Oh baby,
you make my heart go crazy,
you are so mayonnaisey
Askew, they do, go all my words and phrasey,
I am in some new-found daze-y,
for you are so mayonnaisey
The other girls, they may be hollandaisey
sometimes even bolognesey,
but not like my mayonnaisey
That movie, not by M Scorsese,
But by the Mr Patrick Swayze,
For dirty dancing I am just too lazy,
so in closing, it is time to says-me,
that you are the sweetest daisy
and of course, so very mayonnaisey.
5.15am. A strange dream. I found myself (in a train station, again) talking to someone I didn't know. Either they or I needed to go off to do something, but would come back. Worried that we might get separated, and also not knowing who this other person was, I thought I would offer them my business card. (After all, this might cause them to reciprocate and hand over their own card which would yield details of their identity.)
So I reached into my pocket full of business cards.. and every one I pulled out wasn't mine. Or it was mine but had been written all over (which is something I do).. but mostly, the cards weren't mine.
Of course, dreams are stupid and don't mean anything. Still interesting, though.
I am inspired! I'm not sure if this is your average mid-life crisis, or whether I am reaching a great turning point in my life, but just recently, something has occured to me.
1) Nobody is going to give me my dream job. I'm going to have to make it for myself.
Inspired by the whole idea of (1), this evening I have listened to the audiobook version of "Anyone Can Do It", by noted Scottish Dragon, Mr Duncan Ballantyne. Having heard his inspirational tales of how he made millions by selling ice cream and building care homes, I have now progressed to a second realisation!
2) Working for a living is altogether far too much hassle.
From this, 1+2 leads on to the inevitability of my final conclusion:
3) I want to retire. Right now.
At last I have a life plan! "What do you want from your life?" is a question asked by all good self-help books. And several bad ones too. Up until now, I was not entirely sure. Now I am. I want to retire! So at least I now have a plan. How to get there is another matter entirely.
P.S. Also bought some more premium bonds.
I've got nine whole days to myself before I'm "back at work". OK, I'm probably going to be checking my email every so often during that time, but the point is I still have a week off work (plus two weekends at either side) - and I can't help but think that I should use the time well.
I'm not sure how my tidying project measures up, I seem to have come to a bit of a standstill on that at the moment. I'm trying to gee myself up to throw out a few hundred videotapes that are really perfectly OK but aren't any use to me (or, seemingly, anyone else). That'll make a small amount of space which I can tidy other things into. Plus I've got two storage boxes full of things that I really need to take photos of and put on eBay.
I'd really quite like to find ten million pounds from somewhere. Not just because having ten million pounds is probably quite nice, but I want to make great art, and stuff, and that kind of thing tends to be quite expensive. Ten million is probably what I'd need. In any case, while I'm sure that I still have plenty of bits and pieces that I could sell on eBay, I'm not sure that it's quite THAT valuable. But every little helps, I'm sure.
Nine days. I have been somewhat inactive these past few weeks. I really should do something. How to get in the mood... I wonder. It would be a shame not to spend the time productively...
I wasn't at work today. I am having a four-day weekend, the first of many leave days which I will be taking off this month and next month.
Today I did no work at all. Well, not much, anyway. A little. I kind of made the mistake of reading my email first thing in the morning, with the best of intentions, just to let my colleagues know what to be getting on with while I was out. Unfortunately while doing so I caught sight of someone in another department trying to cause a huge stink about what a crisis it would be if I was out of the office and could not do anything that they might need me to do.
So I kind of felt the need to respond to that, with some robustness. And then another one. And then another one as someone else from another department (but managed by the same person who looks after the first troublemaker's department) also got in on the act, having heard that I was on holiday and therefore taking their chance to cause a stink as well. How on earth can the business survive if Ant is not here to do these crucial things? (They ignore that even on holiday I'm always contactable and can sort stuff out quite easily.) Apparently it only strengthens their case (already stated in the past) that they need a "more reliable" solution "which does not rely on Ant". So I had to respond fairly robustly to that one, too.
I only really check my email when I'm out of the office just to make sure that no fires have broken out - so I don't really appreciate witnessing such obvious attempts at arson. It's not paranoia when everyone really is out to get you. :-)
The head of both troublemaker's departments is very disappointed that I cannot attend a face-to-face meeting next Thursday, which apparently is so important that they cannot take advantage of my considerable availability to do it via a conference call. Again I have had to be forceful. I am - or am intending to be - on holiday next Thursday as well, and I do not wish to have it portrayed as some kind of selfish act that I am taking an entitlement of my employment at a time which is otherwise the most convenient for the company as a whole.
Great people I seem to work with these days.
But all that aside, I did almost no work and instead did much relaxing, watching a few DVDs (including Die Hard 4.0, which is reasonably watchable) and not much else. And on Monday I shall try even harder still not to check my email at all.
I realise today that I still have lots of holiday which I have not taken. If I don't take it before the end of the year, I lose it all - and this year, I'm determined to take it all. It'll be the first of (thinks.. nine.. ten.. eleven...) twelve years where I've taken all my leave - not bad considering that for the first nine years or so, I didn't take any at all.
So it looks like I'm going to have quite a lot of spare time during November and almost all of December. This might be what getting fired feels like, except with email.
So, the plan. There is no time to lose. I must immediately take leave next Friday, and also the Monday following, to return on the Tuesday, working a blissful four day week until I take one whole entire week off - yes, that's five whole days, ladies and gentlemen - before returning for another four days, and off again on the Friday.
December kicks off with an all-day lie-in on Monday, then a three day week before a four day weekend. Three more days at work, then I'm taking the Friday, and the next week, and the next week, and the next week! By the time I'm back, it'll be the new year.
What on earth am I going to do with myself? Of course I guess I could just not take all those days off and work just for the sheer gosh-darned pleasure of it all. Ha ha. Maybe once. But not this year.
Expect hourly blogging over the Christmas period if I get too bored!
This evening I was sampling a delicious Capri-Sun beverage, as pictured here. Bursting with natural oranges, and such, and sporting some kind of funky sports top ideal for the busy olympic athlete such as I.
It was indeed very orangey, and the ideal accompaniment to my evening sandwich. But while engaging in this smörgåsbord of fine dining, I noticed that the packaging seemed to have an interesting effect of crumpling up as I drank. Perhaps the space-age doobry on the end was some kind of one-way valve, allowing easy refreshment to pour out, but no air to return into the package - ideal for the busy spaceman such as I.
I experimented, as any good scientist would do, blowing air into, and sucking air out of, the package. It seemed to retain its shape no matter what I did. Curious. There's obviously some kind of funky action going on here, I thought, and as a result I came to the conclusion that this must be some kind of spill-proof top or something.
Testing the thesis, I cupped my right hand (to catch any small droplets of juice which may leak if the experiment fails) while tipping the alien technology packaging with my left. It's not long before I discover two things. One - there is nothing space-age about this packaging at all and if you tip the juice, it comes out. Two - a cupped hand is no place to store orange juice, even when poured gently, let alone gushing out of its low-tech packaging, as it is currently doing. Where are NASA's rocket scientists now, eh?
Result - orange juice everywhere. T-shirt soaked. Trousers soaked. Underwear soaked. Juice on chair. Juice on floor.
Forget the sharp objects, I clearly shouldn't be allowed near anything. Complicated foods like crackers and cheese are one thing, but if I can't even handle orange juice, I'd better give up any thoughts of being allowed near any kind of food ever again.
It's not for me to examine my own navel, but upon discovering that this would be my 100th blog posting, it put me in a mood to somehow celebrate the occasion. And what better way by looking back on my so-far illustrious career in blog-type-entertainment?
It was on September 10th 2006 that things started, with me noticing as I do that my blog had been viewed 8 times before I had even written a single word. Clearly a good sign, and more than a year on, I can report that AOL's blog counter is no more reliable now than it was then. It has reset itself back to '0' at least twice this year already, thus leaving me unable to measure the audience in any meaningful fashion. Ho hum.
It was not long before I was paying attention to how gorgeous I am, albeit strictly in a virtual kind of sense, before moving to the always good-value subject of Lies My Parents Told Me (Volume One), which reminds me that don't think I ever did get around to Volume Two and the delightful story of the tomato. Then again, I might have done so and just forgotten it - I have lots of things to think about after all and sometimes there is not enough room between my ears.
Attempting some 'lifestyle blogging' about infeasible smoothies was very Daily Mail and entirely a disaster that I didn't see fit to repeat. Then the first in a long range of mental musings set more of a pattern for what was to come. All this and I'd only been blogging for a week, too.
That seemed to jinx things and the next week went entirely unblogged apart from the recycling of The Ridiculous Frog Song and, the very same day, my hilarious take on how 3-2-1 worked which I will still admit to being rather pleased with. Trouble was soon to follow as I wondered how to feed myself when Tesco's website was down or how I would ever play the piano again as a unidexter.
Not bad for a first month's work, soon followed by many other entries not entirely worthy of mention, although the hilarious battery story is always a crowd-pleaser, and might explain why I was still single. Luscious Ladies clearly overlooked the fact that I invented blogging but then again back then my bedroom was such a tip that I couldn't have invited them upstairs for coffee even if I'd wanted to. I was lucky to see anyone at all, even a greasy Talk Talk salesman who I really should have gone all John-Smeaton on. But hindsight is always 20/20.
My grand plans to mess with people's clocks came to nought, but at least there were reasons to be cheerful - of course, talking about how delighted I was by my gas boiler was bound to cause me trouble later. But at least I knew how to fix things like a nerd, which is always an attractive quality. Things were no tidier in November, but that would change later too. Next month I got a dirty email from Amazon, which was always going to be prime blogging territory, and wrote the first of two entries about dreaming, and the start of the incredibly long-running and crowd-pleasing King Of Postage series.
By the new year I was feeling literary, in between trying to tidy up and thinking about Speak & Spell and reading more dirty email. Tidying progress was slow, as this horrifying picture shows, which required the launching of The War On Elastic Bands and its sister conflict, The War On Lightbulbs and non-stop boring updates on Project Tidy. Life indoors is still warm but expensive as I settled in to the realisation that I'd probably be tidying up all year before I got anywhere. Not until much later would I have floor space upon which to dance and swing cats. Even then it did not prevent the blizzard of boring articles about cardboard boxes from coming. :-)
In the midst of all the excitement, I never did find out why Yul Brynner was unavaialble.
I notice that I'm still having persistent recurring dreams about being at school. This is kind of strange - clearly the highly symbolic and Freudian act of shredding my old school books (inexplicably hoarded for 19 years) has had no effect. So why do these dreams recur?
There's usually some variation in the circumstances surrounding it, but the basic dream generally involves me not being at school. Somehow I'm late, or don't want to go, or haven't been for a while. Either way, I'm absent in a way that I probably shouldn't be.
The other night's dream revolved around these usual themes, although I recall that this time I was about a week away from leaving school for good - but nonetheless I didn't really feel like going. Seeking to back up my decision, I thought about which subjects would be on the timetable if I were to attend today - and of course I couldn't remember what lessons were at what times, or even which room they are in. Which is not surprising, because I left school nearly twenty years ago. Even so, the awkward feeling of not remembering the timetable is also a recurring element of the school-based dreams, even in the ones where I'm actually at school and not bunking off.
I wonder why these themes haunt me. I have similar recurring dreams about trains. Now maybe this makes a bit more sense because on the rare occasion that I do happen to leave the house, I usually travel around by train. Of course, in the dreams, I'm usually at Waterloo, waiting for a train which doesn't seem to turn up, or is on a platform I can't find, or which doesn't actually move, or something like that. If I do manage to board a train that starts moving, it's usually going to the wrong place. Or I'm just not quite sure where it is.
Hmm. There's a common theme here... Not being where I should be, either because of circumstances or my own lax attitude to regular attendance.
Wait, there's a third recurring dream - walking around trying to find a toilet. Outdoors, indoors, up and down stairs and through doors.. lots of doors. And lifts too. Plus, irony of ironies, when I find a convenient convenience, there is usually something wrong with it. The door doesn't have a lock on it. There are other people watching. All things which conspire to preventing the happy pee time which I seek. Of course that's probably a good thing, because when I wake up, I really really want to go actually and for real. That must be why I can't actually go in the dream, because if I ever did find that perfect secluded locked toilet, I'd be wetting the bed, which at the age of 35 is generally considered impolite at best.
I bet other people don't write things like this in their blogs. I wonder if I've got any more pictures of kittens anywhere.
This evening the cooking of my macho manly dinner was disrupted by a kitchen failure. Namely, the oven door would not close in the way that is normally required for efficient cooking of a man's meat. For the purpose of illustration, the door is seen here, screen right, in the silver colour which mine is not, accompanied by cheese and vegetables and lovely worktops which my kitchen does not contain.
A troubling situation. Dinner had to be aborted, replaced at the last minute with that which could be cooked on the top of the cooker. However, this did not mean that the fight was over, no sir.
As the evening rolled around, and the cooker had cooled down, it was probably under the impression that it was victorious. No sir, for into the kitchen I burst, armed with an armful of screwdrivers, ready for revenge. Within moments the door is open and I am looking for screws. Two on the top, two underneath. It probably thought that the underneath screws, being difficult to access, would be enough to save it, but no. Seconds later the cooker is down, on the floor, on its side, where I can access all of its parts with ease. It's not a fight, it's an execution. And it is not long before the door is off and I am examining the strange mechanism by which it stays shut and/or open.
It's a strange little dealie with springs and rollers and stuff. There wasn't a whole lot I could do with it, but jabbing it a few times with a screwdriver at least seemed to restore proper operation for the moment. I did consider spraying it liberally with WD40, but paused once I noted the word "FLAMMABLE" on the tin. Coming to the conclusion that flammable solvents are perhaps not a good thing to have hanging around the inside of your oven, I chose not to use the lubricant. Purely for the wellbeing of the city's women and children, of course, and not because I am scared. If my cooker bursts into flames then I'll have that thing down on the ground again in the blink of an eye, just like John Smeaton.
It seems that a little prodding has made it work right again - the best kind of repair - so I put it all back together again. I also took the time to examine whether the earth wire should be hanging off like that, and during my investigation I was forced to unscrew the wall socket to assist with my enquiries. Also fine.
There are ten million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them. Now where's my dinner..
