Fish Fingers

I was eating fish fingers and couldn’t think of a title ok? FYI they are best eaten in large quantities (6+) with a nice pinkish swirling of ketchup and mayo. *Burp*

Moving on; I was in quiet repose with a cup of coffee this morning when I had a sudden wave of guilt for not posting for a while. This usually passes as this one nearly did. That is until I sat down with a stack of the aforementioned and went through my email to find that a friend had sensibly upgraded her domain to direct to her blog, when I see that Idleness is listed as a suggested read.  Interestingly I reside beside my ex’s blog. She is a far more accomplished writer IMHO so if you have stumbled here from Moon Landings (another ex from long long ago and a very sound lady. Employ her, you won’t regret it) then I suggest you read some proper decent English and go to Musings From The Sofa.

Still here? Right then, a small catch-up. Car sold to Harold and Albert. Heard of dirty money? This lad paid nearly ten grand in the dampest, stinkiest twenty pound notes. You know how the bank counts notes by weighing them? No chance as these were too damp. And smelly. Really really smelly. The cashier was not thrilled at having to hand count the entire lot.

Uni starts in less than a week and I am apprehensive and anticipatory in equal measure. Like most things I have imagined they rarely turn out to be as elaborate as that which I have designed and constructed in my mind. I am expecting to be surrounded by a load of Marxists who think that the Labour Party is a load of centre ground sell-outs. This view has been based upon one meeting I attended where there was a proper swivel-eyed loon who was too easy to goad (I resisted). Good value in small doses as he firmly believed that PR companies, whatever their size, existed solely to put a glossy spin on the exploitation of a firm’s workers. All points were made with much finger jabbing, bulging eyes and a final, if repetitive, verbal flourish of advocating revolution as the only credible answer. To everything. I then got a reading list, which contained some *ahem* interestingly presented arguments. Finally, the list for societies to join during Freshers week has a certain bent. I have no truck with the People of Palestine yet nor do I wish to overtly show friendship by enrolling with the Friends of Palestine. I can only imagine the meetings; The People’s Front For The Liberation of Judea anyone? Still, Freshers Week proper is the following week. I’ll see if there is a bourgeois socialists Porsche driving wine appreciation society, or similar. Additionally I can’t wait for my Bod Card as it means 1yr of swimming is £80. Bargain. All that aside I am looking forward to it immensely and wondering about the right time to deploy red trousers and moleskin jacket.

Living life in reverse is what I have dubbed my existence now. I am a bicycle only student with a bar job where I am surrounded by beautiful people half my age that seem to live a work, drug and alcohol fuelled existence. It’s a funny mix as I refuse to live in the typical student hovel, my girlfriend is a grown-up with a proper job and a dog, I look at drugs and think “yeah, been there, not anymore,  thanks for your kind offer” in a genuinely polite way as offering ones stash to strangers is nothing if not generous and costly.

Am five days away from another juddering change of direction. To put it all in perspective Heloise casually asked me during breakfast the other day, “Daddy, where is the edge of the universe?” We jointly decided that our entire universe was but a single atom in the universe of another little girl.

Less Tease, More Confession

Do you remember that I promised to weave all the amazing people I met a few weeks ago into a side-splittingly witty  post? It was going to be my best bit of writing, yet it’s not going to happen.

To be really, really funny, in my world at least, there needs to be a slight edge of nastiness. After all, how else can you be cutting without an edge? The truth is that I really liked all the people I met, from the Bertie Wooster type though to the men of the cloth, my hosts and The Paperclip. All thoroughly decent coves (I thank you, Mr Wodehouse).

However, assiduous followers of this blog, numbering under ten at the moment, will know that pretty recently I realised a childhood dream which saw me tick off the longest standing item on my bucket list. I finally bought a Porsche 911 Carrera. Unkindly, but rather humorously, I was told that I had had a mid-life crisis and now had a Menoporsche.

I had invested the realisation of this childhood dream with extraordinary expectation. I am struggling to understand why it isn’t happening as per the script in my head.

It is extraordinarily beautiful. It is German so impeccably bolted together and is rewarding to clean and polish and then admire. On the throttle the flat-six 3.4l motor sounds awesome. It is easily one of the best handling cars I have driven, although when pressed a little it can understeer a tad with all the weight in the back. It is quick. Not fast but reasonably quick. Others may think it is fast, such as the policeman mate I took for a ride yesterday, but then he drives shitty little Vauxhall Astra’s where the 0-60 time is expressed as a “please apply in writing’ figure and to blue light them is hardly different to ordinary driving. When we nudged 110mph he was wide eyed. I told him that on the bit of road between the M40 and Bicester it does a 140mph in 4th, which earned me a raised eyebrow. At least I think it was that. For a pretty unflappable 6’3” copper, and despite the seatbelt,  he seemed to be trying to coil himself into the footwell for some inexplicable reason.

I think I have been spoiled for performance and thrills by the many motorbikes I have owned and ridden. It’s hard to impress me with a car that does 0-60mph in 6 sec when I have owned bikes that do it in half that time and do 0-100mph in second gear. 160kph for you sensible metric nations.

Gorgeous from any angle.
Gorgeous from any angle.

However, it’s not just about the power because as any fule knos: you can purchase horsepower. It is about the dismay of the entire package failing to wow me as I had expected.

And that is most unexpected.

Who’da Thunk It?

I had just written two of the best constructed, thoughtful and generally excellent paragraphs of my entire output when the wretched wi-fi crashed out and I lost it all. Bugger, bugger and thrice bugger. Re-writing has started afresh in Word.

As an aside I’m beginning to wonder if this converted old coach house I live in wasn’t  once a special secret nuclear test lab with lead lining in the walls. The office is at one end and the bedroom the other with the router is in the centre about 20ft away from either end. The computer is constantly struggling to stay connected. Suggestions greatly appreciated.

The more I try to write “well”, e.g.; engaging style, no grammatical howlers etc, the harder it gets. The old saying, “ignorance is bliss” could hardly be more apt.

As this post has been composed over several days (another first) my thoughts are turning to my bucket list. I tried my best to have the worst year on record last year – largely succeeding – so that has motivated me to stop drifting through life in the way many people do. Having ticked off a major, by dint of the fact it has been one of the oldest items on the list, a mid-life crisis sports car, I am now thinking about other items. The standard adrenaline junkie things of my youth, like bungee jumping (do it once and done), free-fall parachuting (scope for more creativity but essentially falling from a great height) seem a bit passé somehow. I am now wondering how to repopulate the list. After all, there is no point chucking money at things that leave you feeling a bit “so what is the fuss all about?”. I want either proper scary ‘hoooooly sheeeeit” sort of thrills or some deep mental satisfaction.

Dom & Heloise

I did receive a really cool present recently that generates the sort of mental satisfaction that I think I ought to include on my list, as I am unfamiliar with the feeling. It appeals to the traditionalist and the techhie in me as was a portrait of me with my daughter done by a proper artist, but produced digitally.

It’s a bit like hearing a recording of oneself. There are feelings of is that really me about it. Very cool though  as I feel that the essence of both of us has been captured in just a few lines, which has to be harder to do than a full colouring in job. I will now be able to nod wisely and talk about sitting for the artist etc etc… In reality I was photographed extensively w. H and it was all done from there.

‘Nuff rambling on. Suggestions for the list appreciated. The more left field the better.

PS: The brilliant title is not my original thought but a well used phrase from that esteemed organ, Private Eye.