I’ve been blog tagged by Scott Pack over at Me and My Big Mouth. To play, I have to list six random facts about myself and then tag six of you to do the same. So here goes.
- I nearly once killed the family dog by tying its lead to the collar of a caravan propane cylinder. When I next saw it, the animal was trying to escape from a high-pressured gas hose whilst tied to a huge iron canister. The next year I left it outside the local shop for six hours. It didn’t like me very much.
- By the age of 15, I had lived in two houses in Leicester, one in Lincoln, and ten houses in Stamford, Lincolnshire. Five of the latter were council houses. I don’t remember any house with affection, but I know and love the latter town intimately (even if it was a phenomenally boring place to be a teenager).
- I was confirmed as a Roman Catholic at the age of 12. I took the confirmation name of “Francis” after St Francis of Assisi; but only after I’d bottled out of taking the name “Maximilian” after Maximilian Kolbe. Kolbe was a Franciscan and a great admirer of St Francis. That’s why I chose that name. I am now a very lapsed Catholic, but I admire both men greatly.
- My son has just vomited all over his mother.
- I am listed in Debrett’s. It is considered extremely bad form to mention this fact, but it is one that has the power to irritate a lot of people.
So, there you go. Now I have to nominate six of you. I choose:
Sorry if you’ve had to do this before. If you decide to play, you need to:
- Link to the person that tagged you - i.e. me.
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Write six random things about you in a blog post.
- Tag six people in your post.
- Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
- Let the tagger know your entry is up.
Oh, and my sixth fact? I once played tiddlywinks for my university. Badly.
A fitting tribute to the man behind Trollied Tuesday. He could “swallow a small fridge” without blinking.
I think it’s the sort of week in which to say “thank you” to those of you who not only endure my prating, but also come back for more.
First out the box: Glamourpuss. This video’s for you.
I didn’t know Gary Dring when I was at school, though he’s pretty sure his dad knew my dad. Or my dad knew his. I can’t remember which. It’s not important.
What is important, though, is the fact he writes and presents a popular podcast called Clever Little Pod and has now produced an accompanying magazine. It’s called Clever Little Mag and costs a paltry quid. Well worth it, so go buy a copy - it’s full of amusing gags, even including one about orifices.
Am I alone, or does reading this kind of stuff make you want to chuck yourself off Beachy Head whilst wearing a “Get a Grip” t-shirt? (Hat tip to Anne for ruining my morning with it).
The question:
To nobody’s great surprise, I have liberalpinko Issues about Chocolate – production of, not consumption. And therefore ordered a bunch of Divine choc eggs and mini eggs, which have arrived.
Ah, but now I see that Mr Inferior has put some G&B eggs – which are NOT fairly traded although more ethically produced than others, I think on our Ocado order (not yet processed); plus, crucially, a couple of Lindt chocolate rabbits.
While Abel & Cole, our rightonliberalpinko organic delivery lot, is doing mini chocolate rabbits from the Chocolate Alchemist, which are I think produced with some degree of fairness. Although not FT logoed. Also no bell round neck.
So, do I interfere with Mr Inferior’s parenting/consumer rights by cancelling his rabbits in the interests of World Fairness and Equity?
The most astonishing response of many:
May I offer a cuationary tale?
It was precisely a chocolate egg issue last year which acted as a catalyst to DP and I seeking counselling.
(I was out shopping with DS, DS saw a cheap Yorkie Bar egg in Tesco, badly wanted to buy it for DP as the two of them had been scoffing ‘not for girls’ Yorkie bars, I was in rush, bought it, DP ranted about fair trade and capitalism and commercialism of easter in front of DS DS devastated…cue events which led to counselling…)
You can cancel the bunnies leading swiftly towards the dismatling of your relationship, family and household, which will be terrible because your DP will then go his own way without any futher education or influence from you about fair trade issues and children worldwide wil go hungry, OR you can appreciate the importance of the bell round neck, accept the Ocado Lindt bunnies and continue your rlationship, family, household, and most crucially, ongoing sensitisation of MrInferior.
I’m going to go and buy a huge sack of Green & Blacks, a warren full of Lindt bunnies and a lorryload of Yorkies to distribute to children in Stoke Newington Church Street. It’s the only way to restore a bit of perspective…
I’m rather beleaguered today, and I have little to say.
I do, though, need to connect a PC-only gadget to my Mac so I can get some files off the former. Does anyone have an old, unwanted copy of Windows 2000, XP or Vista I can install on my Mac using Bootcamp? Drop me a line if so - naturally I’d refund the postage, or send you a copy of Swinesend, or PayPal you the equivalent of a few beers or Alexander cocktails.
Let me know.
(If you’ve just had to plough through this nonsense and actually enjoyed it in some way, I recommend a trip to this place)
Anne (Mrs Locker, for those who’ve not met her) has had a bash at that Photobucket meme. These are her answers; and before you point out that she’s massively more interesting and stylish than I am - I know.
1. What is your first name?
2. When is your birthday?
3. What kind of car do you want?
4. Where did/do you go to school?
5. What is your favorite season?
6. What is your favorite type of shoe?
7. What is your status?
8. What is your favorite movie?
9. What is your favorite song?
10. Who is your favorite Disney character?
11. What is your favorite clothing line?
12. What is your favorite vacation destination?
13. What is your favorite dessert?
14. What is your favorite letter?
15. What are you most afraid of?
16. What is your favorite TV show?
17. What annoys you the most?
18. What is your job?
19. What’s your favorite animal?
20. How old are you?
I’ve just found this excellent meme at No Smoking in the Skull Cave. What you have to do is this…
1. Go to photobucket.com
2. Type in your answer for each question into the PhotoBucket search bar.
3. Choose your favorite photo to represent your answer.
4. Copy the html and paste it here.
5. Answer only in picture form.
I’ll also nominate all readers with blogs to have a go themselves.
Anyway, here goes:
1. What is your first name?
2. When is your birthday?
3. What kind of car do you want?
4. Where did/do you go to school?
5. What is your favorite season?
6. What is your favorite type of shoe?
7. What is your status?
8. What is your favorite movie?
9. What is your favorite song?
10. Who is your favorite Disney character?
11. What is your favorite clothing line?
12. What is your favorite vacation destination?
13. What is your favorite dessert?
14. What is your favorite letter?
15. What are you most afraid of?
16. What is your favorite TV show?
17. What annoys you the most?
18. What is your job?
19. What’s your favorite animal?
20. How old are you?
…which for some reason is a surefire way of making my visitor numbers swell enough to fill at least three double deckers, this photo reveals a bit of a design flaw with fenced-in bus lanes.
What you can see is a huge queue of buses, stretching from the Tesco in Seven Sisters and finishing - I guess - somewhere in Tottenham.
Just before I arrived on the scene, a police car had stopped outside the supermarket so the two rozzers inside it could go and arrest a pair of shoplifters. Whilst they were busy doing so, a massive queue of buses formed. As I arrived a policeman was removing the car and easing the huge jam he had caused.
As I left, two coppers and two shoplifters were shivering in the cold, waiting for someone to come back and give them a lift.
No-one a winner, really. Except me: I had no trouble at all catching a bus home.
Sadly I didn’t have a decent camera with me but, yesterday, I spotted this photographer’s shop in Strood, Kent. It’s hard to read the sign in this photo, but it proclaims specialisations in “Weddings, Portraits and Litigation”.
I had to look up what litigation photography actually was, but it made me wonder how one takes the decision to specialise in taking photos of assaulted people’s injuries. I can only conclude that it must be a sideline that emerges from years of taking wedding snaps.
Afternoon. Toddler crashed out my chest. He wakes up after 25 minutes and screams and screams. I change him. He screams. I give him food. He screams. I give him juice. He screams. I stick his coat on and he dashes for the door, laughing, and slides down the stairs.
I strap him in the pushchair and then we’re off, out into the crisp Valentine’s chill. Push slow, “One!” Push slow, “Two!” Push fast “Threeee!” Laugh and laugh and shrug off stares.
Over the Hill. Up to Seven Sisters. Buses filled with early commuters, staring blank disappointment through panes of scratched glass. Smiles from old women. “One!” push slow. “Two!” push slow. “Threeeee!” and laugh. We’re behind our own glass, but we don’t know it’s there.
Into the supermarket. Aisles filled with desperate men, clutching single roses with uncertainty. The chocolate aisle filled with the miserly and the unimaginative. We buy juice and little bags of “junk-free” crisps.
The spell breaks with the crinkling of the bags. The toddler screams. And screams. And screams. I hate people who eat their shopping before paying for it. And I think the child should wait. He screams louder and louder.
“Hello.”
It’s a young boy, swinging on a tubular barrier. The smaller child stops yelling.
“Hello.”
“Why was he crying?”
“He’s tired. He needs more sleep.”
“What’s his name?”
“William.”
“Hello William.” Then: “Does he cry at home?”
“Yes, sometimes. Especially when he’s tired.”
Pause. Then: “He’s got a scratch on his face.”
“Has he?”
“Yes.” Points: “Just there.”
“That’s not a scratch,” I say. “It’s a bit of grot.” I chip a sliver of dried grime from the child’s face.
“He’s got bogies up his nose.”
“Has he?”
“Yes. Dried bogies.”
“Well, it is cold. He must have had a runny nose.”
“I don’t like dried bogies.”
“No, I can imagine.”
Another lull. “What’s your name.”
“Ben. What’s yours?”
“Kameron. With a ‘K’.”
“That’s a nice name,” I lie, hating myself for my snobbery.
“How old is he?”
“He’s just over one year old. He’s one year and four months old.”
“I’m four. I’m nearly five.” He looks around for a bit. “Can he talk?”
“Not yet. He can say some things. ‘Juice’. ‘Socks’. ‘Shoes’. ‘Cheese’. Words like that.”
“I’ve been growing a plant at school. I’ll show you.”
The older boy finds his mother at the opposite till. She’s packing her shopping. I smile at her. Her face relaxes diffidently. I remember I’ve not shaved for a couple of days and that a stye has inflamed my left eye. I am wearing a good overcoat, but I have paint flecks on my cheap, brown shoes. I look down at heel. The child comes back with a clear plastic glass. Inside is damp cotton-wool wadding. A bean has split from its shell and has erupted into a seedling. The label on the front has the boy’s name in capital letters: KAMERON.
“I grew this at school. That’s a ‘K’, he says, tracing the letter with his finger. Look William.”
He thrusts the pot under the toddler’s nose. The child is deeply unimpressed and returns his gaze to the checkout woman who is blowing him kisses.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “What kind of bean is it?”
Then a voice from the back of the till: “Kameron.” It’s the boy’s mother.
He scurries off to her and gives her the bean. Then he rushes back. “Goodbye William”.
William is still enraptured by his female admirer.
“Goodbye Kameron,” I say. “Say ‘goodbye’ William,” I add, knowing well that he wouldn’t if he could.
I smile at the boy and his mother as they leave.
Ten minutes later we board a bus. I park the pushchair in the designated space and sit down next to it. On the other side of the buggy is a folding chair. One stop later a woman gets on the bus and pulls down the seat, squeezing herself onto it sideways so her legs are in the aisle. The toddler looks up at her often, but she refuses to acknowledge his existence. I feed him snacks and, now and then, look at the woman. She checks me out by looking at my reflection in the bus window. Then I realise that I’ve seen her before: not her, but a picture.
Even the Home Secretary would feel safe walking round my area at night if she’d been properly trained.
I’m not sure what amuses me most: the brilliant concept or the fact that the lettering is pink.
No, not the title of a long forgotten Horror ‘B’ movie (though, now I come to think of it, it should have been), but two toys on sale at fredflare.com. Frankly, I’m fed up with Thomas the Tank Engine and I’m looking for something else to buy myself the toddler. The only question is which: Poe, the Cat Lady, or both?
(Incidentally, I twice looked after a house owned by a woman who ran a cats’ charity. It was in a sleepy Cambridgeshire village and there were about 40 cats living inside, and a similar number of feral and semi-feral felines ranging about the garden and local vicinity. At feeding time I had to barricade myself into the kitchen with a lone, depressed dog and give him his tucker before stripping meat from several chickens and opening a few dozen tins of Whiskas - all the while watched through the window by about 30 pairs of eyes. I like cats, but the atmosphere was far more horrifying than anything even Poe managed to dream up. As for the state of the carpets…).
Shortly after my post of yesterday, we discovered that there was no hot water. I checked the boiler. The timer was still running, but the rest of the electronics were dead. I unscrewed the control panel, fished inside it, took out the 2A fuse and replaced it with another one. No change. The boiler is dead and we have no heating, no hot water and the prospect of a huge bill with which to start the New Year.
Naturally my first thought was to whinge about my misfortune on my blog. That’s when I discovered the battery in the MacBook Pro was plummeting to 0% and the power lead had stopped working. The screen faded and died before I could finish the boiler illustration to your left. So, one trip to the Apple reseller later, here I am, waiting for my brother to appear and drive us all to Lincolnshire. It might be flat, but at least we’ll be staying somewhere warm and in a part of the country where no-one would dream of paying almost £60 for a jumped up kettle lead to stick in their laptop.
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