Thursday, 20 August 2009
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Monday, 17 August 2009
Basketbawful-ly good, as it happens.
Considering that I don't give two hoots about basketball, I'm really enjoying reading Basketbawful, especially the Livin' Large section, which details the university year that our narrator, Matt, spent rooming with a basketball 'scholar' from Holland, Mat. It's a window on a whole other world, and it's very sharply written: the perfect ingredients for a great blog. Not only this, but it's tender too Check this.
What hooked me in, most of all, is that he's a Meat Loaf fan too. We're a rare and special breed.
Great stuff.
I went out for a short, fast ride down to the Mersey, then along the TPT. It was a glorious evening, and I was riding right into the falling sun. I love my bike so much. Not so good, though, was that I caught another bloody snakebite puncture in a rough patch, and had to push back from the Bridgewater Canal. Punctures bum me out big style. I wonder how much a cycle pressure gauge costs. Time to get one maybe?
I know it's been my tendency to ridicule the feelings I had for Aimee and the way I behaved while in the throes of first love, so I should also point out that that was the happiest I had ever been in my life to that point. In fact, I had prior to that never believed I could be so happy. So while my sappiness was embarrassingly sappy, it was the best and most honest emotion my 18-year-old self had ever felt. Life is tough. People should always be grateful for whatever euphoric happiness they can find. And I'm happy I got to experience the crazy.
What hooked me in, most of all, is that he's a Meat Loaf fan too. We're a rare and special breed.
However, a fight almost broke out when we were cruising around in Greg's car, a sweet-ass 1957 Chevy Impala. Meat Loaf's "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights" came on, and we all sung it together up until the woman's part. At which point Gauvin continued singing. By the time Gauvin belted out, "would you take me away, will you make me your wife," Greg was freaking out.
"DUDE," he yelled. "YOU DO NOT SING THE CHICK'S PART!"
Gauvin realized his faux pas but refused to back down. "Whatever. I can sing whatever part I want."
Greg's eyes bulged. "THE GIRL'S PART? SERIOUSLY?!"
Great stuff.
I went out for a short, fast ride down to the Mersey, then along the TPT. It was a glorious evening, and I was riding right into the falling sun. I love my bike so much. Not so good, though, was that I caught another bloody snakebite puncture in a rough patch, and had to push back from the Bridgewater Canal. Punctures bum me out big style. I wonder how much a cycle pressure gauge costs. Time to get one maybe?
“Smile ‘em to death”
My closest colleague has been increasingly surly of late. By closest, I mean geographically and professionally, rather than personally; I’m not really friends with any of the people I work with. For the last few weeks, her morning demeanour has been icy. No greeting to start the day, no questions about how my weekend was (on a Monday), or what I got up to last night (for the rest of the week), or what my plans for the weekend might be (on a Friday).
“Smile ‘em to death,” has been my approach so far. Try to be chirpy, keen, energetic, and happy. Face frowns and glares with smiles and wait for the frost to thaw. Assume good faith. Pay it forward. Be positive.
My approach has achieved neither of its aims: I’ve not thawed my colleagues frosty attitudes; nor has acting in accordance with my values offered the route to success. The former is disappointing, the latter especially so: to what extent should I compromise to get by.
Not that it’s affecting my work. Just how happy I am at work. Is happiness important? It’s been that long since I was happy at work that I really can’t tell.
“Smile ‘em to death,” has been my approach so far. Try to be chirpy, keen, energetic, and happy. Face frowns and glares with smiles and wait for the frost to thaw. Assume good faith. Pay it forward. Be positive.
My approach has achieved neither of its aims: I’ve not thawed my colleagues frosty attitudes; nor has acting in accordance with my values offered the route to success. The former is disappointing, the latter especially so: to what extent should I compromise to get by.
Not that it’s affecting my work. Just how happy I am at work. Is happiness important? It’s been that long since I was happy at work that I really can’t tell.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Liz and Liz
Liz B, my first ever girlfriend, got married yesterday. I just saw the photos on Facebook. It made me think it'd be a good idea to tell Liz S, my last girlfriend, that there are no hard feelings on my part. I like the idea that you can be friends with your exes.
I'm only really friends with one of them though.
So it goes.
I'm only really friends with one of them though.
So it goes.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
I went to Blackpool, and it was shit.
Rather than go to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I opted to get an early night and get off to Blackpool first thing.
"Why are you going to Blackpool? It's horrible."
My colleagues, my friends and my housemates all asked the same question. I didn't know what the answer was. I'd never been. Perhaps that was it. What could be nicer than a sunny August day by the sea?
I didn't get a sunny August day by the sea though. I got cold, heavy rain. I made a mistake - I made several, as it happens, but this was a big one - by getting out of the train a stop early for "a quick look at the Pleasure Beach." What looked like light drizzle from inside the train was far from that. Horrible icy rain. I put on my jumper, but it didn't make much difference. Within fifteen minutes I was soaked. Rain had soaked through my cargo shorts, through my underpants, through my jumper, and through my bag. My trainers sloshed with every step I took. I ducked into an arcade and tried to use my phone's GPS to find my way. My phone was wet. My beautiful new phone. Oh fuck. Should I continue to wander blindly around town, and get wet, or try to dry off in the amusements? What a predicament. Water dripped from my elbows. I saw a TK Maxx sign, and decided to head into the shopping centre. I headed for the toilets to try to dry off a bit. Not good. I put my phone in the path of the hand dryer and left it there. When it stopped, I put the phone back underneath. Three times. Four times. The dryer shorted out. I moved onto the next one for more of the same. Still no joy. Shit. I was sort of dry from the wrist down now, having tried to rescue my phone. I tramped to Primark, and bought a new t-shirt and a hoody to wear to keep me warm. I asked for a plastic bag, to transplant my wet gear into. "We only do paper I'm afraid mate," he said, "a bit daft for somewhere as wet as Blackpool, eh?" Very daft, I thought. "Thank you," I said. Back to the toilets to change out of my dripping uppers and into the new gear. My mood still stank, thinking of my phone. My underwear was still wet too. I wanted to go home. Where was the bloody train station?
I stepped out of the shopping centre to glorious sunshine.
It was half twelve. If I'd have gone to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I would be arriving around now. So it goes. I got on the train.
"Why are you going to Blackpool? It's horrible."
My colleagues, my friends and my housemates all asked the same question. I didn't know what the answer was. I'd never been. Perhaps that was it. What could be nicer than a sunny August day by the sea?
I didn't get a sunny August day by the sea though. I got cold, heavy rain. I made a mistake - I made several, as it happens, but this was a big one - by getting out of the train a stop early for "a quick look at the Pleasure Beach." What looked like light drizzle from inside the train was far from that. Horrible icy rain. I put on my jumper, but it didn't make much difference. Within fifteen minutes I was soaked. Rain had soaked through my cargo shorts, through my underpants, through my jumper, and through my bag. My trainers sloshed with every step I took. I ducked into an arcade and tried to use my phone's GPS to find my way. My phone was wet. My beautiful new phone. Oh fuck. Should I continue to wander blindly around town, and get wet, or try to dry off in the amusements? What a predicament. Water dripped from my elbows. I saw a TK Maxx sign, and decided to head into the shopping centre. I headed for the toilets to try to dry off a bit. Not good. I put my phone in the path of the hand dryer and left it there. When it stopped, I put the phone back underneath. Three times. Four times. The dryer shorted out. I moved onto the next one for more of the same. Still no joy. Shit. I was sort of dry from the wrist down now, having tried to rescue my phone. I tramped to Primark, and bought a new t-shirt and a hoody to wear to keep me warm. I asked for a plastic bag, to transplant my wet gear into. "We only do paper I'm afraid mate," he said, "a bit daft for somewhere as wet as Blackpool, eh?" Very daft, I thought. "Thank you," I said. Back to the toilets to change out of my dripping uppers and into the new gear. My mood still stank, thinking of my phone. My underwear was still wet too. I wanted to go home. Where was the bloody train station?
I stepped out of the shopping centre to glorious sunshine.
It was half twelve. If I'd have gone to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I would be arriving around now. So it goes. I got on the train.
Friday, 14 August 2009
"Today I didn't even have to use my AK"
Durex gave me a lift to Bolton in the morning - I was off to get my stitches out. Finally! An end to all this root canal rubbish! Lucinda, as always, was brilliant. I'm hoping I don't have to go and see her again - that my teeth won't cause me any more problems - but at the same time I was a little sad at the thought of not seeing her again. So it goes, I suppose.
Back to work, and - luckily - my idiotic transgression from yesterday seems to have borne none of the foul fruit it could have. I must give the impression that I'm expecting a gun rack shipment via eBay. I'm glad it was kicked to the kerb, and that it doesn't looks like there'll be any kind of awkward meetup as a consequence of my error. Phew, what a relief! Case closed!
I bought Persepolis for Tracy at lunchtime - a birthday gift. I called her - and she was just around the corner in town. Brilliant! As I headed round to meet her, I strolled past Vicky and her David. I'd finished on the phone, but I kept it by my ear. Case closed, I'd said, so let's leave it that way. Tracy was very pleased with the book. It was lovely to see her.
I met the casual sex girl from work for Friday pint after work club - just the pair of us, as usual. After a bit of a catch up - we hadn't hung out since she and I had a bit of a to-do about her wanting to date me - her ex showed up. The poor lad is taking their recent break-up pretty badly, and now he's been made redundant. He was only dumped by her a couple of months ago. We left the Lass to hide out from him in Odder. Halfway down our next pint, he showed up there too. Oh dear! So we turned around and scooted into the Thirsty Scholar. He didn't find us. I enjoyed re-acquainting myself with her on entirely non-romantic, non-sexual terms. Win!
On the bus home, I leafed through the new Economist, a Friday pleasure like no other. China's trade in South America, US air-bases in Columbia - all pretty standard (interesting, but dense) Economist fare. The obituary was for Benson, a carp, and was exquisitely written.
Nothing I read about Michael Jackson was as eloquent. What a fish, and - oh my! - what a newspaper!
When I got home, Kate was watching TV, but with no real purpose. QI wasn't on, nor was Jonathan Ross. I flicked a bit, and found something about allotments. "Oh wow," said Kate as she came back into the room, "this was the film that I worked on!" It was called Grow Your Own, and I thought it was pretty good. Kate was full of little nuggets about what she'd done during individual scenes. It was like having a director's commentary, only with the costume department. I only wish I'd seen it all.
All in all, I have to say, today was a good day.
Back to work, and - luckily - my idiotic transgression from yesterday seems to have borne none of the foul fruit it could have. I must give the impression that I'm expecting a gun rack shipment via eBay. I'm glad it was kicked to the kerb, and that it doesn't looks like there'll be any kind of awkward meetup as a consequence of my error. Phew, what a relief! Case closed!
I bought Persepolis for Tracy at lunchtime - a birthday gift. I called her - and she was just around the corner in town. Brilliant! As I headed round to meet her, I strolled past Vicky and her David. I'd finished on the phone, but I kept it by my ear. Case closed, I'd said, so let's leave it that way. Tracy was very pleased with the book. It was lovely to see her.
I met the casual sex girl from work for Friday pint after work club - just the pair of us, as usual. After a bit of a catch up - we hadn't hung out since she and I had a bit of a to-do about her wanting to date me - her ex showed up. The poor lad is taking their recent break-up pretty badly, and now he's been made redundant. He was only dumped by her a couple of months ago. We left the Lass to hide out from him in Odder. Halfway down our next pint, he showed up there too. Oh dear! So we turned around and scooted into the Thirsty Scholar. He didn't find us. I enjoyed re-acquainting myself with her on entirely non-romantic, non-sexual terms. Win!
On the bus home, I leafed through the new Economist, a Friday pleasure like no other. China's trade in South America, US air-bases in Columbia - all pretty standard (interesting, but dense) Economist fare. The obituary was for Benson, a carp, and was exquisitely written.
PETERBOROUGH, in the English Midlands, is a red-brick town, best known as the midway point on the line between King’s Cross and York. But from the bottom of Kingfisher Lake, just outside it, urban toil seems far away. There, all is most delightful silt and slime. A push of your probing nose sends up puffs and clouds of fine mud through the water. A riff of bubbles rises, silvery, towards the surface. The green reeds quiver, and sunlight ripples down almost to the depths where you are lurking, plump and still.
Nothing I read about Michael Jackson was as eloquent. What a fish, and - oh my! - what a newspaper!
When I got home, Kate was watching TV, but with no real purpose. QI wasn't on, nor was Jonathan Ross. I flicked a bit, and found something about allotments. "Oh wow," said Kate as she came back into the room, "this was the film that I worked on!" It was called Grow Your Own, and I thought it was pretty good. Kate was full of little nuggets about what she'd done during individual scenes. It was like having a director's commentary, only with the costume department. I only wish I'd seen it all.
All in all, I have to say, today was a good day.
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