stanley Kubrick, I shall be gone, and then all my unpublished works will be discovered and exposed to the masses, quite against my explicit wishes. I'm not sure if that would be a good thing, so maybe I should at least publish them under my own volition. Or then again, maybe not. A quick survey reveals my inventory to include, but not be limited to, the following items:
cupid-withdrawn - in which I professed my attraction to Clare Balding. (And yes, I knew before I wrote it, but I still like her.)
footprints-unfinished - a throughly whiny post where I feel terribly sorry for myself and suspect that I only ever make people unhappy, using the wonderfully circular logic that there is no way for me to know whether this is the case, but if I imagine it then it's probably correct, and how does anyone deal with that kind of thing on their conscience. Blimey, what a basket case.
hardline-unfinished - I'm not sure why this says unfinished, as it seems to be the piece I wrote about the chap in the bowler hat who got buried in Bernard Cribbins' "'ole in the ground". Oh dear lord listen to me, I called it a "piece". Pass the ego.
iphone-technical - a loose rant about technological nuisances. Not entirely fascinating.
first-blog-entry-unused - quite a good first blog entry which I wrote for another place. Never went anywhere, and obviously would be out of place now as any post I make would not be the first one. To be kept to one side in case developments in time travel facilitate its reuse.
STD-withdrawn - a joyously naive post from Valentine's Day 2007 in which I wondered if the cold-like symptoms I had been experiencing could have been as a result of me putting something in my mouth which I bought on eBay but might have once been in someone else's mouth. (To spare any blushes I explained that I was talking, hypothetically, about boiled sweets, which gave the post its title, "Sweetily Transmitted Diseases".) But for whatever reason I thought better of it at the time. I can't imagine why.
tvgohome - a spoof TV programme schedule based almost entirely on Charlie Brooker's ex-website "TV Go Home". Not quite as funny as I thought it would turn out, which is probably why I didn't do anything with it. One or two moments of potential though.
ed-music - something I wrote for another place and didn't use, about memories of recorded music. Only about three paragraphs worth before it turned into notes of things to mention, including "the nice sweet shop by the park", "how I got the record player", and "upset in Woolworth's". Hm.
flip-reverse - a humorous piece (argh I said piece again) where I provided a proper English translation of the lyrics to "Flip Reverse", the (then) latest single from teenage rap group "Blazin' Squad." Hilarious, of course, but somewhat rumbunctious, and probably just baffling when presented several years out of context.
I'm sure there are one or two memories and notes amongst this lot which I can reuse some time this year.
Hey-ho. Three for three. More writing tomorrow!
cupid-withdrawn - in which I professed my attraction to Clare Balding. (And yes, I knew before I wrote it, but I still like her.)
footprints-unfinished - a throughly whiny post where I feel terribly sorry for myself and suspect that I only ever make people unhappy, using the wonderfully circular logic that there is no way for me to know whether this is the case, but if I imagine it then it's probably correct, and how does anyone deal with that kind of thing on their conscience. Blimey, what a basket case.
hardline-unfinished - I'm not sure why this says unfinished, as it seems to be the piece I wrote about the chap in the bowler hat who got buried in Bernard Cribbins' "'ole in the ground". Oh dear lord listen to me, I called it a "piece". Pass the ego.
iphone-technical - a loose rant about technological nuisances. Not entirely fascinating.
first-blog-entry-unused - quite a good first blog entry which I wrote for another place. Never went anywhere, and obviously would be out of place now as any post I make would not be the first one. To be kept to one side in case developments in time travel facilitate its reuse.
STD-withdrawn - a joyously naive post from Valentine's Day 2007 in which I wondered if the cold-like symptoms I had been experiencing could have been as a result of me putting something in my mouth which I bought on eBay but might have once been in someone else's mouth. (To spare any blushes I explained that I was talking, hypothetically, about boiled sweets, which gave the post its title, "Sweetily Transmitted Diseases".) But for whatever reason I thought better of it at the time. I can't imagine why.
tvgohome - a spoof TV programme schedule based almost entirely on Charlie Brooker's ex-website "TV Go Home". Not quite as funny as I thought it would turn out, which is probably why I didn't do anything with it. One or two moments of potential though.
ed-music - something I wrote for another place and didn't use, about memories of recorded music. Only about three paragraphs worth before it turned into notes of things to mention, including "the nice sweet shop by the park", "how I got the record player", and "upset in Woolworth's". Hm.
flip-reverse - a humorous piece (argh I said piece again) where I provided a proper English translation of the lyrics to "Flip Reverse", the (then) latest single from teenage rap group "Blazin' Squad." Hilarious, of course, but somewhat rumbunctious, and probably just baffling when presented several years out of context.
I'm sure there are one or two memories and notes amongst this lot which I can reuse some time this year.
Hey-ho. Three for three. More writing tomorrow!
Sunday 2 January 2011
IOU 1 Entry
So, fallen at the first hurdle. January 2nd came and went without even one entry. But to be fair it was Sunday, so that's probably some kind of excuse. And today was a bank holiday, so I was in church all day... right?
OK. While a lesser man would have considered their resolution to be broken by now, a text message from my blogging arch nemesis Emila Von Frauhausen has revealed that I am not alone in my quest for daily blogging. And since they have indicated that they are re-using old, already written (but previously unpublished) writings to fill their 'one a day' quota, it seems to me that if cheating is fair play, then a player be I. Wait, does that even make any sense?
If old writings can be repurposed then this is very good. (I'm sure I have some cringeworthy vintage material that I can dig up from my archives.) But in the meantime I have also decided that it is OK to write something retrospectively - for example, this entry being written late in the evening of January 3rd, and change the time on it so that it says January 2nd.
This way I am not exactly cheating - I am still filling my quota, just occasionally using 'IOUs' if something is not ready on time. Theoretically speaking this will allow me to reach December 31st 2011 and not have broken my resolution, even if I then have to spend the day writing a backlog of 360 entries all in one afternoon, like a kind of rolling stone that slowly gathers an unbearable weight of obligation when neglected.
I'm sure that would be only mildly more painful than pulling fantastic and genius copy out of nowhere one day at a time. Which, without really trying, I seem to have found myself having done. Oo, well done me. Two down, 363 to go.
OK. While a lesser man would have considered their resolution to be broken by now, a text message from my blogging arch nemesis Emila Von Frauhausen has revealed that I am not alone in my quest for daily blogging. And since they have indicated that they are re-using old, already written (but previously unpublished) writings to fill their 'one a day' quota, it seems to me that if cheating is fair play, then a player be I. Wait, does that even make any sense?
If old writings can be repurposed then this is very good. (I'm sure I have some cringeworthy vintage material that I can dig up from my archives.) But in the meantime I have also decided that it is OK to write something retrospectively - for example, this entry being written late in the evening of January 3rd, and change the time on it so that it says January 2nd.
This way I am not exactly cheating - I am still filling my quota, just occasionally using 'IOUs' if something is not ready on time. Theoretically speaking this will allow me to reach December 31st 2011 and not have broken my resolution, even if I then have to spend the day writing a backlog of 360 entries all in one afternoon, like a kind of rolling stone that slowly gathers an unbearable weight of obligation when neglected.
I'm sure that would be only mildly more painful than pulling fantastic and genius copy out of nowhere one day at a time. Which, without really trying, I seem to have found myself having done. Oo, well done me. Two down, 363 to go.
Saturday 1 January 2011
I Must Blog All Year Long
I've taken to thinking that I have been awfully neglectful in not keeping my blog regularly updated. And so, with under an hour left of new year's day, I am reminded that a few days ago I considered that a good resolution to keep would be to "do a blog" each day, even if there was not much to talk about. Even if it was just "Boring. Worked. Ate. Slept." at a minimum. There's nobody who wouldn't enjoy that kind of quality writing, after all.
And so, therefore, I introduce my doubtless all-too-soon-to-be-broken resolution with this post. What larks, Pip!
Today was, in fact, not too bad. Despite it being new years day there were only a small amount of fireworks and hooting of horns by the local shipping at midnight. Later in the day, I was pleased to find that my preferred classy venue of choice (Argos) was open, and better still that it was not clogged up with people. So bought a moderately delayed Christmas gift and a new phone, and went on my way.
Er.. That's it. I'll try to do something more thrilling for tomorrow. :)
And so, therefore, I introduce my doubtless all-too-soon-to-be-broken resolution with this post. What larks, Pip!
Today was, in fact, not too bad. Despite it being new years day there were only a small amount of fireworks and hooting of horns by the local shipping at midnight. Later in the day, I was pleased to find that my preferred classy venue of choice (Argos) was open, and better still that it was not clogged up with people. So bought a moderately delayed Christmas gift and a new phone, and went on my way.
Er.. That's it. I'll try to do something more thrilling for tomorrow. :)
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