Boots

Probably only happen once in my lifetime, coincidence see, pure coincidence like, but I saw my chance and I took it and who could blame me?

The missus, for months now, has been banging on about christmas and what see wants, damn near got feck all the way my luck was bouncing a while back, but anyway, she wanted clothes. Fine I said, I’ll get you some vouchers…ah but, she says, with vouchers I’m restricted to just one shop…fine I said, I’ll pop £100 in an envelope and you can shop wherever you want…in fact, why don’t you just take the money from the account, that way it’ll save me the bother of actually doing anything at all for you, well, silly to wrap up an envelope right?…

anyhoo, long story short, she’s been buying herself stuff now, showing me, then promising to wrap them up for herself for Christmas morning, pathetic I know, but what you gonna do? Whatever, I said until she bought home some knee-length boots the other day, fur-lined. Nice. And would you believe it, and here’s where the nice coincidence comes in, the elder smasher has a fancy dress party to go to this weekend….And he’s going as a cowboy. And we had the outfit hanging up….

Now. Most men, by now, will have leaped to the end of this post….but let me spell it out anyway, like that Pimms advert. Hello! Pair of knee high, fur-lined boots…cowboy hat and waist coat handy…we took the advice a marriage councillor once gave us, many years ago now, when the sex life begins to flag. Role-play. Yeeee-haaah!!…

Yes. I have some pictures. No. I’m not showing you.

Evi Push

The younger smasher gets dragged to all sorts of groups and activities most days and mostly the same old middle-class-do-gooder mothers turn up including one mum the missus is friends with, who has a girl about the same age as my smash, about 3 then…and the smasher, I think, loves this girl Evi and typical female, she seems to take pleasure in hurting my lad every time she clocks eyes on him, nicking whatever he’s playing with, kicking him, pushing him, you know, all that stuff. The other day she had him up against the wall, smashing his head into it, over and over again. There are tears and much screaming every time they meet. Every day then.

My poor smasher, everyday I come home and ask him, what did you do today? And he always says…

Babytalk.. Babytalk.. Babytalk….Swimming.. Babytalk.. Babytalk..Evi Push.. Babytalk.. Babytalk..

OR

Babytalk.. Babytalk.. Babytalk….playground.. Babytalk.. Babytalk..Evi Push.. Babytalk.. Babytalk..

And he looks so pathetic when he tells me, so sad and confused, sometimes he shakes his wee head at the complex nature of his mixed-up feelings for her and I’m looking at him thinking….that’s right son, get used to it…Women, they rip yir heart out, tear yir guts out, abuse you, be-little you, wear you down, unpick your self esteem and confidence and you’ll keep going back for more until you wake up one day and you’re a grey haired fat old bastard shouting at the world inside your head, hating everyone including yourself..Oh..god….Evi push son…no, women push, bloody women push!

Rules

Rules! I’ve decided to codify our living arrangements….finally, after all these years. I know I should have done it years ago, but the thing is, we’ve all kinda just muddled along…until now. I’ve been aware for some time now of a spiralling in standards, oh, you know the sort of thing, towels not hung correctly, rugs and carpets not hovered enough, kitchen surfaces not as clean and tidy as they really ought to be…you know, little things…accumulative thing….and it’s come to a head now. The missus is laughing at me but she’ll soon see that I have everyone’s interests at heart, the rules aren’t for me especially, they’re for everyone see. Boundaries.

I’m categorising the rules by room, so, rules for the kitchen, bathroom, etc, and I’ll be adding them here for now, the missus has threatened she’ll delete them if she ever finds them on the PC, not that I’m worried about that, she couldn’t find her way round a PC if her life depended on it. OK then. Let’s give this thing some legs.

Bathroom -

• Wife will clean bath after use, particularly scrape ginger her hair from plughole so that water doesn’t collect like a minging stagnant pool when man has shower

Bedroom -

• Wife will fart outside of duvet. NOT inside then pretend she innocent

• Towels used to hide modesty when travelling from bathroom to bedroom WILL be returned at the soonest opportunity and the bathroom NOT left toweless

Kitchen -

• Man needs at least two cups of tea of a weekend morning, so wife WILL NOT de-scale kettle with vinegar after producing first cup of the day

• Whoever produces dinner is exempt of washing-up. - Exceptions to rule
• The above rule only applies when diner is produced for man or man & wife
• When man works hard all day and wife hasn’t got to go to evening job. wife will washup
  

• Weekend washing-up CAN BE left until following morning

Plonkers

And so it began, my fifth job this year. I got to Peckham alright, overland train, then bus to London Bridge, then train to Peckham…and then final bus…Bit of a nightmare really, but by the end of the week and much variations with my commute I get it down to train into Liverpool street and number 35 bus to Camberwell green and short walk to office! The crowd I work with seem nice enough, the office itself, let’s just say, has bags of charater…and leave it at that. The thing is, as everyone has been telling me, this week wasn’t a good week to join as everyone seems to be either off sick or has other things more important to do than actually show me any ropes..Still, ever resourceful I managed to get some background reading in and rewarded myself by sloping off early most evenings, well, why not, I am grade 11 and I do work for a local authority damnit!

The other day, some bloody yob stole my hanging basket, a cheap and cheerful thing with only some ivy in it but it was ours, hanging on my property and some tosser took it and it has made me incredibly cross!

Today we took the smashers to see Santa Clause land at Van Hagues garden centre by helicopter, well, in fact we saw fuck all because there seemed half of Ware there too, but it was a morning out at least and we all got to wear our woolly hats and gloves as a family and I think that’s really important.

Last night, five pints in the crosse keys boozah in the City, not a bad night, no-one really interested in a session, mate has redundo looming at his place which he’s worried about, at his aged, so would I be…and his skill levels of course…still, we managed to cheer him up when, every time we took orders for the round, instead of calling his guest ale something something forty niner I called it something something P forty-fiver!…a-haahaha—oohh…ahaha…hmmms’funny….

Sizzling

Sunday, 13 November 2005 7:30am – somewhere in Hertforshire:

Smasher: The drawer’s come out of the hole daddy

Me: Whoa…who….eh?…

The smasher, walking into my room, carrying a huge pile of clothes..

Smasher: I just pulled it and it came off in my hands..

Me: (smirking) Uh-huh…well, put it back.

Smasher: Can’t too heavy…

And so another day begins….I was just thinking about my last pint I had the other day, Friday. The missus had taken the younger smash swimming and then to Tesco for the weekly shop and I’m there thinking, Hello! window here me thinks!

But first I had to get my first monthly rail ticket in 2 years, dreading the cost I go down into town and present myself to the ticket man. Guess how bloody much, for a monthly rail ticket, all zones…£245!!!! Jeeeesus, is it worth going to work? Can I afford it?! Outraged, I needed a pint, so, in a marked manner, I walked up to my local.

Lunchtime, full of the usual crowd, old people and very old people all tucking into their very cheap, sizzling style, meals; every plate arrives sizzling, even the salads.

As sure as night follows day, I’m halfway through my pint, enjoying my paper, when the inevitable mobile goes off and the display is flashing “HOME” at me. Even as I’m reaching down to accept it, my mind is telling m to ignore it, but I can’t, it just might be important…

Me: Hello

Missus: Where are you?

Me: I’ve just been to buy my monthly ticket…guess how much…

Missus: Uh-huh and where are you NOW?

Me: Oh, in the pub…I…

Missus: I KNEW it!!…Steeeve…we can’t afford it..

Me: I’m just having a pint, come and join me..

Missus: No…come home soon…

Hurrying, I drink up and rush home!….ahaha….no, I order another pint with some chips. Look, the thing is, I’m carrying the conversation with the missus on in my head, this will be my last “day off” in a while and I’m just spending some quality time with me, no harm in a man having a couple of pints and reading the paper, is there?

I get home an hour later, tired now, and head for bed…the afternoon naps I really am gonna miss, I tell ya!

Right.

Time I was off to work

Leather Strides

The other day a mate of mine said that, rather than actually see me anymore, they’d much rather just, like, remember me, as I was when we first met one another, years ago, because I’d become, over the years, something or someone they’d rather not look at anymore. A little harsh I thought, but fair enough I suppose, none of us likes being confronted with our own mortality. The other day, in fact, I bumped into an old school mate and as I stood there looking at his grey hair, wrinkles, beer gut and dull grey skins and eyes I thought, blimey, I hope I don’t like that to him…until I realised I was looking at my own reflection in a shop window…ahahah…oh-hoh…ummmm….well…..

I was reminded of that email, from that ex-mate, the other day while watching Tranny and Susannah, when they were trying to sort out a couple of sad old mid-life crisis fellahs and their 80’s wardrobes. Susannah went to this guy’s house, looked in his wardrobe and threw out most of his clobber, leather trousers, sports tops and bottoms, you know, all fair enough but including all his short-sleeved shirts. Overweight, middle-aged men ought not to be wearing short-sleeved shirts, she said, and I thought, hello!…I have many, many short sleeved shirts, mebbe I’m living in the 80’s too, mebbe I’m a middle-aged sado n’all, fashion wise I must look ridiculous and mebbe that mate of mine has a point, I am an embarrassment, a joke, a walking talking relic, so the very next day I binned the lot of them!!

True enough, I’ve only worn, most of them, once or twice anyway, realising, then forgetting and buying more of the bloody things, that they really do look bad on me…I also, for good measure, threw out all my polo tops too, short sleeved see?….That felt better, even though I knew I was now without anything to wear. My pledge then, fuck it, like those middle-aged mid-life crisis sados, I will re-invent myself, own up to being middle-aged, grey and fat without drawing attention to myself by wearing Fred Perry tops, drain-piped jeans and Doc Martin boots!...Anyone seeing me in a polo top, short-sleeved shirt, leather trousers, tee-shirt with a silly logo on it and with my hair scrunched and gelled up bloody hair, in the future, has my blessing, to remind me of my pledge.

Hello Sailor! 

Meads

People are asking about my new job....the thing is, well there was a bit of a fuck-up, no.....a misunderstanding more like. I said, cool, lemme start in 3 weeks time, from the day they offered the job see. fine, so I do a couple of weeks at the OU and have a week off, to prepare for new job, refreshed and all that...but wait...all last week I'm trying to get them to send me a start date/time etc but it wasn't to be.....they needed time to get my references back and sort a PC and passwords etc etc so I'm forced to take another week off, sitting about, not earning any money and the missus breathing down my neck all last week...Can't you DO something??!! She shrieked at me one morning, when it was clear I wasn't going to start the new job when I planned...
Instead, I'm taking the opportunity to truly relax. On Monday I went wandering along the river, thinking about the summer and my lonely wanders back then, then I took a detour back via the Meads, a natural flood plain between Hertford and Ware, along the new river that was built in the 18th century to bring water to London, oh yes, I stopped and read the history bumph at the sluice station. It's a lonely place, really quiet considering there's a road on one side and a fly-over....er....over it....lovely.
Yesterday we went to Enfield to buy some toys for the toy library, but Boots didnae have any in stock...so we left. Enfield, finally, getting shopping center upgrade it's been planning for a decade, place looks like a huge building site. Today, sitting in waiting for coal man...talking about memory posts...sheesh...

Time and tide...

You know, like, when you go on a two-week holiday and the second week goes by dead fast, much faster the first? – Well, it’s all to do with memory and experience, apparently. Think of your childhood, how long did it seem to last? Think about High school, what’s that, four years doing your O levels, seemed like forever didn’t it? Now think of the last four years, flashed by eh? Experiencing something new creates new memories or memory posts, markers for your existence.

Look: This is your memory post at 8 years old say; each post is a new experience, a new memory.

|..|..||.|..|..|..|..|..|..|..||||..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|||||..

Now look at 38: fewer new experiences

|………………………..|………………………………………………|………..|

I think that’s proof, if proof were needed. The 38 year old has fewer new experiences so life seems to speed up, one day seems very much like any other, until, you go on holiday or take a day off to play golf or whatever. Thinking back on last year, I have memories of my family holiday in Greece and of the lads city break in Latvia and that’s pretty much it because one day was very similar to any other, time seemed to speed up....this year mind you...plenty of bloody memory posts thank-you....sheeeesh!

I was thinking about this last night when the missus was trying to get me to accompany her to her mum and dads amateur players skit/comedy and song evening at the local OAP retirement home. They like to inflict their non-talent on hostage audiences up and down east Hertfordshire and last night requested our presence for some reason, probably to stop the wrinklies from bolting through the nearest fire exit, and the missus didn’t have the heart to say no. But I did. Anyway, my point was that, actually, bad as it was, I really ought to have gone, not to show any kind of support or anything, but to imprint a new experience in my brain, mark Nov 6^th in my existence, rather than sit at home watching Batman Begins which I’ve already forgotten the plot of.

Mind you, a toss-up between a blank and the memory of my father-in-law doing his not-so-very-PC-or-very-funny Egyptian sand dance to a bunch of piss stained comatosed coffin dodgers I could do without…but you get my point right?

Jumpers for goalposts

So anyway, last month I thought I’d buy myself a couple of simple, woollen v-necked jumpers for work see, winter coming in, look smart for work etc and yesterday the missus decided they both needed a wash, but on a woollen setting to save them stretching or shrinking or whatever. When the wash was done she said they need to dry flat so put the green one over the back of two dining chairs and the black on over the seat of the other two dining chairs. Right? Flat see.

So, the fucking cat wanders in, spots the black jumper and aims his big fat hairy body at it. I come downstairs a little later Oi!! Get off my fucking jumper you fleabag!! And aim a toe at it’s erse…off he scoots…half an hour later, he’s back on it, finding it irresistible, right next to the radiator so again I hurl abuse at it and off he jumps…you get the picture, all day I’m shooing him off then, when the missus is at work I think, hello! Why don’t I just like, put the black jumper, now covered in cat hairs, that I pick off, one by one, over the back of the two dining chairs see, like the green jumper, happily drying flat and cat free…So, two minutes later, job done, why didn’t I think about that sooner?…I take myself off to bed, happy in the knowledge that I’ve bested that darn cat…

This morning, fucking cat on my black jumper, that’s been put BACK onto the seat of the two dining chairs like…Whoa!!….Oi!! get the fuck off…as I lumber over to the jumper…my fucking….aim toe at cat…jumper for the love of….swing leg at cat….GOD!!…

I’m furious all over, with the cat for using my new jumper as a bed all night, but more so at the missus who came home last night, saw my jumper tampering, and undid all my good work. And I’m like, shouting up at her, who’s still in bed, why did you do it?…why for Christ sake?…but I can sense her turning, like a trapped animal, she’s now angry and aggressive shouting down at me, alright alright, I’ll wash it again, calm down…so I back off….I know her, she’ll start blaming me for everything if I wasn’t careful, turn it all on it’s head, why did I buy bloody woollen jumpers in the first place?…What made me want a cat anyway?….why did I marry you in the first place?….oh yes, I know where it’ll end up and for the sake of a couple of jumpers, I’m thinking, it’s just not worth it…y’know?

Confessions of Felix

This weekend, I move the small TV and video recorder, from our room, into the smashers room. I’m thinking, he’s old enough now and the TV has no aerial so he can only watch his Thomas the Tank videos on it, saves him clogging up our room on a weekend or evening. The missus though, typical middle class stuck-up says ooohh no, I don’t want a TV in his room, he’s too young…too middle class for gods sake!

Nonsense I say and in it goes. We have another TV in the loft and promise to get it down at some point and put it in our room, although I’m not keen, the bedroom is for a radio only in my view..but anyway, that’s another blog.

So, I’m thinking, blimey, considering he has a new TV in his room, the smasher is remarkably un-troubled, taking it all in his stride like, no big deal dad, yeah, whatever…

In my day I didn’t have a TV in my room, sometimes, when the bailiffs came for example, we had no TV in the house at all. I was 14-15 when I eventually had a TV in my room, some old huge black and white job, sat at the end of my bed…a few months before I move out for good, and I’ve finally got a TV in my room!…

No more sitting down with mum in the front room and whoever she was with at the time, both smoking away, and/or arguing about something, her dictating what was on the telly. Finally, I had privacy and by sheer coincidence channel 4 had just fired up so I had access to some porn! Or as near to porn as I had ever seen anyway and at 15 a shampoo advert normally set me off. I think that’s why I was a late developer in the self abuse stakes, all my mates were at it all the time, it seemed, except me, no imagination see, no access to porn, nothing until channel 4 came along and screened The Confessions of Felix Krull then Bam!! Bingo! Welcome to manhood my son.

So, anyway, the smasher has a jump on his old dad, TV in room, video on standby and if he has a spark of imagination, any cunning at all, in a couple of years time, he’ll be digging about in my wardrobe looking for some of dads vintage adult videos the missus is urging me to throw away, in her words…”before it’s too late”

Mini Celebrations

8:30pm last night, somewhere in Hertfordshire

Yob - Trick or Treat!!

Me - Sorry, I’ve run out of sweets, you’ll just have to have some of these expensive mini-celebration sweets instead

Yob - Oh, I’m lucky then ain’t I?

Me - Well, yes I suppose…thank-you…

Yob - Grunt

Me - No son, you say “thank you to me now”

Yob - Oh. Yeah. Thanks

Me – Jesus….Next!

Trick or Treat!! – Jesus…for the 30^th time yesterday evening, I get up and open the front door, smile wanly, count the number of yobs at my door and distribute a bag of jelly sweets each, then close the door, sit down and wait for the next lot.

In all, last night, I must have fed 80 children – I kid you not. It all started, reasonably enough, around 5:30 with mothers dragging their kids up and down our road. The missus, throwing us all into the spirit, had festooned the house with lit pumpkins, inflatable ghosts cut-out bats and so on all over the window to advertise that our house can be targeted by anyone, at any time, that evening.

Nice. - Except, oh yeah, she was off out to work that evening and I’d have to do the fucking honours!

Now, it’s true I am a miserable sod and I’d rather turn out all the lights and ignore the trick or treaters but for our own kids sake I sort of go along with it all. By 6pm though we had run out of sweets, 30 bags gone see, so the missus drove down to Tesco for fresh supplies and while she was gone I had to raid our own private sweets stash and give out Mars bars, Twix, chocolate biscuits etc to satisfy to un-ending tide of bloody ghosts, witches, wizards etc.

So, the missus rushes back, throws the new supplies at me and dashes off to work with my moans about leaving me in the lurch and having crappy Halloween planning contingencies ringing in her ears….

And so it went on, all night…no sooner had I sat down when I’m up again…”I’m a wizard!” says one kid, yeah, whatever I say…Next!! I shout into the street, not bothering to close the door..

By 9:30, the house was bare, all sweets gone; all biscuits gone, me exhausted, lights out, inflatables taken in, balloons taken down. Shop-Shut-Up-Go-a-Fucking-Way…

Knock knock!!

Ring Ring!!!!

I ignore it…Knock Knock – louder this time…more urgent…then, the little bastards start at my window, hammering away at it – can you believe it?

FUCK OFF

I shout, so loudly my throat hurts immediately. Still does this morning.