Boxes

It has been a day of tidying. A day of boxes. Moving things around, in the eternal jigsaw puzzle that is "the tidying-up project", in order to properly ascertain, in a correct and scientific way, the things which I can live without, and those things that I must continue to keep forever and ever and ever.

Progress has been good on the boxes of old videotapes. Nobody seems to want them on eBay but I have found a few people online who might take them off my hands.

I have, therefore, been studiously going through the tapes. There is method to my madness. Tapes which are not of a regulation length - anything less than E180 - get watched, dubbed (if necessary), and dumped. Progress here is so good that my upstairs bin is overflowing with video tapes. Tapes which are E180 or above get watched (in fast forward), classified appropriately (old and uninteresting, old and interesting, new and interesting, tapes in need of advanced dubbing, tapes to be held for further examination at a later date...) and so on.

The upshot of this madness is that I can, at least, persuade myself to let go of a few hundred bulky tapes which were otherwise taking up space, and what is more, that I can do so in a way which does not trigger huge massive anxiety and feelings of loss and regret. Stop looking at me like that, I am not crazy. This is science. I am dealing with my excess hoarding in a scientific manner. Speaking of which:



See this? These are R-Kive/Fellowes Bankers Box cardboard storage boxes, the very type about which I blogged with such enthusiasm some months ago. I hasten to add that the boxes in the photo above are not mine, but in fact those of noted dead film director Mr Stanley Kubrick. This is his "archive", full of old notes and letters which he wrote or received.

It is comforting to know that I am in good company. Although if I was Mr Stanley I probably wouldn't have got rid of them either - after all, future generations and historians would find them ever so interesting. That said, I disposed of most of my paper storage a long time ago, scanning everything into neat little PDF files on my computer. Mr Kubrick really should have bought a scanner.

But truly it is a triple-play day when it comes to boxes, for today I have also been thinking about "food miles", and the hippy eco-warrior idea that it's not good to buy carrots from Tesco that have been shipped thousands of miles around the world, sometimes on proper aeroplanes and everything. This is very bad for the monkeys and the toucans and the dolphins in the rainforest, who get heated up by the carbon, and such. So, "local food" is the way to go.

I am a man of means, and I like my groceries one way - delivered. Happily it turns out that I can have delivery and save the planet at the same time, thanks to a new idea of "food boxes", whereby local farms and such all club together and deliver boxes of food to people in the local area. Eating food that has been grown right on your doorstep - well, not right on your doorstep, my doorstep is a bit mucky but I don't think you could grow vegetables there - anyway, it's very good for the enviro mint because the carrots only travel a short distance in a van, rather than thousands of miles in first class.

I visited a website, typed in my postcode, and was delighted to discover that they deliver in my area. The driver's name is Dave, and he already passes my door every Thursday. If I order next week, I could have a box filled with organic bananas, potatoes, beetroots, a butternut squash, whatever that is, and more besides.

I am almost beside myself with joy. All round, it has been rather a nice day.

Happy Hippo: Stay or Go?

There comes a time in every busy declutterer's life when the truly hard decisions need to be made. This is one of those times. In nearly 18 months of throwing things away, (or rearranging the things I can't get rid of just yet) I have never faced such a dilemma.

That dilemma is this:


Observe - a blue hippo. I bought this on eBay because it looked lonely and life really is too short to allow hippos to lead an unhappy life. It's a very nice hippo. It is blue, and as the original auction described, it is "made of pottery".

But alas, the hip hippo has remained in its original packaging almost ever since I received it. And we are now at the point where Mr Hippo is, in fact, taking up room that could be better filled by some free space instead.

But is it right to throw it away? It is a happy looking hippo, after all. Surely I should be ruthless and show no mercy, though. And, what is more, it is slightly imperfect. Observe:


Yes, that little pinkish bit is the underlying pottery, of which the hippo has been made.

So... happy hippo - stay or go? You decide, because I can't. Please vote by leaving a comment, won't you?

I Must Blog All Day Long

I can't help but notice that I've not been blogging as much recently. Clearly, with millions and millions of readers hanging on my every word, this will never do. So today I shall attempt to break the writer's block (actually that sounds a bit grand, so let's just call it "block") by live blogging about my fantastically interesting day.

As I speak, men with hammers are downstairs making changes to my window ledge, which used to be very good until an enormous crack appeared and I could see the outside through it. I hear sounds of plaster and mastic being mixed and applied and smoothed all over the place.

I am not observing them in person, for that would probably be annoying and/or awkward. I am content to leave them to their industry.

More live updates as the day progresses!

UPDATE: 12.01pm. Men have left. Windowledge all better, although it needs a plastics expert to come and finish it off. This will happen at a time and date of their choosing. What mystery! Now considering what to have for lunch.

UPDATE: 4.13pm. Had lunch, wrapped up some parcels (sold some things on eBay at the weekend, so the King of Postage was in court once more), received a parcel I'd ordered from America. Starting to think that all this does not necessarily make for interesting blog reading, though.

UPDATE: 10.15pm. Finished work, bummed around for most of the evening. Listened to a motivational audiobook, but not convinced by it, really. Decided to have a bath. For no reason. I'm not even going out tomorrow or anything. Thinking about going to bed.

(I Don't Like Your) Country Music

In these modern times, it's easy to assume that our new action heroes - Jack Bauer, Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal and the like - are relatively modern phenomena of a kind that they just didn't have back in the fifties. After all, if a hoodlum was tearing up the street on otherwise engaging in some kind of ill behaviour, who would have dispensed some instant justice? Bill Haley and his Comets? I don't think so.

But in fact, if you had placed any credence in such a careless opinion, you would undoubtedly be wrong. There are plenty of black and white action heroes as well, and none could be more actionous than the one and only Mr. Bernard Cribbins.

Perhaps best known for appearing in various Carry On Movies, starring as the incompetent sculptor who log-jammed not only the word "erection" but the even more worse word "pubic" into the otherwise perfectly sedentary comedy "A Home Of Your Own", and of course a long stint looking after Humpty and the dollies on "Play School", the great BC's talents were many. But it was through music where Saint Bernard revealed his no-nonsense attitude towards anyone who failed to respect his authority.

To assume that The Cribmeister's works began and ended at the song "Right Said Fred", a searing expose of cowboy builders, would be a gross over-simplification. He had, in fact, many albums, and on those albums many songs, where anyone intending to step to Mr C with intent to diss, would find themselves served with attitude. (I hope you're still following this, my cool friends tell me it's very authentic.)

Perhaps nowhere is it made clearer than in the song "Hole In The Ground", a made-up tale - or so we are led to believe - involving an industrious workman who is, indeed, digging that aforementioned "Hole In The Ground" despite the best attempts of red-tape and bureaucrats to stifle his creativity.

"There I was
a-diggin' this hole
Hole in the ground,
so-big and sorta round it was,
and there was I,
digging it deep,
it was flat at the bottom and the sides were steep"

As is so often the case, the toil of the working man is soon halted by interference from a bowler-hatted chap, who looks down the hole and has words of wisdom to offer.

"Do you mind if I make a suggestion?...
Don't dig there - dig it elsewhere,
you're digging it round and it ought to be square.
The shape of it's wrong, it's much too long
and you can't put a hole where a hole don't belong."

"Nearly bashed him right in the bowler", comments Cribbins-as-workman. If it had been Chuck Norris digging the hole, that's probably how the story would have ended right there. Perhaps he might have stroked his beard a bit. But our workman is made of sterner stuff, and will not allow bowler-hatted nuisancery to interfere with the industrial progress of our great nation.

"Well there was I,
stood in me 'ole,
shovellin' earth for all that I was worth I was,
and there was him, standing up there
so grand and official with his nose in the air"

Few men could tolerate those kind of conditions. If Steven Seagal had been digging the hole, that's probably how the story would have ended right there. Perhaps he might have handed out the odd karate chop or two. But our heroic workman has a riposte for the suited man.

"I just couldn't bear
to dig it elsewhere
I'm digging it round 'cause I don't want it square,
and if you disagree it doesn't bother me
... that's the place where the hole's gonna be."

A grateful nation rises to its feet and applauds. Common sense prevails. If Jack Bauer had been digging the hole, that's probably how the story would have ended right there. Perhaps he might have got shot again for no reason, just to keep the story going. But there's a footnote.

"Well there we were, discussing this 'ole,
Hole in the ground,
so-big and sorta round it was,
it's not there now, the ground's all flat
and beneath it is the bloke in the bowler hat.

.. and that's that."

HE BURIED THE OFFICIAL UNDER THE PAVEMENT!! In the SIXTIES! My west coast friends would describe such a course of action as "harsh" to be sure. Even Chuck Norris and Jack Bauer wouldn't have gone that far. Even Steven Seagal thinks this is unduly violent treatment and would have no part of it, returning to his luxury trailer and three-bean salad in protest. Not everyone can reach the kind of no-nonsense attitude practiced by the Cribbinator - truly, a new hero for our times.

"There's A Smile On My Face"

I find myself feeling old. I’ve been feeling old quite a lot recently, and it’s not just the passing of another year that does it.

I guess everyone feels old from time to time, but when, like me, you start finding that you feel permamently old, I guess that’s a sign that maybe there’s something deeper going on. I was thinking about it today and I think I may have got somewhere.

On the face of it, you might think the things that set me off are the constant realisations that things that seemed like only yesterday – e.g. leaving school, listening to Wham! on the radio, etc – were actually more than 20 years ago. But I don’t think it is that. Time passes, and that’s a fact. In itself it’s not a surprise and it’s not the numbers themselves that make me feel old. Not really, I don’t think.

I was tidying up again earlier and ploughing through a box of old videotapes, where I came across some television programmes that were made about the place where I used to work. They brought back a lot of memories. I couldn’t really get over the feeling of what great people I used to work with, what a good group we were, what good things we did. I used to work with brilliant people who were actual proper heroes and – although I can’t truly claim any heroism of my own – I find that I do miss the association. Standing next to greatness is still pretty great… and I seem to notice it more now that it’s gone.

It got me to thinking about what could have happened – and I noticed emotions and regrets very simlar to those which come out when I’m “feeling old”. The things I could have been – should have been – but which now seem out of reach. I’m too old now, the things I’m reaching for are paths I should have set out on long ago if I wanted to make it in time. As it stands, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and just went where the wind took me. A fine philosophy, it seemed at the time – but with my now aged wisdom I wonder if it wasn’t a miscalculation. Having “no plans” was literally no plan at all. And that’s when the big question has to be answered. Have I wasted my life?

But then I started joining the dots, and came to a bit of a realisation. These feelings, these regrets, can only have any validity if I accept an unstated premise – that the best moments of my life are strictly in the past. Surely that could only be true if I believe that my life will never get any better. It’s not exactly bad now, but if all the ‘good times’ are in the past, there must be something about the present that isn’t giving me what I need.

The present, of course, is something I can change. I just need to decide what it is that I want from life, and then “go get it”. And maybe there is the problem, because those are two things that I’m really not too good at – making decisions (or actually “wanting” something for myself) and then doing whatever kind of ‘hard work’ might be necessary to actually go get it.

I could have hundreds of great friends and a social life if I wanted one. I could go climbing mountains, hurling myself out of planes (with a parachute, obviously), sign up with the Open University or go to medical school and become the world’s oldest junior doctor… but that’s such a lot of effort. Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could do it. And even if I put all that work in, would it really take me to the place that I want to be, when I can’t even identify where that place is?

Even if I’m not sure where the future leads, it has served as a timely reminder that maybe my clinging to the past is for no other reason than I need to change the present. Perhaps my hoarded boxes of old magazines and tapes are a very real indication of how I can’t let go of the past while it seems like the best of my life is still there. “Spending our money, filling our house with the things we hope will bring us happiness… again.”, as T’Pau put it in the song Only The Lonely.

They had more to say, actually. “Making your mind up – it never did anyone no good, for how do you touch what you can’t have? You cover the hurt, pretend you don’t care – it’s living, I guess, but it hardly compares.”

“Hiding your poor heart, you wouldn’t think could be so hard, from the roaring giant of love. Oh, but he won’t leave, and so you keep silently screaming, filling your head with a love song that no-one will ever want. And yes, we are keeping up resistance to a good time, in case we fall – put up a wall you can’t overcome, well I believe every home should have one.”

“We cover our empty hearts up with a full smile, but it has no joy – put up a wall you can’t overcome, to cover the hurt, pretend you don’t care, I see a world that is empty out there.”

Maybe that’s getting a bit morose. It’s a very good song, though. On which ‘note’ (ho ho) I actually bought some singles tonight, just like an actual proper hip young swinging cat. Of coursewhen I say I “bought" some "singles", actually I downloaded them from iTunes, so at least I’m not entirely stuck in the past, even if I did select six tracks from the late 80s that I’d completely forgotten about (and rediscovered today on an old “songs recorded off the radio” tape.) But it wasn’t all in the past – I also bought the ‘new’ one from Mint Royale. (Well done, George.) So it does at least seem that I have one foot in the now, and I guess that buying the song that’s bound to be next week’s number one is at least some kind of indicator that perhaps it’s not time to bury me just yet.

But it seems pretty clear that I really need to find something to do with my life. Of course I’ve got all kinds of ideas – entirely unrealistic ones – about things I’d like to do, if I were to somehow come into a ridiculous enough amount of money that I’d be willing to burn on making myself happy. Even the most avaricious venture capitalist would probably consider that a rather poor investment, and since I don’t play the lottery the chances of it happening are slim. So I need something realistic to aim for. I wonder if that isn’t harder still.

I’d better think about it some more.

Tops and Bottoms

They say that it takes two to tango, and so it was this weekend, as I was minding my own business, enjoying a quiet cup of tea, when suddenly there is a loud bang and I find that I am moving. First I am unexpectedly leaning back, without warning. Then when I upright myself and lean forwards, I am left at an angle, and somewhat askew. Something is wrong. Then, before I have a chance to investigate further, the wheels come off entirely and I am placed at such an extreme angle that I fall out of my comfortable chair and onto the floor.

Yes, my chair has broken. The self-same chair which I blogged about not so long ago (See: Executive Leather) fell to pieces with a bang, dumping me out onto the floor in a most unwelcome fashion. Of course it turns out that "not so long ago" when I bought the chair was actually January 2007, so it's out of guarantee. My chair is gone, and I need a new one.

Temporarily making do with a fold-up wooden chair which I keep on hand for just such an occasion, I once again perused the Argos catalogue to notice that actually they do still sell my chair. For some reason it's more expensive now, a costly £29.99 instead of last year's £24.99, but I expect that'll be due to the increasing worldwide price of the luxurious and entirely genuine, perhaps, leather seat which forms such a large part of the whole chair thing.

But the top half of my old chair is still quite alright, really. It's really just the hydraulics and the struts on the bottom which have fallen to pieces. And that's when it hit me. All I need is a new bottom.

Off to Argos I went (eventually), forking over the required £30 (which I paid for once again with Nectar points - hooray!) to be served by a nice young lady, probably fresh out of school, not yet old enough to look very interested in anything, and with a name badge which revealed that her name was "Kylie". I realise that we are generations apart. Me, old enough to remember when 'Neighbours' first started on British television, and the prediction that in the coming years there would be lots of parents naming their new babies 'Kylie'. Her, the first wave of grown-ups from that Neighbours generation.

Kylie handed me my leather goods, and I took them home. That may be the only time in my life that I ever get to use those words in anything I write, but I'm glad that I did.

Once home, I thought back to those heady days of January 2007 when I assembled this first chair. I remember how much of a nuisance it was to get the top together. And since all I really needed here in May 2008 was a new bottom, I decided to put the old top on the new bottom. It was much faster. And now I have a spare top which I can put in the shed to store in case I should ever need to replace it one day.

The long and the short of this rather dull (but supremely well-written, and hence fascinating) story, is this. Same old top, brand new bottom, on which to place my same old bottom. Order has returned to the world.

Shadows

You're not paranoid if they're really out to get you. So the saying goes, at least. Only the innocent have nothing to fear. Another popular saying, I think - either that or I just made it up on the spot like some kind of modern-day Jean-Paul Satre, expressing in just seven words the full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree ennui of our modern times.

But anyway, my point, and I do have one, is this. It's easy to be paranoid, especially in the face of shadows and loose suspicion, the best kind of incontrovertible evidence that there is. There was a period back in 2004 when I idly wondered if I was under surveillance by 'the man'. I don't know which man, it's just a saying. (A sample of my early writings from the time are reproduced below, by way of illustration.)

'Enemy of the State' written Monday October 11th, 2004 I can't help but notice that quite often when I am travelling on a train, there are people sitting quite close to me who don't actually have to show their tickets when the person comes to check them. It's because they're policemen. OK, now you expect to see the odd policeman now and again. But these guys are in plain clothes. And they're on the train. With me. A few seats away. Not just once, but twice now. And those are just the ones I've seen. Who knows how many there were who were less conspicuous and weren't flashing their badge around for anyone to see? The conclusion is obvious, ladies and gentlemen. I have been declared an enemy of the state, and am under constant surveillance by "the man". Yes, who would know that in the space of just six blog editions I would become a wanted fugitive, on the run from the authorities who would seek to silence my outspoken thoughts on spots, toilet paper, and the times of the sunrise in 2005. I am unsure how to handle my new found status. Nonetheless, it is clear that I am a dangerous man. The authorities cannot handle me, because I tell it like it is. I should take precautions, like scrambling my email so nobody else can read it, and only writing my blogs in code. Some would say I do that anyway. But if the authorities are intercepting this communication, my message is clear - my beliefs are totally changeable. You don't need to worry about arresting me or anything. Just slip an envelope full of tenners in with my shopping whenTesco deliver it on Thursday, and I'll say nice things about anything and anyone you like, even George Bush. I'll also stop talking about toilet rolls if you so desire. Everyone has their price, and I'm awfully cheap. Thankyou.

Alas, the envelopes of tenners never turned up. But anyway, just recently I've been plagued by a number of irresponsible japes by my irresponsible friends, saying all kinds of "hot words" on my phone line which, if the paranoid mantra is to be believed, is enough to cause lights to start flashing at MI5 and for your phone calls to be put under immediate surveillance, like the kind of dangerous subversive that you must be if you start talking about spy satellites and Zircon, Echelon, and that other one.. what's it called.. Ronseal, or something.

Now I am a law-abiding guy. I've served my country (by being badly paid to do essential filing for four years) and when it comes to the final tally, I'd like to think that I'm one of the kids who Santa will be including in the 'nice' column. But paranoia changes things - after all, I've seen all those films where innocent people get arrested without charge and hung upside down by their toes for six years just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And with this country becoming more of a police state by the day, the risk to a good boy's liberty from an innocent mix-up could be substantial.

So it was that a couple of phone calls this afternoon set off all my alarms. During a boring phone call with my colleagues, I was surprised to hear a high-pitched squeak, and then a regular beeping for about a minute or so. Then it went away. How strange, I thought. Obviously something wrong with the switchboard at work, or something. Or maybe they'd pressed the 'call record' button or something. But it went away after a while, anyway. I paid it no mind.

... until later. When I was talking to someone else, not from work this time. I'll change some names to protect the innocent but preserve the flavour of the narrative. So, anyway, it was noted supermodel Naomi Campbell, calling me from her carphone. She was on her way to a conference with the International Association of Supermodels but had left her notes at home. "Relax, baby," I told her, "just take a few minutes before the presentation to sketch out your prepared topics and everything will be fine."

She was very pleased with my solution to the problem, but in the middle of this phone call.. another high-pitched squeak.. and then another minute of beeping. Naomi of course could not hear it, and thought that I was some kind of raving lunatic once I started discussing the issue - at some length - since it was clear that something was very wrong and that this was a clear sign that I was absolutely under surveillance as a result of my stupid friends and their stupid spy satellite codewords. I would have to buy a trenchcoat and a funny hat, and go around talking in code. Farmer Brown Milks His Pigs By Midnight, don't you know.

What is a boy to do? It was quite a worry. I discusssed options with Naomi. Perhaps the International Association of Supermodels could hide me in their safe house. I could iron their underwear and make them egg on toast, in exchange for sanctuary. It wouldn't be such a bad life, after all. I'm sure I'd get used to it after a while.

It wasn't until about half an hour later that I realised.. I paid BT for 'call waiting' a few weeks ago. I've just never had a call that has needed to wait before. And today I had two - which is what all the beeping was. It means, "you have a call waiting, thicko."

Was my face red. Ignoring the fact that any kind of good surveillance and tapping of my phone line is going to be done in a rather more expert way than having lights and sirens and beeps going off while I'm talking (which is, frankly, rather a giveaway, and would be swiftly detected by even the most inexpert of master-criminals,) I was instead very pleased to find a good and true explanation for the previously unexplained strangeness.

I thanked Naomi for her cool head in this hour of crisis. "You need me," she said. And you know something? I think I really do.

Max Power

I've braved delving around the dusty areas behind the back of my desk, in order to make some wiring changes that should help to save the planet.

After all, I care about the monkeys and toucans and dolphins of the rainforest, and I want to ensure that their valuable and vibrant homeland is preseved in a good state for many years to come. Plus, of course, electricity costs big money these days, so saving the planet saves the pound in your pocket. There's nothing not to like about that.

So tonight I indulged in a little re-wiring. I've got one of those "intelligent socket" things - had it for ages actually, but never done anything with it until now. Anyway, what it does, it's got six power sockets on it, and one of them is special, because if the thing plugged into the special socket is turned on, it turns all the other sockets on. And if the thing plugged into the special socket gets turned off, it turns off all the other sockets at the same time.

I've got my PC plugged into the special socket. So when I turn it on, all the other things turn on - the modem, the scanner, the laserprinter, the monitor, the network switch, the network storage drive, and some other network doodickeries that are too boring to talk about here.

So far so good. After all, turning all those things on has never been a problem before - but that's the point. Normally they're plugged in all the time. Which wastes electricity, even when they're not doing much.

Now, when I turn off the PC... boom! Out go the lights. Off goes the laser printer, along with the modem and the scanner and the monitor and the network switch and all the other things. It is very satisfying, and I now very much enjoy turning off my PC at any opportunity, in order to be filled with the frugal feeling of all the money that I'm saving. Oh, and the happy dolphins, of course.

This comes at a good time. After all, this time of year is traditionally a time when the sun puts its hat on and comes out to play all day, making everyone hot and sweaty. Very much a nuisance, and more so if you're in a room full of computers and laserprinters and network trouser presses which go heating the room up in a most unwanted fashion. So during this warm season I think I may try to turn my computer off at every opportunity, in order to keep cool while saving valuable pounds.

I'm just waiting for someone to come along and say "Oh, it's not good for electronics, turning them on and off all the time", but if that means my boxy old CRT monitor will finally go wrong so that I can replace it with a nice flat panel, then all the better. Who wouldn't be delighted with such a thing?

Damn

OK, so now that makes three films which make me cry.

1. Edward Scissorhands.

2. Chaplin

3. As Good As It Gets

Bah.

Everybody Loves Carpet

I can't get over how difficult it seems to be to buy carpet tiles in nice colours. Today I found another picture of how I would like my bedroom floor to look. Stylish, no?

I can't find anywhere online that sells carpet tiles in such an excellent variety of colours, so I fear that once the bank holiday is over I shall have to actually pluck up the courage to make an outgoing telephone call and speak to real proper actual other human beings (eek) in order to achieve my goal.

Wish me luck!