Eh? What Did You Say The Time Was?

Simple stuff to start the day on. After all, there is no point getting too heavy too soon. Plenty of time to get sad and introspective later.

Do you know what I mean when you look at your watch through semi-scrunched up eyes in a darkish room and think, “oh, half six, time to get up”? Obviously a totally alien thought to many but in my world it’s the correct time to rise to get things done (enough of me moralising, you know who you lazy bastards are) and you drag yourself out of bed to think, “Christ on a bike, I’m knackered. Must get to bed before 2300 etc etc” and start going through the motions of making cawfee when you make a quick glance at the clock on the stove, see it says it is three minutes past six and with a deft wrist motion flick open the computer to disprove this damnable lie. Four minutes past six. Confirmed. Watch obviously said half five and not half six. Damn and double damn. If I was down wiv da kidz this would be the time for a WTF????

I have used the twenty four hour clock for time for as long as I can remember so all the AM times are prefaced with a zero pronounced “oh” like the letter. This puts me in mind of Robin Williams playing Adrian Cronauer in Good Morning Vietnam – get this, in 1987! He announces the time as 0600, and, “what does the 0 stand for? Oh my god it’s early.”

Apparently Wiliams improvised a whole ton of the script when shooting the film. They just rolled the cameras and let him go. It is a cruel rumour but apparently the Bolivian Marching Powder may had a teensy bit to do with it. Regardless, This is well worth a few minutes of your time as this is indeed comedy gold from 1987. 

Oh god, the Bialetti didn’t get all the water through so I have had syrupy black coffee that you was thick enough to apply via strong rubbing to the forehead and chest. Sod coke (the powdered variety), this is hardcore buzzing. If I don’t rot a hole in my guts I think I am going to buzz out of control. Having done the obligatory experimentation with drugs in my youth I can safely say that this is up there. I am even short of breath. And all during my morning constitutional w the Mad Septic I have kept nipping into the bushes for immediate relief. Look on the bright side though, the Bialetti didn’t explode peppering my naked torso with semi-molten chunks of cheap shrapnel. You know it would just maim and probably blind you. If that kind of thing happens to me I want to be killed outright, minimum pain and for the device to work right first time. Just saying.

To keep the blowing up thread going I was walking in Oxford with the Mad Septic and as a small car, obviously a rental car with a young Muslim male at the wheel pulled out I remarked that seeing the three things combined I couldn’t stop myself looking to see if the rear springs were badly compressed and whether he had the look of someone who had not used their own card to rent it. It’s a hire car and was being treated so nicely. Obviously been PV’d by Enterprise so what do I know? Much laughing – at me – and the Mad Septic announced that you never hear of old Swedish grannie’s blowing themselves up, which is true, you don’t. In fact, I have never heard of a pensioner perpetrating a suicide attack. Old people realise they are getting to the end of a time-limited contract and have way too much dignity to go blowing themselves up. However, it must be a slight sense of accomplishment and social righteousness when you can talk an impressionable young fool into doing so. Natural selection and all that. Additionally, females in general seem too clever to fall for the seventy-two virgins line and as a slight aside, I don’t want virgins but rather well seasoned porn stars that know exactly what they are doing with my bits and if I am really lucky a finger might sneak into areas God never intended. I have died in a courageous and righteous manner and want to have some fun. I deserve it. I guess young guys haven’t had the time to develop into old pervs who have thought this through. Oh Lord, I am going straight to hell – as if that wasn’t a known knowns. Must concentrate. Why are young men so easy to radicalise with religion, politics or a mixture of the two?

If you are now wondering if I am just a simple racist bastard using long words then you are only partially correct. I am not racist and was just indulging in profiling and not personal value judgements.

A semi-literate bastard? Correct.  I don’t know if my parents were actually married when I was conceived (on a yacht in Sydney Harbour if my mother is to be believed) so in theory I could be an actual bastard as well. Who’d a thunk it?

PS: I promised to do a post around some cool pics I was sent. Later. I shall then submit it all to the magnificent Lisa for excoriating comments and a bit of editing.

A Younger Woman’s Bed

I went to Stories Aloud last night for their first birthday. Yay Sarah. Good work. There were two authors there who both agreed that – newsflash – writing needs to be worked at. It is probably arrogance ( I am reminded of the famous Thatcher reply when asked if she was pretentious – who, moi?) but as writing is one of the few things I seem to be happy plugging away at and quite enjoy I have decided to give a slightly longer piece a go. I have a thing about slightly edgy titles as I believe it accomplishes the internet version of a flashy cover in Blackwell’s et al. The bed bit is coming. I promise.

Her name is, well, that’s not important and I met her through a friend. She has two neurotic cats that I think I am allergic to, in a nice little flat in Oxford. Being the all round super guy that I am I stepped in to cat-sit when she had been let down at the last moment and they had already paid for their tickets.

On the surface it is just fine. A seven-day sideways step can’t be that tricky. Can it?

I have turned on the slightly baffling monster telly two or three times now. Turns out that it is possible to watch all-day police pornography shows with satellite TV. Who’d a thunk it? 20/20 cricket is ok, though not as soothing as Test Match stuff but the gem in all of this is a channel called Sky Arts HD. I didn’t know the Dirty Digger thought culture was anything other than something that grew on old yoghurt.

Opera’s, organ recitals and the like. organI was fascinated as they tried to sex-up an organ recital by placing cameras inside the organ and then doing tight-in shots of  hands and feet playing the beast then immediately cutting away to the corresponding action shots from within. I am now much better informed as to what happens inside all the guts of the organ. Strangely though, I was just enjoying the impressive panning shots of this behemoth of an instrument and the up-skirt internal organ shots added nothing. Still, I guess they are trying. However, I can take about 20 min then it’s telly off and back to my book, or more usually my keyboard.

I have shopped for what I eat and drink in Waitrose so am more comfortable that I don’t need to survive on Kraft Dinners kraft dinnerand an odd little coffe machine. Proper espresso, industrial strength from a Bialetti stove top type thing. There is always that slight frisson of “will it explode and kill me with some cheap cast aluminium shrapnel?”. I find the post-brew survival adds to the caffeine buzz. Cheese, red wine and bananas were also lacking. No fear Waitrose is here so all is good on the comestibles front now.

In my bedroom I have an old mattress that needs changing, an orthopaedic pillow – that also needs changing – but most importantly of all I have a lovely down duvet with nice John Lewis Egyptian cotton bed linen. In her room it is a nice but slightly too firm mattress, bed linen with a bit of synthetic fibres making me sweat like a man on death-row capped off with a synthetic duvet. It doesn’t drape very well but rather it just uses your body as the apex point to form a mini circus tent. Due to my increasing years and general softness – I talk about Rule #5 but don’t always follow it – I want the duvet to settle over me and form a nice and gentle hermetic seal all around my body.

I am not used to waking up in a young woman’s bed slightly cold and sweating on such a regular basis.