Rainy days and Mondays.....

 Rainy days and Mondays…..

Yesterday was a lazy day and today has been well, indolent as well, although not quite as slothful as yesterday. The early morning was besmirched by clouds releasing water, and I just attended to the ablutions of the day at an almost glacial pace. This slow method has been greatly aided by a recent addition to my smartphone's collection of apps. I downloaded a Ma-jong game, which, I confess, has prickled the addictive aspect of my nature and in the space of a week or so, I’ve gone from zero to level 132. Perhaps I should not take it into the bathroom with me, for an hour on the loo is perhaps forty minutes too long!

In a break in the cloud I ventured out; I got halfway down the road when it was dry no more and for the rest of the day (until I’d gotten back to the apartment) it rained. Sometimes it was soft and gentle like a cooling mist spray, whilst other times it was so heavy the dancing soldiers were as high as my knees. Do you know what dancing soldiers are? I’m not sure if that is a well-known expression or if it's just a certain section of the population that will have a Scooby what I’m referring to. Anyway, dancing soldiers are the resulting upward splash a raindrop causes when it lands in water. Like a puddle, river or sea. If you look closely, it is like a long thin upward jet preceded by a little round drop, which, in the right light, look similar to dancing toy soldiers. At least in my mind they do, and an old sailor once told me that’s what they were known as in the navy and it's just stuck.

There are a number of museums in Melbourne city centre, which is ideal for academically enlightened tourists and those like me, seeking to escape from the rain. It is amazing what you can see when you’re trying to escape a savage drenching downpour. I’m sure there are some that would balk a the price of $15 - $40 to shelter from the rain, but it’s the same price as a coffee and fancy pastry at that crowded cafe up the road by the station, and only one of those two locations will expand your mind!

     

In the Immigration Museum you’ll see hundreds of passports on the wall, some with stamps in and some with stories. Being from Europe, where they don’t stamp passports any more, I rather miss that old-fashioned activity. Indeed, these days with ‘Electronic Travel Authorities’, ‘e-Visas’ and machine-readable chips, fewer and fewer nations have their border guards get out the old ink pad and stamp. Yes, I miss those stamps; when I was a twenty-something, you could open my passport and find a stamp on most pages. It functioned as both an identity document and travel journal; flicking through the pages, each inky blob would cause an avalanche of memories of a place and a time. United States on the first page, two over is a number of stamps from repeated trips to Canada, then there was a blue smudge that I think was Norway, or maybe it was Malta! I’ve got a few stamps stuck in my current passport from going in to Japan, but very little else. Yes, I miss the long-gone halcyon days of stamping passports.

Outside in the rain, the city takes on a different atmosphere, fewer tourists and visitors on the streets, while shoppers are safely ensconced in their retail havens. Office workers tend to lunch at their desks rather than head to the Babajan or K-Street Toast. Only those who have to be out, moving between locations or rushing this way or that, are braving the weather. Oh, and me! I don’t know why, but I tend to get a little introspective when out in the rain; my mind thinks of things in my past, while my eyes search out the new beauties of a world in wetness.

Of course, if such a wet day occurs on a Monday, then sooner or later, the sweet refrain of Karen Carpenter's voice proffering ‘Rainy days and Monday’s always get me down’. Yet, despite the sorrowful mental soundtrack and the introspection, I’m not down. I remember the past, I look at the present, and I wonder what will come when the rain blows away.   

What comes into your mind on rainy days and Mondays?

That's all for today.....

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The cathartic effects of getting dirty!

Never underestimate the cathartic experience of getting dirty! There I was the other morning, hadn’t slept particularly well, kept thinking all manner of things relating to Matt and that whole situation, which prevented slumbers' sweet escape from washing over me. It’s funny how strange, sometimes silly things bring back memories of happier times, for example, even now, in my head, I still play the ’Punch Herbie/Slug Bug’ game each time I see a VW Beetle! I giggle to myself and sometimes aloud. 

A friend asked me what the hardest part has been about the whole ‘USA Drama Thing’ as he called it, and after thinking for a good long while, I have to say that it probably is the lack of communication. OK, so the lack of relationship is a pretty big gap in life, but the lack of communication from him, before, during and after has been the most hurtful and most difficult to cope with. It raises far more questions than answers, and prevents any further dialogue between us. It also leaves me unable to scratch that itch of wondering how he is. It may sound a little odd given the circumstances, but I still do care for him. He may have fallen out of love with me and dumped me, but I didn’t fall out of love with him, and love is not something I can just turn off like a tap, or faucet if you're American. Which means I am constantly wondering about where he is, what he’s doing, and more importantly, if he’s OK. I could listen to the gossip from his friends, and believe that he’s going downhill, and downhill fast, that he is drinking and smoking and doing drugs, that he’s starting to be really dirty and having sex in public restrooms again. 

These things and more well up in my mind, and it’s all to do with the lack of contact, the cessation of all communications. I can’t recall any other relationship where contact was withdrawn like this; perhaps that’s because up until now, I’ve always been the one to bring things to their conclusions, to their natural or unnatural end. Well, with the exception of Ed, with whom I’d lived for a number of years, and who ended our cohabitation and life together with the rather clinical “We have come to the end of the road of our relationship” It may have been clinical, perhaps a little cold, but it was accurate, succinct, to the point. But that didn’t stop us from being in contact with each other, indeed, a few times after reaching that particular cul-de-sac on life’s highway, we’d meet up and well......get passionate. In fact, don’t tell anyone, but I have to say that during one of those meetings we had some of the most rewarding and passionate sexual experiences of my life, for which I will always thank Ed the ex for, albeit silently and only on the pages of this here blog - it’s OK, he doesn’t read it! 

 All my other past relationships have come to an end on my terms at a time of my choosing and doing, but one thing I have done, and that is remained on at least speaking terms with all of them that wanted it. Just to end all forms of communication would be extremely cruel, calloused and hateful, not something I think I have the ability or desire to be. It was with these thoughts raging in my head and long with other more practicalities, such as taking the photos off the wall, packing away the silly cuddly plushy toys and other keepsakes and memorabilia that laid me low the other morning. I needed to clear my head, cleanse my body and something that would not take either money or too much brain power. I decided the bike would be the way to go. I needed a ride, I’ve started to pile on a few pounds since coming back from America again, something to do with the eating of American chocolate, which is, was and always will be my favourite. 

 The day previous had been wet and rainy, but the other morning was dry and clear, the blue skies masking the true temperature of the outside world. I started well, down the road towards Shoreham, no route or plan in my mind, just a little ride, not far, not long, just to get some fresh air and blow the cobwebs out. I’m not sure if I was on auto pilot, or the sounds of Death Cab For a Cutie, The Postal Service and Bright Eyes on the iPod was distracting me, but I found myself on the bridge over the river Adur, forward was the relatively dry roads around Shoreham Airport, behind me, the relatively dry road from which I’d just come. To the left of me, the dryish footpath leading the main road and cycle route along Shoreham Beach, and finally to my right, the Downs Link Way, which is a rather well used path way, but mainly on unsealed ground! Guess which way I chose? 

At first, it was easy going, I built up a little speed, the damp ground of the gravel kicking up under the tyres a little, not a soul to see, just me, the freedom, the air. I cycled a bit faster, indeed top gear and as fast as my little legs could force the pedals round. Then the nice dry gravel gave way to mud, forcing me to navigate large pot holes filled with water, sloppy mud sides and heavy overhanging branches. It would have been easy to avoid such puddles, pools and mud had I been flying, or chosen a different route, but I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I was belting along, trying my best to steer round the biggest and deepest baby lakes of dirty muddy water, then I thought, what the hell, and cycled straight through the next one. Well, come on, there’s no point going off-road cycling in the damp, in the winter if you don’t wanna get wet, nor dirty for that matter. Suddenly, for the first time in months, I felt alive as the coldness of the water soaked through the trakkie bottoms I was wearing. My body tingled as the mud splattered up from the rapidly turning wheels all over my back, front side and head. I got to Bramber, not a mammoth distance, I’ll readily admit, but a great halfway point, from which I could have cycled back along the roadway, but nope, call me Queen Silly of the Silly people if you wish, but there was only one way back for me. Yep, back along the muddy track, that is the Downs Link. I’ve never been so wet, so muddy and dirty, even in my surprisingly well-kempt youth, as I was then, a couple of days ago. Brown chunks of mud clung to my face, my jacket was now three colours, white, blue and mud and my trakkie bottoms, well lets just say they have since dried to be a solid lump of earth with a waistband!

My muscles may have ached, my clothes may have been ruined, my face stinging from the wind, but my mind - cleared, refreshed indeed cleansed. For the first time in over a month, I felt like the real me again!

More soon, hopefully. Comments are always welcome, so thanks in advance!!

Customer service...a thing of the past

(2026 Edit - This post comes from the archive; it was first published on 4th October 2013 at 0747. Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

Customer Service in shops seems to be a relic from a bygone age, something that used to happen in the past, but just milk bottles on every doorstep, rag and bone men, it’s been consigned to history. I’m not on about the ‘Are you being served?’ sort of service, but just the general good manners, the please, the thank you’s, you know, general stuff like that. Surely just a little common decency is not too much to ask for, especially when they’re asking you to part with your hard-earned money? Maybe it’s just me; maybe I’m just a crotchety old buffer who thinks please and thank yous are important when working in a retail environment, because they seem so rare these days. I normally let it slide and keep my mouth shut, but just occasionally I’ll say something, perhaps ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you say please’ or ‘thank you’ or whatever it happens to be. One such occasion was a recent trip to the local supermarket where the check-out lady was, let's just say, not the most customer-focused of people. In fact, the whole shopping trip had been a bit of an issue,  so much so that when I got home I decided to write a letter to the store Manager –

Dear Mr 'store managers name edited out'... I like Morrion’s as a supermarket, I find the own brand items great value and impressive quality and whilst it’s a slight distance more from me than ASDA in Silverhill, I choose to do at least one of my two weekly shops at your store each week. The special offers are usually good as is their stock level, with most items in plentiful supply. The freshness of the perishable food items at the front of the store is another positive mark for your supermarket.  However the only drawback about visiting your store is the staff – there are some that are happy to help but more often than not, especially recently, they couldn’t give a damn about customers or offering even passable customer service. My last shopping experience with you was a classic example of this ‘uncaring’ attitude and bad service.  The fresh fish counter was left unattended, the man in the apron wasn’t far away, he was too busy chatting to two other members of staff – about non-work related issues at the display area to the left of the counter. They didn’t notice or didn’t care about an elderly lady waiting, I myself bought some ‘packet’ fresh fish rather than wait to be served by staff too busy chatting to serve. My next port of call as was the bakery area, I was going to get some fresh rolls, however, I decided against this when I watched one of the bakery staff carry a basket out to replenish stock, wipe his nose on the back of his hand and then with the same hand (ungloved) place the rolls in their respective baskets. Now whilst it was the back of his hand and not his fingers that was touching his nose, it doesn’t really inspire confidence of cleanliness nor that fresh bread will be free of nose debris. It was a busy day at the checkouts, so a little wait was to be expected and I didn’t mind that at all,  however, as soon as my items were at the front, there was a changeover of staff, both of which ignored me, their customer,  neither apologized for keeping me waiting as they changed over and the incoming staff member complained about the absence of a stool. After some muttered assumption about my ability to pack for myself she started to rather uncaringly pass my items through the scanner. Now whilst I wouldn’t say she was being rough with the items, I would say she was rather firm, so firm in fact that at least three strawberries were squashed. Once all the shopping was passed through and scanned she asked for the money, although when I say she asked for the money, I actually mean she just said the total, no please, or anything like that, just the amount. I asked her to repeat it,  twice,  just to make sure there was no ‘please’ and give her the opportunity to offer at last the resemblance of manners,  but no none came. ‘I thought you might have said a please’ I said, ‘but evidently not’ I continued, to which this lady just pursed her lips, tutted and snatched the twenty pound note out of my hand, before I had chance to retrieve a five pound note. Change was given, with receipt, but a thank you was absent. Its customer service like this that let down Morrison’s dramatically and whilst you are the only large supermarket in the town centre itself that you can rely on having constant custom, the terrible service doesn’t inspire those with many more supermarket options available to us to shop with you. Morrison’s is spending millions on advertising this year, yet that money is completely wasted if such poor customer service drives shoppers away and to your rivals. I’ve enclosed my receipt so you may perhaps trace the checkout operator and offer her a little more training or encourage her to treat customers a little more like human beings rather than just an inconvenience to her day.      Yours 

Over three weeks later, still no reply from the manager, not that I expected an apology; just an acknowledgement would have done, but nothing came, and I have to confirm it was that lack of contact that pissed me off more than the bad service in the first place. It really rankled me that my letter – yes, a real-life paper and ink jobby letter with a stamp and everything – was simply ignored. So I fired off a copy to the customer service department on the store's website. A couple of automated replies and a week later I got a reply, simply a standard copy-and-paste job apologising for the poor service; nothing mentioned about the lack of reply from the store manager, or any of the contents of the letter, just a sorry.  Still, it was a reply, and I was grateful for that; they also sent a letter in the post, ‘sorry to hear of the issues you brought to our attention ’, and sent me a £10 gift voucher as a token of regret for my inconvenience.  I used it on Sunday to buy wine, bread and chocolate. 

Recycling's Rubbish.....

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive;  it was first published on 2nd October 2013 at 1500. Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

Joined up thinking........

Three weeks ago, give or take a day, a letter from the local borough council arrived on the doormat of Shaw Towers, well ok I’ll be honest Shaw Towers is more Shaw Hovel than towers, being a poky one bedroomed apartment on the outskirts of the historic Sussex seaside town I now reside. However, the size of my room, which I call home, is not the issue here – unless you’re planning on popping round for tea and a biscuit that is, which you’re welcome to do so, but please bring your own chair as I've only got one!

So getting back to the point, a mailing from the local authority arrived informing me that a new recycling box for items of used glass and a big black Velcro-sealing seagull-proof rubbish sack would soon be clonking along the road in my direction. Currently, I have a big green rubbish bin and a supply of pink sacks for recycling paper, tins and cardboard, which the local council collect on a weekly basis. As a keen recycler for many years, I was excited about the change; as of now I had to walk half a mile to recycle glass and metal as these were not currently collected in the pink sacks by the council, now though, according to the mailout, these would also be picked up from outside my door. Hurrah for me but an even louder hurrah for the environment.

Last Saturday I got a letter from the very same authority, complete with leaflets letting me know my collection day and answering any questions I might have about my new refuse and recycling methods. Forlornly, the letter accompanying these leaflets (printed with non-biodegradable ink) informed me that ‘Unfortunately this does not apply to your area’ because ‘there is no space for the black boxes or sacks to be safely put out for collection’.  I wondered how much space was needed, so I checked the size of the boxes, then measured the area out the front of the apartments (off the public highway) and found there was enough room for nineteen such boxes, more if said boxes were stacked on top of each other. I couldn’t get an accurate measurement for the sacks, so a similar comparison could not be made; however, in addition to the nineteen black boxes there is also space for five big wheelie bins, so I’m not sure where or how the council ‘made its careful assessment’ of my area, but its mechanisms seem to be fundamentally flawed.

Also on Saturday and completely separate from the letter and leaflets came a printed card (not on recycled paper) from the local council informing me that ‘If you’ve got this card you’ll be getting a black recycling box and seagull-proof rubbish sack shortly’. Hmm, so I’m rather mucking fuddled!  Am I getting a box or am I not?  A call to the council could answer the question, or so I thought. After waiting an age to get through and giving my details and location, the lady on the helpline couldn’t tell me one way or the other because - guess what?  She also had ‘conflicting information’, so who knows!  Joined-up thinking seems to be in short supply at the local council! They seem happy to send out lots of bright, colourful expensively produced literature regarding conflicting recycling information, yet bemoan on a regular basis the lack of funds and cuts in government grants forcing a reduction in overall spending, yet one thing they are not muddled about, that’s collecting my council tax on time, nope they’ve got that all sorted, a day late and a warning is sent, three days late and the bailiffs hae been ordered!

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

Monday Morning Blues......

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive;  it was first published on 30 September 2013 at 2217.  Things, views and events may have changed since then. )

Sunday afternoon I was busy writing letters and catching up with correspondence; that time just ran away from me and before I knew it the midnight hour had sprung upon me like a nasty panther hiding in the darkness. I wasn't best pleased, especially as I'd not even done half the amount of letters/emails I'd hoped to have completed by the evening. Some of those emails were regarding possible future interviews, some of which may very well appear here before your very eyes, whilst some of those are for other publications; more details in the fullness of time. It'll be a lot of work, but if it all comes together it will also be fun and hopefully bring in a couple of quid, not enough to make me rich but enough to keep the wolf from the door.

My late retirement has put me at odds with myself today as I had to get up at the un-Jason-like hour of 6am in order to get to work by 8am. I'm not so keen on the start time, but I'm pleased with the finish time of 5pm, plus I've got two more days off as I'm working the complete weekend again this coming weekend. I've not got any plans for the days off, just an awful lot of writing and that sort of thing. Although a few little visits to the local discount supermarket might be in order. You see, they've introduced all their Christmas goodies and as it's a European store a lot of the naughty foods come from lands other than my own - including four different varieties of Stollen! Yummy. Also chocolate-covered marzipan logs and those funny little chocolate things with booze in them! Bang goes my diet, but hey, I can't be good all the time.....

What sort of food items do you most look forward to over the holiday period? Perhaps it's the turkey dinner at Christmas or Thanksgiving, or maybe you are an eggnog fan, maybe you are the chief muncher of Easter eggs? What seasonal food gets your mouth watering?

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

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No sleep till the weekend.....

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive;  it was first published on 28th September 2013 at 2000.  Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

I've got the weekend off; it seems so rare these days with the new rota at work, but yes, the weekend off! After a week of late shifts, which I have to confess has really plum tuckered me out! I'm bushwhacked, knackered and other such expressions to indicate my body is running on empty and my mind even less!

I just don't seem to be able to do anything when I'm on lates, zilch in the morning and not enough time after work has finished at 9, because the schedule of the trains means I'm lucky to enter my lounge in time for the evening news at ten. I think as I've got older I'm getting more and more keen on a routine, something easy to cope with, something that allows planning and regularity - sadly this rota doesn't much allow for anything like that.

I've already crammed a week's worth of domestic chores into a Saturday morning, washing, shopping, bathing, hoovering and returning a stack of post for people that don't live at my apartment any more. So much for a restful weekend!

I had a giggle at work, you know a while back I told you about an award I'd received at work, well the photos from that have been published, not only are they on the TV screens in the reception of the head office, but also in the staff canteen. Worse than that, some silly so-and-so printed them off and affixed them to the door of the call centre, so every time someone enters they see my smiling football-sized face gormlessly grinning at them like a gurning dopey in purple. Oh, the embarrassment of it all.

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

A little isolation.

(2026 Edit: this post is from the archive; it was first published on 31st March 2013 at 20:00. Things, views and events may have changed since then!)

Photo by Galen Crout on Unsplash

Isolation,  what a wonderful feeling. No, really, I mean it, can you imagine exactly what total and complete isolation would really be like to experience?  Quite a few years ago, one of my more affluent friends had one of those odd dome-like isolation tanks installed into their second bathroom.  I remember at the time such plastic and fibreglass creations were all the rage with the ‘well-to-do’ and ’more money than sense’ set, of which my friend was perhaps a 'weekend' member of.  This odd erection, with its shape an amalgam of dome and pyramid was a dusky black colour with some brightly coloured block writing on it, the actual words escape me now but I’m relatively sure it would have been condescending operating instructions warning that it was designed to be used by just one person at a time,  as if the name ‘Isolation Tank’ was a little misleading. Inside it was dark black, with a little raised bum platform and what could be either a reservoir to contain warm water or something more pleasant, like a duvet or a cushion. I entered willingly and expectantly, plonked myself on the little seat, and then the darkness descended all around me as the door was closed. The first thing I noticed, other than the off-putting smell of condensation on plastic, was that even though I was in an isolation tank, I wasn’t exactly isolated.  A little light pollution crept around the door frame whilst the sounds of the outside world remained constant, although somewhat dimmed.  I was alone, but not alone; isolated yet also oddly still attached to the world around me, and to my mind this wasn’t a tank; it was more of a semi-comfortable living coffin!  After, what I’d like to say was a few hours but in reality was probably no more than ten minutes, I exited the tank and thanked my friend for the loan of his isolation assimilation and practically ran from the house to the nearest bar. Whilst I saw that friend many times over the forthcoming months, I never went back in his tank!

The only reason this memory came back to my mind today was that at just gone eight this morning I enjoyed a long soak in the bath, during which I let my head sink back until my ears were under the bubbly, soapy warm water.  I don’t normally do this, you see; before moving into this new apartment I’d always been a shower man, enjoying the cascading water pounding my head and invigorating the skin. Baths previously had been rare events, most often shared with either somebody else or perhaps just as rewarding, although undeniably less communicative, a bottle of wine.  Either way, I always had something else to do, other than lay in the tub getting all wrinkly as the water turned from scalding hot to freezing cold.  

Yet this morning, with plenty of time to loiter and relax,  I pretended I was a beached whale and plonked myself in the tub. Now, for some of my American friends, who may not know this, but in England, as most of Europe in fact, baths are a lot deeper over here in general,  the sides a lot higher, hence the water capacity a fair bit more than the standard shallow baths that seem to be favoured on your side of the Atlantic. Therefore, it was quite easy for me to slide down in the tub to allow the water to cover over my ears, leaving just my eyes and nose about the waterline. With my eyes closed tight, I listened to a faint gurgling hum of the plumbing, the odd splosh of a dripping tap and an oddly loud terr-dumpth terr-dumpth terr-dumpth terr-dumpth terr-dumpth. Which was at first rather confusing, and I confess I had to pop my head up out of the water like an ever-watchful meerkat or perhaps more accurately, a wallowing rhino, to find out what the sound was. Of course, once my head was out of the water and my ears clear of bubbles, the sound had stopped, yet it recommenced as soon as my noggin was back below the surface. Now, I’m sure you’ve already worked out, long before I did. It was only after I'd done the whole meerkat thing and back under the water that I realised that the terr-dumpth, terr-dumpth, terr-dumpth was in actual fact the beat of my heart!

So after feeling silly for a few moments, I actually felt a little detached from reality, and whilst I could still hear the odd murmur of the outside world going on about me, I did experience a certain sense of semi-isolation, and I have to say it felt absolutely great. Neurons sparked, synapses fired, whole cortices lit up brighter than the seafront illuminations on a winter night; my entire mind was alive and buzzing with thoughts, ideas, memories and ponderings. You know it was as if some unseen great giant called Emmet had switched a big knob on the back of my head from off to on and sparked the whole thing off. 

As soon as I was out of the bath, the wild rancorous riot of thought going on inside my head ceased and abated with such alarming rapidity I had to double-check my brain wasn’t gurgling down the drain with the outflowing water.  Which leads me to the incredible conclusion that if I ever need to think in future, I’ll need to have a soak in the bath, or at the very least a bucket of water to dunk my head in. Which sounds fine, although could be a little problematic, not to mention embarrassing at work! 

Letter's of the past.

(2026 Edit. This post is from the archive; it was first published on 23 October 2012 at 17:37. Things, facts and views may have changed since then.)

Letters

Image by Margarita Kochneva from Pixabay

You never really know what others think of you until they make it clear in some way, and sometimes when they do, it can come as a complete surprise or even, dare I say, a bit of a shock!

Such an incident happened to me at the end of last week when, out of the blue, a letter arrived from an old, old flame. Before I go on to the contents of that letter, let me tell you the intriguing story of how this physical letter got to me is as remarkable as the contents themselves. For some reason, it was sent to a place I used to work many long years ago, and when I say many, I really do mean many, ten or more at least. Luckily, someone there still recognised my name as they forwarded it to an address I used to live at in Crawley, West Sussex. Luckily, the owner still remained the same as all those years ago, who forwarded it to the Kemp Town flat where I used to reside and from there the lovely Eastern European escorts that occupy the top apartment popped it back in the post with my current abode crammed into one corner.  

Thus, the letter's unusual and utterly remarkable journey from pillar to post had finally come to a wonderfully correct conclusion. Hat’s off to the Royal Mail on this occasion for their endeavours in the delivery of the letter, and deep sentiments of gratitude are expressed to all who had a hand in ensuring its progress continued until, in my hands, it rested.

The contents of the letter, as indeed the letter itself, were a complete surprise and not a particularly happy one. The letter, as I said before, was from an old, old flame from the very dim and distant past. We dated for a relatively short time, perhaps ten or eleven months, maybe a year at the most, during the mid 1990’s. I can’t say how we got together or even why; we certainly came from different places and lived in seemingly different worlds, plus he was a full decade and a half my senior, which only added to the differences between us. Our brief relationship was, I suppose you could say was tempestuous,  fiery would be another word, we were both strong and stubborn personalities, and I dare say we both suffered from the ’I know best’ mantra and philosophy. There were times of great passion, intellectual stimulation and learning, but also times of arguments and anger, which ultimately forced the affair to be a rather dysfunctional one, which led to its inevitable termination.

He loved me, yet always resented and never forgave me for breaking up our ’beautiful’ relationship, at least that’s what his letter informed me. It also told me that he believed we could have ’gone the distance’, which surprised the heck out of me because, from my memory, we were never destined for longevity, and it was he who told me to get out of his car and out of his life when we broke up. 

There were a few other things mentioned in the letter which I have different recollections of altogether; however, I suppose that’s only to be expected, we were two different people and too different people. I would write back to perhaps disagree with his memories of our time together, or rather, offer my side of the story and my views of how it came to a bitter and fractious end. Oh yes, the end was fractious to say the least, when I said earlier he was the one to tell me to get out of his car and out of his life, I meant that literally. We’d been out at an early ‘summer’ party where shorts and shades had been the theme, somewhat surprising really, as it was taking place at the end of January or beginning of February, I forget exactly which after all this time. I, being the typical larger-than-life character full of fun I happily sported rather short black shorts complete with a skull and crossbones design on the front area. In reality, I’ll level with you, these were comic boxer shorts, yet I wore them as over shorts with nothing underneath. I also sported a ripped black ‘Boy’ t-shirt that was about two sizes too small for me, and that was before it had shrunk in the wash!  

I want to say I also had flip flops on, but if memory serves me rightly, I actually sported some Hi-Tec trainers.  It was a private party, and we weren't going anywhere else, which negated my need for cash, plus I had no pockets upon my person anyway. I don’t recall how our argument started or who the instigator was, nor can I remember how it or why it escalated the way it did. No doubt I was partly or even largely to blame, I simply can't recall, but I sure do remember how it ended. We’d gotten halfway back between the location on the south coast of this party and my home in Crawley when he slammed on his brakes, pulled into a lay-by at the side of the road and uttered the infamous last words and the opposite of Billy Ocean, ’get out of my car and out of my life’.  

As I said, I was stubborn back then, so I did, he drove off, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I then simply had no other option other than to walk home during the middle of a January / February night, wearing nothing other than a pair of funny boxer shorts, trainers and a shirt far too small for me.  I can’t say how far the distance was exactly, nor how long the journey took me; all I can say is that by the time I got to my door, the dawn had arrived and people were already on their way to work. I must have had some odd or funny looks from passing commuters. I have no memory, but it wasn't the first time I'd been seen as one of those 'Yesterday's People' coming home the day after a night before!

As I said, I would have written back to him to share my views on the relationship that never was without the benefit of rose-tinted spectacles, yet tucked in the envelope was a small card. The card was a short little note from one of his family members informing me he had recently passed away after a short illness. A surprise indeed, and I’d wished I’d read the note before the letter, a letter which he had written sometime before his death and not sent, rather than the other way around. I also wish he’d have sent the letter before he died as then he’d had gone to his grave with both sides of the story, but that of course isn’t to be, but it just emphasises to me now, how there are always at least two sides to every story, that one person’s truth can seem to be another person’s invention, and I wonder, perhaps we never really know how others see us.

Without.......

(2026 Edit - This post comes from the archive; it was first published on 26th November 2007. Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

Image by Tracey from Pixabay

How come it's dark before 4pm these days? Where do the daylight hours go? I'm enjoying the first day off of my set of four after a rather low, almost depressing shift of four on! Apart from making up silly songs in the middle of the night, gorging ourselves on chip kebabs and two people doing the jobs of 6, it's been rather sad. Dear old David has completed his last night shift, not just for this week or month, but ever. He's departing the dark side and heading onwards and upwards to the day shift; the nights just won't be the same without him. He was the glue that kept sanity together; he was the voice of reason and was my lunch partner. Trips to Legends at 1.30am will just not be the same, but, hey, I wish him well in his new job, am sure he'll do well!

OK, so the world and his wife and four kids have all gone social networking mad! It seems these days you just can't be anyone until you have an online profile on one of the major social interaction sites. I must say, the fear of being left out of this cyber-space world of social interaction has prompted me to get on this thing called Facebook! Oh, so yes, I'm a few years behind the 'in crowd ', but hey, what else is new? I think I've been playing catch-up since the day I was born! Anyway, I digress, there I am on Face Book and it's all rather confusing at first, within my first week or so, I've been 'Poked' 5 times, I've had a 'sticky' pasted on me, I've had to build a fun wall, grow a garden, plot a destination map, been sent 3 beers, been blocked once and been invited to join a stranger in Bangkok! It's all very errm social in an interactive cyber way; one of the nice things about being a new FaceBook inhabitant is that I've got back in contact with a couple of old friends I haven't seen in years and long since lost contact with, which is jolly good! Another good thing about it's crazy and confusing and has too many applications for a silly fool like me to understand, is people send you funny videos from YouTube and the like all the time. (out of date link to an amusing video about the perils of bathing in Domestos has been removed)

Meanwhile over on the other side of Brighton, David was back combing his beehive in preparation for the Amy Wineglass, oops Winehouse gig at the Brighton Centre tonight. As he was getting ready, I asked what else he'd done to be like Ms Winehouse to get in the mood; his reply: "Had 6 e's, done a couple of lines, sunk a bottle of JD, just about to start self-harming and putting on my 'fuck me' pumps and fallen over twice" Oh, exactly like the girl herself! I am in awe!! I wait with bated breath to hear the tales of mayhem. If indeed she turns up this time, if she does, I hope s
he does fall off the stage!

Will it be a white Christmas?

Can you believe it's just four weeks till Christmas? Well, look on the calendar, if you don't trust me! So just four weeks to go before the big day and all that card sending and gift giving. Apparently, according to recent research, over 60% of gifts are unwanted and are returned to shops for something better within the first two weeks of January! It all seems like an over-hyped, over-commercialised waste of good money if you ask me! We have, as a society, lost all sense of reality in the silly season; we've long since forgotten the real meaning of Christmas, and the only kind of Christmas spirit we get into is the kind that comes in bottles with 37.5% proof on the label!!

Jake asked me what I would like as a gift this year; he said something that I couldn't live without! Now, that's a really hard question to answer. I mean, what could I want that I couldn't live without, something that would make my life complete? I don't have a scooby doo! But it's got me thinking, what do you have in your life that you just can't do without?

DB says he can't live without his phone, OK, so he's splashed out on a new iPhone, so it's a bit more than just a way of communicating, but that's not the point, he says speaking from his most valued possession (which sounded as tinny and echoey as and old tin can on a bit of string by the way) His whole life revolves around either calling people or texting them on his phone and he couldn't function without it.

Mo say, sex!!!!

Jake says, caffeine, burgers, condoms and beer, but not necessarily in that order!

David says, the answer is easy, I couldn't live without my MacBook! It's got my whole life on it, all my music, my access to all the Dvia gossip, my shopping and even my secret porn stash! (Oops, not so secret anymore!)

Can you think of the one thing in your life that you simply couldn't live without?

Love at first sight???

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive: it was first published on 24 November 2007 at 17:54. Facts, feelings, and views may have changed since then.)

Phew, I've just come to the end of another night shift, and it's been a night where every single hour seemed like two! And, I wondered if there could be any more than 24 hours in the day? Why oh why, when you're watching the clock during working time, those ticking hands rotate at half speed, yet if it's your leisure time, they practically spin themselves off going so fast!

During those long dark night hours, we tried to make up songs about the place that is called work, now I don't claim to be a wordsmith or a clever lyricist, so my addition to the collective collaboration was simply - "I think this office, is like an orifice on the lower portions of a hippopotamus" OK, so perhaps I shouldn't give up the day night job! 

During lunch, David and I sloped off to Shaw Towers to escape, and whilst we were there, I popped a DVD of Sex And The City to while away our hour of freedom. It was one of the shows where someone was getting married to someone else after only knowing them a couple of days, love at first sight, and it's got me thinking. Is there such a thing as love at first sight?

I asked David, and his reply was a firm, vehement, No! A no messing, no nonsense. A non-confusing no. Rach from the office gave an equally strong no. I've just spoken to Jake, and he says yes, hurrah for romance!

What is Love at first sight? Well, according to the internet's equivalent of the font of all knowledge, otherwise known as Wikipedia, Love at first sight is an emotional condition whereby a person feels romantic attraction for a stranger on the first encounter with the stranger. The term may be used to refer to a mere sexual attraction or crush, but it usually refers to actually falling in love with someone, literally the very first time one sees him or her, along with the deep desire to have an intimate relationship with that person. The stranger may or may not be aware that the other person has any such notion, and may not even be aware of the other person's presence (such as in a crowded place). Sometimes two people experience this phenomenon towards each other at the same time, usually when their eyes meet.

If you ask me, I'd love to believe in love at first sight. I like the idea of romance, of the whole possibility that you can, possibly see that one person that you instantly know you want to spend the rest of your days with. You know what I'm talking about, the one person that presses all your buttons, that lights all your fuses, that ignites the fire within? As I say, I'd like to believe that you can see them, just once and know it's them for the rest of your natural born! But I think sometimes those four-letter words that both begin with L often go together, yet have completely different meanings. I am, of course, referring to love and lust, and when they collide, it can be fatal!

Love at first sight, I so want to believe, when I started writing this, my mind travels back a few years to a time in a smoke-clouded Revenge nightclub here in Brighton. I was walking through the lower floors bar with my pals DB and Dan, when all of a sudden, walking in the opposite direction was a single young lad, around my height, with dark hair, wide eyes and a strange yet intriguing smile. Our eyes met as we passed by each other. One, two, three, I turned to see at the same split second he also turned around. Humperty humperty humperty went my heart. However, my friends were still walking toward the bar, and he was walking towards the dance floor, and I thought, 'what a cute guy,' yet continued to the bar. Drinks were consumed, and dances were danced - with my friends. Then, we took a stroll on the upper level. Suddenly, as we were walking toward the upstairs dance floor, walking toward the bar.....yep, you've guessed right, that boy again, we smiled, we passed, one, two, three, we turned at the same time. Was it love at first sight, or was it lust? This time, we walked towards each other, no words were spoken, but our lips came together, as our lips parted and our tongues met each other, our hands explored each other's backs. Our chests were pressed together, and I swear I couldn't tell if the pounding I felt was our hearts beating at the same time or the thumpingly loud music. We broke this snog and smiled at each other, and then parted again.

I never did get to bed with that boy, although we've snogged each other many times on numerous nights after that first electrical meeting, we never took it to the next level. I have no idea if what I saw that first time in Revenge was love or lust; I can't tell, I don't know. But what I do know is, I have not forgotten that boy. I've often thought of him, I've often wondered about him, I've dreamt about him, I've not met him in the intervening years, yet, but he still controls a part of my heart and mind, and perhaps my very being. Whenever I hear the phrase 'love at first sight', I think, with a smile crossing my lips, I think of that night in Revenge when I saw him, that boy, who got the nickname 'cap-boy', for the very first time, and I wonder whether it was love at first sight or lust at first sight.

It's up to you now. Is there such a thing as love at first sight? Does it really happen? If so, who does it really happen to?

Madness!

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive; it was first published on 19 November 2007 at 01:06.  Facts, feelings, beliefs may have changed since then.)

I woke with a full bladder and a howling in my head that struck my very core. Yet as I emptied my bladder, the howling continued unabated, either I have a brain tumour or it's windy outside, I reasoned with myself! I padded to the lounge and found the window open and thankfully gazing down the street to the sea, I could tell that the brain tumour had not struck me down during the hours of slumber - it was windy as hell! I could see the white water of the waves racing to shore and pondered going for a ride, obviously, it being a Sunday, I dismissed that thought straight from my head in an instant, I'm not that mad!

After I had ventured round the road to the little corner shop, which must be the only one left in England that isn't run by Asians and got the Sunday papers. I felt the wind on my face and decided to take a little walk along the front, so I went down that way and nearly got blown off my feet; it was then decided to be a short walk! I was along the front, looking at the waves and saw all these people along the bottom. There was some kind of commotion going on! Upon further inspection, I found it was the Brighton 10k run. These brave, or mad, fools were running a race with the wind in their faces; it must have been bloody hard, as I was having a job just staying upright, and I was standing still. I watched these athletic fools in admiration mixed with sympathy for a while, until my fingers had turned to ice and numbness was setting in, and my nose resembled Rudolf on the eve of Christmas!

So that was my morning, my seafront walk curtailed by the bitter wind and the rumbles of an empty tumtum! I relaxed with a bowl of muesli and worked my way through the papers whilst a seemingly unending circle of Grand Designs repeats played on one of the freeview channels. Whilst I was relaxing, on the other side of town, Jakey was working his little tush off in his part-time extracurricular paid activity. A rather well-paid part-time job that isn't conducted in an office, if you know what I mean? Still, a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do, especially one whose putting himself through university without rich parents to bankroll him.

Children In Need raised £19 million, £20 million, or £21m depending on which paper you read and with variables of 2 million between three newspapers, it makes you wonder how much of what they print as fact you can actually trust. But, whatever the actual bank balance, it's still a hefty sum of charity donations to help give the needy kids of once Great Britain get more smack, crack and coke!

The Christmas spirit seems to be a bit lacking in Australia, store Santas have been banned from chanting a merry ' Ho Ho Ho' because, in this 'politically correct' madness, it might offend some women; instead, they have to chant the un-traditional 'Ha Ha Ha'!

One of the funniest moments recently watched on 'I used to be a celebrity get me in here' was former boy-band member J, not having a clue of the running order on one of his own band's CDs. Luckily, from the group, dumb blonde Gemma the ex-actress from Hollyoaks, was a fan and got the question right, and they were rewarded with chocolate-covered strawberries. Oh, and staying with the show, I must say hats off to Geordie hosts Ant and Dec, for making this car-crash TV look good and almost interesting, which it has yet to be. Oh, and one other thing, is there ever anything that doesn't get a loud belly laugh from Mr Christoper Biggins, who must surely be the biggest and campiest creature in camp? You can say what you like about ol' Biggins, but he's sure put some life into this already dull show, so long may he continue and with a bit of luck and some double-sided sticky tape, he may yet be crowned King of the jungle!

I've always thought X Factor judge Louis Walsh was a bit of a knob; now he's just gone and proved it. Speaking after appearing on the really dross Katie & Peter Unleashed, he said of Ms Price, 'She asks the questions everyone at home is thinking? Really? Is that what he thinks? I would have thought most people at home were thinking the same as me, when is this fooking crap gonna end!!!!

If reality is no longer real, when is reality actually reality?

(2026 Edit - This is a post from the archive; it was first published on 16 November 2007 at 23:23. Facts, things, and views may have changed since then.)

The whole of the south has been bathed in clear blue skies and watery winter sunshine for the past couple of days, which has made my time away from the office all that much much more enjoyable. Yesterday I got the old cycle out and trundled off to Portslade and met up with Mo! Mo, for those that don't know, is a 50-something lady with the energy of a 20-year-old who loves to club to really hard dance music that's so hard it makes the ears of your average hoodie boy bleed! We nattered and chatted and then cycled down the prom. She went off to meet her daughter, and I came home to relax my aching muscles.

As one reality TV show takes to the airwaves, another finishes relatively unnoticed. Celebrity Scissor Hands, a show where allegedly celebs cut various poor sods' hair, all in the name of reality TV and charity. I'm not sure where they've got the idea of Celebs from, I mean, on this hairdressing disaster show they had tiny wee teen rapper 'Lil Chris' equally tiny yet much older actor Warwick Davis, DJ Brandon Block, some young Aussie geezer called Ben Nicholas who is/was an actor apparently, also a radio producer and some silly girl no one's every heard of. Oh, and some girl from Hollyoaks, which I haven't seen for some time. Obviously, not your A-list celebs feature on this BBC offering, which, as it was over on BBC3, had an audience of about 40 and a dog! Still, hey, it was for charity, so I shouldn't knock it too much. I'm just left with contemplating the question, why? Is this what some fat over 50s executive things the youth of today want?

So as the last snippy snips of the celebs' scissors fade into the distance over on ITV, their flagship reality show 'I used to be a celebrity and now need something major to relaunch my now dead career,' has started. OK, so perhaps I'm being a little unfair, I've previously enjoyed 'I'm a celebrity, get me out of here', I've liked the fact that these odd bods of z-listdom have had to sleep rough in the Australian jungle and do various horrendous stunts and trials to get food for the evening meals, obviously all under the watchful eye of hundreds of cameras.

Now this years collection of show business hasbeens included - Lynne Franks, Public Relations guru and New Age feminist who allegedly inspired Jennifer Saunders’ Absolutely Fabulous character, Edina Monsoon. Marc Bannerman, an actor Marc found fame playing Gianni de Marco in EastEnders, and has since undertaken a variety of new challenges, mainly signing on the dole! Gemma Atkinson, It’s hard to miss former Hollyoaks star Gemma, she’s usually plastered across the pages of lads’ mags, newspapers and women’s magazines. She also appeared in the last series of Soapstar Superstar, so in other words, she hasn't had a proper acting job since Hollyoaks. Jason J Brown from a now debunked boyband called 5, that lasted for all of five minutes. Anna Ryder Richardson, a pint sized designer that used to work on the BBC show Changing Rooms. Rodney Marsh - who? A moody chef John something race, who actually seems quite normal which is rather strange for a reality TV show entrant. Katie someone from another reality show, so hardly a celeb at all and then you have a former model that's was last seen in the 70's and should have stayed there and has the loudest mouth on the show and that's really saying something - Janice Dickenson. Oh and a former Brighton resident, a larger than life rollypolly Christopher Biggins, who'll go anywhere for a glass of champagne, indeed he was even spotted at the opening of an envelope recently.

So, this years collection is showing signs that even this flagship show is finding it tough to get decent celebs on board, could this be an indication that reality TV shows are on the way out and we, the viewing public are seeking an altogether more sophisticated form of entertainment?

Mind you, reality is less reality these days, previous revelations from various other progs in the same genre have shown us that the only reality left in reality TV is the editors knife. In the passed year we've had made up kids winning competitions, producers phoning in shows pretending to be the audience, a dangerous bear actually was a man in a bear suit, Gordon Ramsey fishing with a spear, yet the fish he 'caught' was actually one caught by someone else an hour before. We've seen clever editing making villains and hero's out of people that really don't deserve either title. And now, I'm hearing gossip on the 'jungle' drums that not all the pretend celebs over in Australia are spending all their time in camp. Oh no, from various reports received from one of the crew over there, certain celebs are nipping out of camp to the crew village, relaxing in the warm, having proper toilet breaks, beer and energy bars proper nosh up. Timmy M is working on the ITV2 version of the show and told of how he went to one of the drinks areas for a beverage for his shows presenter Matt Willis and found two of the supposedly 'imprisioned celebs' lounging about. So it would appear that even this reality is not actual realatiy, just a TV version or what reality would be had it been left to be real. Which begs the question what really is rreality these days? And, is it really reality if there are no reality TV show cameras there to record it? And does an warbling tree knat's farts sreally smell if there is no-one in the Queensland jungle to smell it?

I'm going for a lie down now, I think I've overdone the whole reality thing! I can not cope any longer, I need a break from all of this, give me a dose of normal TV, please!

mucking fuddled

(2026 Edit - this post was found in the archive, dated 6 Oct 2027 at 12:04.  I was working for a large American company at the time, living in Brighton, Sussex. Things, views and events may have changed since then!)

Sometimes life is all straightforward with hardly a kink and then at other times it's a right old mucking fuddling puddle of tangledness! I've just finished work and feel about as normal as a washing machine in the desert; my mind is pretty much mush ( some of you maybe thinking, nothing's different!)

I've been kinda bitchy to my mate David tonight, but it wasn't my fault; he needed it, and it's because he barged his way into Gabriel's dressing room the night before last and I always blame him a little bit for the god-awful state I was in after our drunken night on the town!

Everything seems to be confusing me at the moment; first there is a new film about the life and times of Bob Dylan that's been approved, but there are six people going to be playing the music man. Richard Gere, Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Ben Whishaw, and young black actor Marcus Carl Franklin in his movie debut all play the great man; the sixth person in the film to be Bob is.....Cate Blanchett! Yep, confusing!

Troubled actress Lindsay Lohan, yeah that young soak, has checked out of a rehab clinic in Utah where she went in August following charges of drunken driving and cocaine possession, because she says she doesn't have a problem! Yeah right!

Nearly 300 participants started twisting and turning a small multicoloured cube on Friday on the first day of the Rubik's Cube World Championships in Budapest, the birthplace of the cult puzzle. Hello, the Rubik Cube? Have we gone back in time? Didn't we have that in the 80's? Is it back? I've not seen one in people's hands since, well, since I was at school. Surely we're not back in the 1980's again; surely I've not slipped back to those heady days when the only thing I had to worry about was beating Marcus 'Fingers' Totting in matching the six colours on the six sides! Well, that and not getting caught behind the groundsman's shed having a crafty fag with Gary or a sly five knuckle shuffle in the art store room with Jon! Actually come to think about it, perhaps it would be nice to be back in those days again! But, I'm not going back to having blisters on my thumbs from twisting that poxy cube for anyone!

It's not quite "Jurassic Park", but Swiss archaeologists were in a state of high alarm yesterday after thieves stole traces of a dinosaur footprint from an excavation site! Yep, apparently they just waltzed in and whipped away the footprint said to be 152 million years old. But the experts say that if it comes up for sale they will know about it! Yeah no shit Sherlock! I mean how often do you see a sale for something that old?

A Texas woman has escaped being charged with 'negligent homicide' (only in America!) after she killed her husband with a sherry enema. Tammy Jean Warner was due to go on trial last week but she's been let off due to the lack of evidence! But why on earth would you shove sherry up the arse?

A thief has stolen a cardboard cut-out of a policeman which was put in a store to deter shoplifters! Yeah honestly it's true, Derbyshire Police said a man had been seen on CCTV walking with the picture under his arm from a shop in Grasmere. The cut-outs were first introduced in shops in the area in 2005 in the hope that, at a glance, thieves would think the image was a real officer. But if that was the case, then why did the publicise it, with photo's clearly showing it was a cardboard cut out?

That's ya lot for today!