The perfect cinema outing…apart from the 3D.

As I’ve mentioned before, a few times I think, I love movies. I used to like going to the cinema too. When people actually went to watch the movie, not to socialise. This was even more obvious in the days before mobile phones. (It’s a sad reflection on society that so many can’t go 2hours at the cinema without constant mobile phone contact.) Now, going to the cinema is a chore. Unless of course you pick the rarely screened foreign language arty black & white number that’s four hours long and has only three spoken words. About matchboxes. You get my drift: you forgo the entertainment factor to enjoy the cinematic experience. This is why I am now an avid DVD watcher in the tranquil setting of my living room.

So imagine my surprise when I got to watch Men In Black 3 – in 3D – at the cinema, and not only did I enjoy the film, but the whole outing. Okay, the 3D side is debatable and something I will come back to.

You see, in order to actually enjoy the experience, I had to time my trip well. I chose lunchtime on a Monday on a somewhat rarely spotted sunny day. Saying that, we’ve had about a week of amazing sunshine. Does wonders for the mood. Thanks to the general reaction of the English to seek out the sun when they can – usually to painfully reddened exposed bits afterwards – the Cinema numbers dropped. In the biggest screen in the cinema, there were three of us. Three. 3. Although I did have to move when one of my fellow patrons chose to sit two rows directly behind me. Seriously.

But that aside, it was superb: no one talked. No one munched endlessly on popcorn (usually eaten with mouth wide open throughout,) no one sniffed constantly (I can’t stand people sniffing, a major pet hate,) no one farted (unlike the “Nell” fiasco of many moons ago where someone was taking the mickey sitting there and not locked in their bathroom,) no one took a call / text / surfed the web on their mobiles. No one ran in and out of the cinema. Unlike my last cinema outing where there were a remarkably high number of people with extremely tiny bladders. I got to hear the adverts, see the trailers, and enjoy the film almost as if I was alone in the place aka my perfect cinema outing.

See what a high number of factors impact the perfect cinema outing and why it’s so very hard to come by?

Now, part two, as promised, the 3D thing. Now, since I painfully sat through “Avatar,” painful in many more ways than just my numbed behind, I’ve given 3D a wide berth. It didn’t add anything to “Avatar,” in my opinion. So I figured I’d give it one more go, now that time’s passed since the great 3D comeback of 2000′s commenced and assumed it had progressed. I was wrong. 3D added nothing to MIB 3. Not a thing. At no point did I think to myself “Holy Crap! Thank God that was in 3D or it would have sucked the big one!”

Not a jot. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Nothing. If anything, 3D ruined the film. No amount of 3D will make up for crappy story or terrible acting either, by the way. Everything that “comes out at you” is extended and outsized, so an alien weapon goes from a few inches long in profile, to several feet long when pointed at the viewer. If that makes sense. The brilliance of the HD image is wasted in 3D as half the stuff ends up blurred. And that’s not just because I, as a glasses wearer, have to watch with contact lenses in – which can impact, certainly, but no. With the contacts and without, the image was just as rubbish.

And don’t get me started on the 3D specs themselves. Frankly, I think instead of charging you for them, they should pay you to wear them. Looking like complete and utter burks, thank God you sit in the dark with everyone facing away from you. Most people anyway. This was my last 3D movie.

Suntanning of the single male.

Prep: ensure sufficient sunblock is available; beach towel is clean and dry; ditto for board shorts – in acknowledgment that selfs body shape is no longer suitable for wearing of speedo/ tight-fit trunks – iPod battery charged; ditto kindle battery; kindle topped up with fresh new reads.

On the day: wake up early thanks to selfish neighbours slamming of door. Curse neighbour. Acknowledge to self that 7am is too early to head out. Too early for anything. Try return to sleep. When this fails, retrieve kindle and make start on Nick Spalding’s latest. Admit it’s so far as good as its predecessor. At a more reasonable time of day force self from bed and get dressed for beach trip.

On route: pick up newspaper (solely for tv guide requirements and not for reading of grim news articles,) bottle of water, Starbucks bottled Frappucino, and lucky dip lottery ticket.

On walk: debate self as to how best to spend the lottery winnings that will no doubt come your way following purchased lottery ticket despite lifetimes winnings to date of approximately £13.00 against expenditure of £Way more than 13. Catch sight of eye candy exercising on Hove Lawns and admire view as they Yoga their slim frame into inexplicable positions. Try not imagine same position in a naked situation. Fail dismally.

On arrival: adopt position that provides view of as much available beach space as possible. Location of tanning spot is important. Mentally note positions of large groups; persons with toddlers; and people playing music on their phones. Note to avoid too creepy man in full attire, jacket and boots included who is clearly staring at those in skimpy beach attire – gender being observed unclear. Spot located, aim direct while only briefly catching another eye candy to the left. Wonder to self what eye candy sees in beached whale beside him.

Fight the sea breeze – gales – to attempt to confidently place towel in position. Fail. Grab towel, drop ungracefully on to it and neaten it from under butt weighted down position. Wiggle bottom descreetly to dislodge awkward pebble on which you’re sat. Remove shoes, shades and inhale deep in prep of the moment of great daunt: shirt removal. Suck in belly and remove shirt swiftly. Get hooked up in iPod speakers. Untangle self with assistance of curse words and acknowledge to self that non breathing passing out is imminent if belly is not released.

Exhale and swear to self the slap of belly on thigh is audible to entire beach. Focus on waves in view and try ignore all others on beach. Retrieve sunblock. Curse when lid pops open and a splatter of factor20 sprays your face and gets in your eye. Blink like all hell to reduce severe pain in left eye while massaging remainder of splatter into skin as if expected. Repeat procedure – the rubbing in of cream not the splattering of self with cream – on easily reached areas. Then assume contortionists positions as you apply sunblock to own back. Acknowledge to self there will be an area of red on back later thanks to limits of reach. Insert iPod speakers, freshly untangled from shirt, select suitable album – MDNA (deluxe edition on this occasion) – and asume the position.

Realise underwear is smaller than remembered (or self is larger in older smaller shape fitting underwear) and that wedgiing of self has occurred on lying down. Ponder methods of discreet correction of wedgie situation. Accept fate. Learn to embrace wedgie for the duration.

Curse like sailor as range of pebbles hit face and chest as persons runs passed. Open eyes to witness young girls running sea bound with unimpressed parent close behind. Unimpressed at selfs swearing at aforementioned parents little darlings. Advise parent of lessons required for kids in proper beach etiquette: as in don’t run directly at people on the beach. Ignore parents responding opinion.

After appropriate time self needs turning. Use break in tanning time to replenish water following great and much disliked sweating of the previous hour. Acknowledge to self deodorant was forgotten. Hope others aren’t aware of this major error in planning. Retrieve water, break seal, down half. Note to self water has obscure taste. Refrain from spitting up while reading label. Realise mineral water is somewhat unexpectedly of the flavoured variety, not a good one either. In panic check Starbucks purchase, sigh in relief what variety purchased is correct.

Flip self to stomach while deftly removing wedgie in process and continue baking. Ten minutes later acknowledge boredom factor. Retrieve kindle and read several chapters. Try read several chapters while working hard to ignore the mass groups that have settled nearby, the less than pleasant view of yet another beached whale in direct eyeline, and curse the parents of the screaming baby. Wonder why they have youngster at beach on hottest day of the year. Down Starbucks in quick time, savouring flavour and caffeine hit together. As further group arrives and adds radio to equation, give up trying to read. Realise large group consists of large men and as such accept confrontation is a no goer. Adding beating to days outing is not on the agenda.

Hear sounds of opera emitting from beach. Sit up and trace source of operatic noise to large man floating in surf. Turn up iPod. Realise radio and opera is still audible. Curse. Curse again.

Acknowledge it is hot, (censored) hot. Consider swim. Catch sight of boy in full wetsuit shivering away and take as good sign of water temperature. Cancel proposed swim.

While finishing remaining offensive flavoured water consider days activity and reach conclusion: tanning alone near water too cold to swim in is, well, boring as (censored.) Pack up and head home. Consider fake tan a viable option going forward.

On walk home realise right forearm has distinct sting to it and wonder to self how such an easy reach spot was missed with the sunblock? Acknowledge same applies to random other bits and no doubt patchy tan will result. Say to self in blatant sarcastic tone: brilliant.

Oh, as a footnote: I didn’t win the lottery. I got 1 number. Another wasted £1.

expérience culinaire exclusif à la maison de moi

I dined tonight at a rather exclusive venue, thought I’d share the experience, a culinary review of sorts that was in no small part inspired by MasterChef Australia that I was watching tonight. No small part at all. (Okay, a huge part.)

Located a stone’s throw from the picturesque pebbled beaches of the South Coast of England, the venue is so exclusive you wouldn’t know where to find it without knowing it was there to be found. The dining area offers views right across residential Hove. And some Portslade. And some distant chimney that if you blur your eyes you can almost view as Eiffel’s famous structure.

Entry is by personal invitation of the owner. These are not easy to obtain, but I worked my charm and we got in.

The welcome for me and my guests, Myself and I (not to be confused with the I of Withnail fame), was as expected – completely meaningless to the, some might say somewhat temperamental, owner/manager/head chef/maitre d. We’d made a point of adhering the strict dress code – (sweatpants and loose fit belly disguising tshirt) – and were guided to our designated table (the rather smart red leather sofa that belies its humble Argos flat packed origins) and were entertained by a range of original tunes (hummed in the mind as the vocal version is, as previously blogged, not good.)

While our host prepared the starter we perused the evenings offerings:

Le menu…
salade de tomates, l’oignon et cucmber habillée avec du vinaigre de vin rouge
agneau moussaka
crumble aux pommes saveur du yogourt
duo de pommes grannysmith
spéciaux baies rouges k avec du lait écrémé
arôme cerise cola

The salad starter was delicious, the component ingredients wrapped generously in a red wine vinegar, seasoned with salt. And pepper. The main was cooked to perfection (see nuked well,) the portions sufficient to satisfy. Dessert course came with an already opened pot and free (sort of) sparkly clean stainless steel teaspoon. The fruit course a celebration of Apple Green and sour sweetness of the imported GrannySmith’s, with free hand towel for stray juice shots, and despite being near full to burst, the final course arrived, complete with hand painted dessert bowls and free pour skimmed milk, fresh as it was (when packed and pasteurised weeks ago at some dairy somewhere.) The meal rounded off with a sweet (half bottle of only slightly flat as it was left over from last night) diet coke, cherry flavour.

All in for about £3.78. (give or take.) Now can’t complain at that!

Oh, my use of French here is in no way meant as any offence to the French, but more so out of the fact that pretty much anything sounds amazing in French. To prove my point, here’s the preceding comment in French* :
Et mon usage du français est ici ne signifie nullement que toute infraction à la française, mais plus encore sur le fait que quasiment tout ce que son extraordinaire en français

(*at least according to an online translator as I can’t speak French. Afrikaans? Yes. French, not so much.)

Blog…with no breaks

Photo by me. more at my Flickr page

In “Life…with no breaks,” Nick Spalding decided to write a book in 24hours without any real planned storyline other than “Life”… Proved a rather entertaining read (give it a go!) as well as a novel idea (lame pun warning) so I figured I’d use this to inspire a “Blog…with no breaks” entry. But fear not, this won’t be any 24hour effort. But instead a 30minute sitting. Largely because I’ve work tomorrow, my iPad is only on 60% charge, I’m having a mega Bloggers Writers Block…and if I’m being completely honest, Family Guy’s on later and I’d rather not miss it.

I freakin’ LOVE Family Guy.

When it comes to the one show I will actually make a point of watching, it’s Family Guy all the way. The Griffins are brilliant. Actually, thinking about it now, my favourite shows at the moment are all animated ones: Family Guy, American Dad, Cleveland Show, and Bob’s Burgers – the latter sadly shunted to midnight on a Tuesday. And they wonder why it doesn’t find a larger audience?! Here’s an idea. Show it at a decent time rather than repeats of repeats of repeats.

Today’s actually been not only sunny, but properly hot too. Usually we’re subjected to an all over grey hued sky and damp inducing drizzle, near constant, so the sun being more than rumoured is cause for celebration. This brings out the masses, the blinking at the brightness usually starved of decent sunlight types, and so too the summer frocks, pale limbs exposed for reddening en masse, and of course the obligatory fat men in town without shirts. Personally I don’t think it’s ever hot enough to justify being shirtless in the middle of town. I don’t want to see your sweating hairy back while I window shop at H&M. Flip flops are also a bit of a downer for me at this time of year as it means endless quantities of ugly feet aplenty blatantly displayed. I’m not a fan. Especially where the toes are still in that weird and kinda gross state of day release from the usual squashed leather shoe placement.

So gross. And speaking of gross, Grissom’s just had a head delivered by post….

CSI is on at the mo… The Vegas one, not the rubbish one with the crass colours and sunglass wearing Hummer driving tilting headed “actor” in it.

I like the Vegas one, because every opening credit I can say to myself that I’ve been there, and my brother lives there too!

Must say, when I watch these shows, I’m always amazed at the hours these people work. Do they not have homes to go to?! As much as you may like your job, surely there comes a point where spending that much time with colleagues leads to intense irritation? Or is that just me? I do find it amusing too that based on this show, Vegas must have one hell of a high murder rate but in my many visits there I can’t say I’ve ever seen the police other than parked along a junction monitoring traffic!

Maybe its just a very violent TV version of Vegas….Much like Cabot Cove in Jessica Fletchers days… With the added extra danger involved if you were related to old JB.

That said, I’ve been rather surprised of late at the local news where I live… Some people have come off rather on the wrong side of some variously and sometimes obscure ways – dying in some Darwin Awards-ish ways too. Is that a sign of the times, these somewhat depressing times, or is it just down to a random collection of events? Who knows, but it does seem to be happening a little more often than I’d have imagined considering how generally quiet this little seaside town is?!

And so my thirty is almost up… Not sure if this qualifies as an overly successful experiment, and clearly 24hours would have been asking too much at this stage… So round of applause to Mr Spalding on his efforts, mine maybe a single hand clap. Or not.

Just time to add a random picture…

00:30:01.15 close enough…

Even Superman would find it hard to change in this contraption.

Earlier this week I wrote about my nth occasion of reviewing the belly situation, specifically the increasing size of said belly. And related extra effort required to suck it in nowadays. Got me thinking of a previous trip down “Reducethebelly lane.” One where I dared that exercise thing others swear by. A trip along which I got lost, again, but I did set off with high hopes. And suitable attire.

Unfortunately getting into the attire proved more problematic than it should have been. I mean it shouldn’t be difficult to put on swimming trunks. Should it? My local (at the time) swimming pool had had a “makeover” where the large open spaced separate women’s and men’s changing rooms were removed and replaced with one large room chopped up with individual small cubicles. Clearly designed by someone who didn’t quite understand the Imperial to metric conversion rates.

Each cubicle has a lockable door, and small bench for your bag. Oh, and a hook on the door on which to hang your towel/ jacket. This leaves about a square inch of floor space in which to get changed. I’m not a tall man, and even at my heaviest, not exactly wide either, but even I found myself bashing my elbows agains the partitions and door trying to change in this thing. Post swim drying and squeezing out of wet trunks was even more problematic. The added wet floor – a constant in this place – meant pretty much you’re guaranteed something getting wet: socks, undies, jeans… Luck of the draw.

Once changed you then have to squeeze everything you have in your possession, except goggles and towel, into a locker big enough for a small briefcase. Then decide what to do with the locker key. This comes with free elastic band so as to restrict blood flow on your calf or wrist, dependant on where you decided to place it.

So a little bruised and battered (and cursing under my breath) from my changing manoeuvres – even Superman would have struggled in that ridiculous space – and squeezed into what was previously a comfy fit swimming trunks, I made my way to the pool, of course making every effort to not exhale in the process and have the already flabby bits overflowing the waistband.

Typically the room is on the cooler side, so the erect nipples draw unwanted attention too. Great.

So towel stored in a safe place, key band steadily stopping blood flow to my ankle, I headed to the water. Tested the temperature with my toe. Suppressed the OMG reaction and decided to man up and just take the plunge. Aka The Band Aid route: one quick agonising moment to avoid the drawing out moments. Step one, step two… Drop into the deep end. Scream blue murder under the water at not only the actual cold of the water itself, but the immense burning sensation in the eyes thanks to the chlorine overkill. Bursting to the surface like the Bad Guy Terminator in his dying throws in (the awesome) Terminator 2: Judgement Day, I then realise I have to climb out the pool to retrieve the goggles. So, now blue skinned and shivering, nipples like knife points, red chlorine burned eyes and major shrinkage in the fella region – cold water is not a friend of the willy – I have to gracefully walk across to my towel and get the goggles. Slipping on the tiled floor didn’t help.

Goggles located and manfully put on, I safely returned to the pool. Where for the first time in many (many) years I did actual exercise. By choice.

I managed, slowly, twenty lengths on my first effort. All the while dodging the many others in the shared lane and trying hard not to be hypnotised by the underwater views of the rippling thighs of the large girl swimming just ahead of me. I did contemplate removing the goggles and risking the chlorine burn instead of the repeat slow motion thunderclap of her thighs under the water glimpsed every time I was mid breaststroke move. I did try let others pass but mysteriously they didn’t linger long ahead of me…

And all was well. I’d gotten used to the water temperature. I could sort of breathe. And I think gave the impression of knowing what I was doing. All till I decided to get out….

It proved strangely difficult to pull myself up the steps. Even more so to walk to the towel. My arms were like jelly. My legs visibly shaking, ruining any pretence at having mastered standing on my own. Clearly those five lengths of freestyle (aka front crawl in some circles) at the end were five lengths too many.

Then I got the wave of sheer nausea overtake me. In short: I felt (censored) awful. Strangely enough my post teens activities of drinking loads, smoking regularly and only exercise being dancing, while drunk, to cheesy pop at clubs hadn’t quite prepared me for 20 lengths of a 25m pool. It made for a very long walk from poolside to showers. Even longer shower as it’s pretty hard to shower when you’re trying to get your breath back while simultaneously fighting the urge to puke. Something that’s frowned upon in public places.

And then final insult to injury, I had to fight myself and my clothes in the confined space of the cubicle again. A radiant picture of health on leaving the facility I was most definitely not.

I did return, for reasons I’m still unsure about, and eventually mastered the odd angles required in the changing procedure, how to avoid the unwanted underwater visions, and to get to 30 lengths and still manage to function afterwards…. But the entire routine just got so very tedious and I gave it up as a bad idea.

I reckon eating a little less junk and walking a little more briskly the twenty minute walk to and from the office and taking the stairs (I live on the fifth floor) is good enough for me. And at least at home I can change without bruising myself. Most days at least.

I’m pretty sure it’s OCDish…aka The Belly Debate. Again?!

I’ve come to the conclusion I seriously need to review the good vs not so good on the old diet. Again. Maybe this time actually stick with it too, which will probably come as a shock to my system. I’m not too good at sticking with things that bore me. Which covers many things. (MANY.)  

This not so much out of any desire to be my former super skinny self again… although they were very good times when they were last here… but more so out of necessity.

You see, the once baggy jeans aren’t so baggy anymore, the once comfortable fit t-shirt’s become an oh-my-god-don’t-exhale-or-you’ll-rip-the-shirt-ala-Hulk fit and there’s this new addition of extra flesh under my chin that no longer goes away. This is also playing games with gravity and leading to a rather unfortunate second chin in recent photos. I also seem to have developed thunder thighs, which is a first for me. Almost scared myself when I glanced down at them the other morning. Of course too there’s the belly that no longer looks nice and flat when lying down, and continues to jiggle around a while after I cease moving. I think these are all perhaps signs of a cake or thirty too many.

That said, I’m a realist, sort of, and despite my severe misgivings at the full factual truth of my impending thirty-eight-dom (now, somewhat shockingly, under two months away) I accept that I will never have a twenty-eight inch waist line again. Sad day really. It’s not impossible, assuming I just stop eating anything at all ever, exercise like a madman (SO not happening for this couch potato)  and perhaps re-engage the nicotine diet in full (which, in case this wasn’t much publicised, is perhaps not highly recommended or overly popular. No matter how good a ciggie can be in the right circumstance. Like when you’re awake.)

Anyway.

I found myself reviewing my recent dietary habits. And think I have identified the issue: I don’t have dietry habits.  I have, more aptly, a dietary obsessive complulsive habit.  I have a compulsive tendency to devour as much crap as I can, and when I think I can’t fit any more in I get the overdrive kick in when I remember there’re potato chips in the cupboard too. “EAT ME!” they insist, I swear.  

Moderation on biscuits seems to be “one pack is fine, two a challenge worth taking” (especially where Oreo Cookies are involved) and as for chocolate in pretty much any form, it’s an “if it’s in the house it must be devoured in one sitting regardless if it’s a weeks worth or not.”  policy.

In the last few months I can’t recall any healthy options on the menu, other than the “light” butter spread (for the copious slices of toast) and the side salad that came with a burger & fries recently. I’m not sure this is the right balance really.

The only item I can say with hand to, probably now extra hardworking, heart is that my regular Starbucks Fix is the healthy option, as far as possible: Sugar Free Vanilla Syrip, Skimmed Milk, No added sugar. And no added whipped cream either. So that’s at least one thing I can tick. (Even if it’s full caffeine because I don’t do decaf coffee. The headache’s not worth it.)

So it’s going to have to boil down to trying to outwit the OCD. Easier said than done, given I’ve still not managed to quash my also OCDish side when it comes to locking my flat and still spend a good ten to fifteen minutes standing outside the locked door convincing myself it’s locked when I know full well it clearly is. (This of course only once I’ve done the full inner circle and checked the relevant items indoors too.) See what a job I’ve on my fattish hands now?!

And perhaps too I need to ensure the junk food is left on the shelves at the supermarket rather than overflowing my shopping basket. It is tough going though. I can eat apples till the cows come home, but they’re nowhere near as satisfying as a Walnut Whip. Or entire tub of B&J’s Phish Food.  I guess a good start too may be losing that extra sugar per instant coffee at work… incase you hadn’t noticed from my entries here, I’m a coffee addict and so have many a day… creeping up to 2 sugars a cup and it’s probably also partly to blame for the second chin, perhaps the bit on the right hand side.

So brace yourselves. I may get a touch moody on this in the next few weeks. But hopefully it will pay off and I will be able to exhale in public again soon without belly scaring the children.

But not before I’ve finished the 3 packs of chocolate biscuits and 4  dairy milk slabs in the cupboard at the moment…

Friday evening at my local for a caffeine fix and a random blog entry!

I decided to start my weekend as I mean to go on…easy. Hence my placement on a comfy sofa in my local with a large usual fix before me. I’m easily pleased really, thinking about it. Decent made coffee to a soundtrack of The Cure, fine by me.

It’s only been a four day work week this week but thanks to workload and related irritants it’s certainly felt a great deal longer. Eyeing the mountains of paper on my desk as I left – no hanging about on a Friday evening, thanks – I did wonder yet again about whatever did happen to the paperless office? Or was it like the great millennium bug of circa 2000 – total bollocks?

Since the great vanishing spoon incident of my previous blog, I must admit to having found myself sidetracked with book ideas over blog entries and as such have briefly started and in-completed – aka deleted – a few.

(Typical, weird man comes in and despite all the available seats he picks the one near me. Like a freaking weirdo magnet, I am.)

The deleted blogs covering random topics of boredom of the caveman; one on the somewhat ridiculous activities of the anti smoking lobby while eagerly taking the tax revenue; and one on show ‘n tell…my cat being the said show of my tell. But like all the few (very few) dates I’ve been on, things started off well, started to dwindle midway and then nosedived at the end as I lost interest. So I sent them off to the great blog wasteland of the sky. Or net. Or wherever deleted blog entries go when they pass.

In a shocking turn of events, today we had a weird blue tone to the skies above and that yellow thing in the sky was not only visible but functional too! We’ve had a lot – ridiculous mind numbingly dull amount – of overcast, grey skied days accompanied by lots of the wet stuff. It was actually pleasant heading to the usual this afternoon, I even broke into a mild sweat – only very mild, as it’s not something I do for fun – and felt actual warmth on my face from the sun. Lovely.

Funny how perspective changes… In RSA I never considered the sun, it was almost always hot and sunny, but in the UK any mere hint of sunshine and it almost makes me want to break into joyous celebration. But I’m not a showy person, so I don’t. I just whistle a tune in my head and consider that celebration enough.

But I digress.

I think I was talking book ideas before the sun sidetracked me? Well, I am now anyway. Pleased to say that I’ve a couple ideas that certainly will justify some further attention. Interestingly this doesn’t full me with dread either, as they once used to.

(Phew. Weird man has moved on. I guess my London perfected “go away” – I’m being polite in my wording there – glare worked!)

Thank Goodness, as I really enjoyed working on the now completed first novel. This first novel is still with a select group of family and friends for their perusal. I’m still not sure what I will do with it after that, but the fact I did it has certainly boosted my interest in this writing thing. Could it be I finally found the something I not only love to do but actually aren’t dreadful at too?

I guess time will tell depending on how book 2 goes… And of course assuming the reviews of book 1 aren’t too crushing! (So far though, it’s been pretty good, so big relief there!)

the curious case of the vanishing spoon

I’m watching “The Help” this afternoon – ridiculously good film, by the way – and all the on screen fried chicken is making me hungry. This thought clearly supported by the grumbles originating in my (ever expanding) belly. So I make my way to the kitchen to see what’s available. Not much. Typically. Apart from biscuits, crisps (aka potato chips for the non-UK based,) chocolate and some sour gum chewy things I won at a Pub Quiz yesterday. (Our victory clearly down to our genius and not that we were the team of four to two teams of three.)

So I brave the part of the fridge usually reserved for Ben & Jerry’s when I locate a forgotten (seriously, last time I recall opening the freezer was to retrieve a tub of the aforementioned B&J’s. Phish Food… YUM) tupperware of frozen left over home made soup. Probably my last ever batch of home made soup since my retirement from cooking (as blogged over a few weeks back.) Result! Food! Belly grumbles along in rampant joy.

So I chip off the ice from the outside, crack open the tub and slap it in the microwave. Do what I do best: nuke the hell out of it. Eventually it’s not only defrosted, but hot enough to eat too. And the tub has only sort of lost it’s original form in the process.

Out of sheer laziness, I freely admit, and under another entry on the list of reasons being single isn’t too bad, I decide to simply eat out of the tupperware. Why soil another plate unnecessarily. So I grab a soup spoon (listen to me, claiming I own a soup spoon? Madness.) I grab the bog standard dessert spoon, that came as part of a £7.99 set about 15 years ago, before I decide to add a little spice. Splash of worcestershire sauce, sprinkle of salt, and I make my way to the living room to devour the soup.

And I realise once comfortable, the spoon is awol. Accordingly I filled the air with blue tones as is my usual response to irritation, then reluctantly set down the soup and return to the kitchen. I may eat out of the tupperware it heated in, but I’m not quite at the sipping direct from the bowl stage just yet, you may be pleased to know.

So I’m back in the kitchen which let me just clarify, being part of a studio apartment…a British studio apartment at that, is not a large room. It doesn’t take very long to walk from the sofa to the kitchen. So imagine my surprise when I note there is no spoon on the counter.

Or the sink.

Or the previously used but as yet unwashed coffee mug.

I retrace my steps to the living room. No spoon.

Is this the first sign of dementia coming my way? I know I had a spoon. I used said spoon to test the soup’s temperature. To stir the worcestershire sauce and salt. I carried spoon to the living room. I swear it was there just seconds ago.

I retrace my steps. Again. From the moment I retrieved the nuked liquid lunch to sitting my lardy self on the sofa. I opened the fridge. The cupboards. The microwave – despite the possible early onset dementia, even I knew it wasn’t in the microwave, but I still felt need to prove it to myself. Nothing. Nothing on the floor – though had it been I’d have been at a great loss to explain not hearing it fall. Last thing I need on top of going mad is going deaf at the same time.

Nothing in the living room either. Anywhere.

I started to chuckle through disbelief. I hope it was disbelief and not another sign of the barmies. Like Sean Connery and the cure for cancer in “Medicine Man,” “I had the spoon for soup..but now I’ve lost it!” (Ok, that’s probably lost on you if you’re not familiar with the film… man finds cure for cancer in the Amazon forrest…and loses it.)

Almost completely perplexed, I’m just about resigned to the fact that yes, I am losing the plot after-all, when it dawns on me… taking a fresh spoon, I approached the soup with caution – I didn’t need to add spilled soup to my day – using which I fished out my AWOL spoon from its hiding place in the soup.

In the words of Homer Simpson, if I may, “Doh!”

If it saves me from the weird weird, it’s fine by me.

I was recently looking to relocate, having grown pretty weary of where I am. Amongst other reasons, most of which aren’t important right now. Unfortunately the area I wanted to relocate to happens to be one of the most expensive places to live in the world. You may have heard of it, a little place called London. Familiar, yes? It’s a nice little place, popular with Her Majesty too. She has a rather large, but well located home just off The Mall…

But it does come with silly prices. Now, the entire UK is being nailed at pretty much every turn – buy a pack of fags nowadays and you’re lucky to get change from a tenner; by a round of drinks and you almost need a second job to pay for it. But nothing comes as harshly as London Rents. Oh.My.God.

So there I was having that fun task of debating my options. Notably just how much am I willing to compromise in order to live where I want to. I spent many days (weeks actually) debating these, while looking at areas in London I’d like to live, and just how long I’m prepared to wedge myself on an overpriced overcrowded tube train twice a day to and from the office….When it came down to it though, there was an unexpected entry on the must haves list that went a long way to aiding my final decision: the humble washing machine.

Most places I could just about afford the rent did not have a washing machine included. I would have even tolerated a wardrobe sized living space if it came with a washing machine. But no, none in my price range were looking very likely.

I know, I know, they have things called Laundromats in London too. I know, I used many when I used to live there many years ago. When debating my must have’s list, this was high up. You see, laundromats suck. They have to be the dreariest, most depressingly miserable places to be. Especially when you know you have to return once a week or so.

As if not being awful enough, they do also have a tendency of attracting the weird. And I don’t mean the good weird. I mean the weird weird. And maybe it’s just something about me, or says something about me I don’t really wish to understand, but the weird always seem to hover towards me. Usually in a personal space busting manoeuvre that’s just wrong. Especially when the weird have foul breath that defies all logical explanation.

As I sat at home contemplating my options while my washing did its thing in the machine that comes included with my current affordable rental here down by the sea, I came over in cold sweats of panic and fear at the thought of having to go back to using a laundromat. Hence the high inclusion of a washing machine on my must haves list.

I know there is the option to drop off your laundry for the poor attendant to wash for you, which costs a premium too, but I just can’t bring myself to hand over my soiled clothing to some stranger to wash. I’ve been at laundromats in the past where I’ve watched the usually (understandably so) miserable attendant dishing out someones stuff, dirty undies and all, and it just made me cringe.

The decision then to postpone the proposed relocation was decided on three things:
Personal space – I want my own. Call me selfish if you want. I could have rented a room in a shared house or even a bedsit. But I just don’t want to share a bathroom or such with strangers. This particularly highlighted when I had a bout of the stomach revolt. TMI? sorry, but good point made, no?
Money – I actually want to have some spare. Living in London with no money with which to enjoy all it has to offer is pointless.
Washing machine – I will not ever ever ever ever ever again rent anywhere that doesn’t have one. If it doesn’t have one I’ll consider one where there is at least clear space and plumbing for one, but it would have to be an amazing flat to get me to then have to go out and buy the not overly cheap domestic appliance.

It’s not all bad news though. My current place, as mentioned, is not only affordable, and has a washing machine, but it is also merely one train trip away from London. Within an hour, assuming I time it right, I can be in Central London. With money to spend when I get there.

That works for me! And saves me the hell that is a laundromat!

Statistically speaking, I’m 99% sure I’ll avoid the stats going forward.

It’s funny how much credit we give to statistics, isn’t it? The statistics say x, y and z and therefore it’s fact! Much like the adverts who proclaim 89% of all who use said product swear by it, while the small print subtly mentions this result was generated out of a mass survey of twelve. Another example, a certain coffee chain proclaiming to be “the nations favourite”…after surveying sixteen thousand. Did I miss the memo? When did sixteen thousand become the nation?! And further more, no one asked me or anyone I know, so who made up the obviously better than us mere mortals sixteen thousand anyway?

It wasn’t Starbucks, which goes to prove how rubbish the stats were. Clearly Starbucks is the best. I’ve surveyed myself and am 100% in agreement that the best venti Sugar free vanilla skinny extra hot wet latte is made by Starbucks.

I raise this because despite my best efforts to the contrary, I too fall victim to statistics…

This was prompted by my recently bemoaning some stats on my Flickr page… I upload photos and then wait with baited breath to see of they’re met with favour. I’ve no idea why I put such esteem on complete random strangers to approve of my efforts, but I just do. And then I glance at the photo that’s achieved the most views to date on my Flickr page, 372 or some such and it’s the photo heading this entry: a photo of the wrong end of a traffic jam awaiting entry to the Lincoln Tunnel when entering Manhattan. It’s not even a particularly good shot, I didn’t even get the horizontal balanced or capture any blink and you miss it rare image / scene?! Just because this has the most views on my page, proven by the stats, it does not indicate this is my best photo. It certainly isn’t. Trust me. It’s not. (or judge for yourselves… uncarick on Flickr)

My blog too gives a range of stats: I can find out instantly which day got the most views (1 Aug 2011) ; which entry has been read the most (“…I just wanna f***ing dance…”); who’s commented most (Mom!) and many other options. Which is great!

Or not so much. You see I turn on and it says daily views “1″ and I deem myself a failure at blogging. Clearly I’m utterly useless at it, just look at the statistics!

But then that 1 drops me an email or adds a comment or “likes” on Facebook (another statistic that can reflect success or failure, no? If no one “likes” it, it must be an epic failure?!) and I think, well…I gave someone something to smile about or such, and that can’t be a bad thing, really. This goes for my photos too… Even the one above had one viewer add it as a “favourite!” Instantly it ups the mood, approval. Even if, truth be told, I’m a little bemused as to why a bad photo of traffic in a tunnel is a favourite by that viewer! I appreciate the nod anyway.

So I’m going to try ignore these stats going forward… Perhaps stick to idea that if I like it, then that’s good enough for me. Anyone else does? Bonus!