A Cautionary Tale

I quite enjoy popping down to see wifeys Nan. She lives in Shaftesbury so visits are limited to a couple of times a year. Her house, though modern and practical, is crammed full of antiquity and curiosities. Old pictures, each with it’s own story, oddities assembled with care on shelves, ornate porcelain and silverware arranged for display,... I love mooching around.

At 84, Nanny is a sprightly old bird. Fiercely independent with a sharp mind, she is articulate and quick witted and always game for a good old fashioned chin wag. She is a window into a bygone era, regaling us with stories from a time that seems so distant and yet, in her presence, so tangible.

I love to just sit in her lounge, quietly reading a magazine and eavesdropping. I pick up snippets as Nanny and wifey chat intensely, frivolously: weaving their way around a multitude of subjects as the conversation meanders on without any agenda. I drop in and out when something piques my interest, relishing the parry and thrust of good debate. But it always isn’t so. Sometimes I don’t want chat....but you cant say ‘excuse me Nan but I really don’t care for chatter today I would like some peace and quiet’ No, instead you have to pretend to be listening.....a cautionary tale of note follows....

A few months ago Wifey and I went down to Shaftesbury to pick up Nanny and bring her up to Shropshire for a holiday. That’s a four hour drive. (or three, if Nanny’s on form and you’re not in the mood) Such was the case this time and whilst Nanny gamely chattered on I supplied the appropriate rejoinders where required, drifting off contentedly in my own world.

All of a sudden Nanny turns and looks directly at me. ‘Do you get much rape in Jersey Steve?’ she trilled.

(ehh?! ....where are we?...Whats going on?)

Given the gravity of the subject I was somewhat worried I had been caught napping.....

(time’s ticking....)

(Think! Think!!)

‘Um...hardly ever...the police do a good job keeping the streets safe’

She replied ‘Oh? How strange. I find all that yellow so boring....’

(eh???)

She was of course referring to the blankets of yellow rapeseed blossoms across the Dorset countryside. Memo to self: pay more attention or you may find yourself up a dirty creek with no paddle.

Human Pizza Box Men

A well known local pizza takeaway has taken advertising to a new level. I will disguise the company name as a cautionary measure against any unintentionally libellous remarks before I continue.....

So, D*minos has taken to employing a number of (presumably) temporary staff to stand at the exits to several roundabouts in Telford advertising special deals on their pizzas. I first spotted these poor unfortunates at around 7 o’clock, Monday morning. As their dishevelled forms shuffled into view through the freezing fog, I thought to myself....what the f....?!’ followed rapidly by ‘ha ha ha’ and immediately followed hard upon by ‘poor b*stards’. It was sub sero temperatures and they must have been feeling pretty stupid, dressed up in massive pizza boxes. I was reminded of them again on the return home because the desperados were still there at 6 that evening.

The next day, as I drove past yet another roundabout with four lonely sentinels standing guard at each entrance, I let out another huge guffaw. However, Wifey was also in the car and so this time around I was forced to also consider how fortunate I was to have a decent job, whilst trying (with little success) to stifle a chuckle. That fact that someone would want to work in such abject degradation is a testament to their spirit and they should be applauded for actually getting out and working for a living rather than those leeches who slob around all week, slowly bleeding the hard working tax payers dry. So, on the return journey, rather than laughing and pointing, we took to beeping our horns and waving at the poor reprobates. We got a good response! One beep one wave. That a 100% wave return on our beeps.

Assuming a retaliatory response from other takeaway outlets, don’t be surprised if you see a kebab, burger or chicken wing jostling on the roundabouts as Keb*b-Ye, MacD*nalds and K*C begin their advertising campaigns in earnest.

Wifey , Jakey and I had pizza last night. Unfortunately for D*minos, we went to A*da to get ours because it’s cheaper. (still, if my spending can help get the economy back on track, I’m all for it - right voters !?)

And remember, no matter how bad your job gets, it could worse. You could be stuck on a roundabout dressed up in a pizza box. Utter and abject humilitation.Pizza wobble-boarder, I salute you.

Human Pizza box (face disgused by a pizza to protect his identity)

It’s life Jim but not as we know it....(pregnant!)

Thanks to *God/a miracle of science* Wifey and I are ‘In the family way’. This may come a surprise to those of you who don’t follow me on facebook but wifey and I have been getting used to this wonderous event for the last few months.

Although I already have a son, I missed out on great swathes of his childhood and so much of this is new to me: the trembling anticipation of waiting for the test to read ‘pregnant’....the 12 week scan... wifey and I on tenterhooks at every twinge...planning a nursery, Its all a fantastic journey.

Yesterday, we had the 20 weeks scan. It’s quite something to see this homunculus bouncing about inside wifey, so quiet and happy looking. I don’t know what kind of parents we will be but if the last 4 months are anything to go by I think we have a perfect balance.

I will keep my blog updated with events as the unfold but in the meantime, I am taking full advantage of the fact I now have a free designated driver to ferry me to the Crown and back.

(Head? Check. Feet? Check. Arms? Check. Willy?....Willy? Im gonna to need confirmation of a willy...)

Not quite Wordsworth

'Daffodils' is arguably one of the most popular poems of the Romantic Age.....
'....I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze....'

One can easily imagine how the poet's excitement as he happened across a field full of blossoming daffodils on a blustery April morning way back in 1802, the biting wind encouraging the blossoms to dance and jostle in the breeze.

I wonder how the poem would have unravelled, had Wordsworth been strolling acoss a field in Shropshire on a wonderfully still and sunny June, only to happen upon this beautiful field of crimson poppies. Its hard to imagine the poem 'Daffodils' being 'Poppies'. But with skylarks chattering overhead and the gentle twitter of song-thrushes in the hedgerows: the stillness and wonderful sight of poppies nodding lazily, reaching up towards the sunlight in ethereal embrace, I can imagine that Wordsworth would have found the eloquent words to convey the beauty of this scene into a poem equally as well remembered as 'Daffodils'

'....I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and seas,
When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of crimson poppies;

No...lets leave it as it was originally inspired. But with a nod to that great poem that never was, simply because Wordsworth chose to take a walk in April and not June.

Mary Mary Quite Contary....(DIY Gardening ideas)

At last my garden is resplendent in all its summer majesty. The vegetable patch is festooned with a variety of summer fayre: salads, tomatoes, courgettes, spring and red onions, beetroot, carrots, strawberries, peppers, chillies, peas and beans. We have also added flowers into the mix to make things look nice a pretty for wifey.

Ive been adventurous and built a pergola. I know its a pergola because I thought it was a pagoda but I was advised it wasn’t. This prompted some web research and now I know all about pergolas pagodas and gazebos, such is my want. The project took twice as long as However, the end result was a resounding success and last week, we blew a small fortune at the local gardening centre and now the borders are festooned with wonderful flowers.

The wildlife pond has been a bit hit and I now have a pond full of froglets all hopping madly through the purposely uncut grass, the shady ferns and the rapidly expanding jasmine bush. John’s old beer barrel-cum-fishpond is in good order now I’ve splashed out on a filtration pump and the fishys can at last see each other. Even the orphaned gnomes are happy.

So just a few finishing touches (paint the decking, put out the lights, tidy up a bit) and I can finally have my garden BBQ-slash-house warming party....

....having lived there now for just over 2 years....

Not bad

Every stop I make, I make a new friend....

Its traveller season and for the second time in as many months, the byways and fields near my house are festooned with travellers and their caravans.

Please don’t confuse this with the romantic notion of travellers in beautiful hand-painted Romany style caravans, an old cart and lazy horse nearby, mischievous grubby faced children poking from behind the protective legs of their father who is nonchalantly smoking on a pipe: the gentle singing from mother tending the livestock and the heavy nose of burning wood hanging in the air.

No. I’m talking about the vandals who pull up in their huge caravans, rip down the wooden fence to illegally gain access the private property, let their pack of hounds run loose across the fields and immediately begin bagging up and dumping their waste that they have accumulated since the last fly-tipping session in amongst the trees and hedgerows: their children throwing sticks at passing cars and greeting you with a vulgar f*** off!” as you drive past, whilst proud father stands by, topless, swigging from a can of special brew.

The local council and police seem apathetic to their actions. The view seems to be to turn a blind eye and they will move on eventually because, what with all the form filling and red tape to get through, you may as well sit back and do nothing, it will be just as quick.

Now don’t think me a boorish bigot. I have no qualms with travellers who don’t resort to vandalism to gain access to a field: keep their livestock and pets under control, and (most importantly) clear up after themselves. For goodness sake, there is a rubbish dump less that 1 mile away!

I don’t begrudge anyone from choosing an alternative lifestyle. Who am I to say what way people should live? But the thing that irks me is, in a few weeks they will disappear into the night and all that will be left is a churned up field, a broken fence and hedgerows garlanded with fetid, bursting bags of rubbish. Cue the dutiful council, who appear almost as soon as they have left, to quickly remove the rubbish, fix the fences and remove any signs they were ever there. The bitter pill is not that these slovenly dossers choose an enviable lifestyle with little responsibility for which I secretly yearn, it is that mine and your council tax bills pay for this annual mess to be routinely cleaned up.

Gawn Fishin (Fly fishing in Shropshire)

A few weeks ago I finally acheived the unthinkable - I actually caught a trout. Whats even better is that JR Hartley completely blanked! Chuntering all the way home that it was the worst day fishing he had ever had, I mused to myself how it had been my best day ever.

I shall not bore you with the details, suffice it to say I should have bagged up twice over if it were not for those canny trout slipping the hook.

Wifey and I scoffed the blighter that night. As I savoured each mouthful I imaginged Father in Law at the dining table, being presented with nothing more palatable than what was to be the stuffing (mushrooms) on toast. You just have to laugh

Nice Spoons! (why middle age sucks)

Sometimes I notice little indicators that my direction in life is changing - some for better; some for worse.

Im not talking those huge decisions that reverberate through the rest of your life: Lets have a baby! Lets have a career change! I quit! No, Im talking about those insidious small changes that slowly creep up on you until one day you suddenly notice you have turned into an old duffer.

To wit; last weekend I noticed one such indicator that further confirms my decent from exhuberant youth to pitiful middle age. The highlight of my weekend was purchasing a matching set of large cooking utensils. As soon as I got home, I excitedly washed them and hung them up.

Ive never been in the position to splash out on something so wantonly extravagant and self indulgent. As I stared at them, glinting on their hooks resplendent, I was suddenly aware that I had slipped another toehold from the wall of youth.

They do look good though ay?

Jersey Calling....(meeting old friends again in Jersey)

Victor Hugo famously described the Channel Islands as ‘...jewels scattered across the English Channel….’ Having just returned from an all too brief visit, I am reminded of this truism. Despite inclement weather it really was good to get my feet back on home soil.

For me, trips home are usually a whistle stop tour of family and friends so this time we decided to keep a low profile so we could relax and enjoy ourselves. I arranged to meet up with my old friend Tom and his partner Sharon and for the next day or two we were entertained Jersey style. A ramble along the north shore towards White Rock and onwards to L'Etacquerel fort with a flask and sandwiches, a mooch down to Egypt returning stranded sea slugs to the sea, dining at Chez O’Driscoll and eating out at a quaint Italian restaurant.

Wifey and I even found some time to head off to a deserted Ouaisne bay and we sat by the rocks and whiled away a lovely sunny afternoon on the beach watching the ebb and low of the tide.

Later, we met up with another old friend Darren and we headed into town on a dead quiet weekday evening for a couple of cheeky beers. It didn’t matter that town wasn’t busy of that there was no-one out. It was great just to hang out and have a beer with an old mate, catching up on what we had been up to and sharing a joke.

Next day I met Tom and Shar for a spot of fishing at a place called petit Plemont, 300 ft down the cliffs to the rocks below. Casting out from rocky crags with a running swell and sea crashing all about us, the tingle of sea salt sun-baked on my face, the sounds of the gulls overhead; spectacular. The sun was out and the sea was clear down 20 feet. I was spinning away into the bay and with the skill of a true Jersey Bean I managed to catch a big mackerel.


Its always good to spend time in company of my friends, sharing a few beers and laughs.

And as for the mackerel? Later that evening, Wifey and I cooked it on a bbq at Green Island beach and scoffed the lot.

Below are pictured some snaps of me Wifey Tom and Shar (and some jersey cows and some rescued sea slugs).

Feeling blue (nature in colourful bloom)

I am somewhat predisposed to bouts of moody muttering when something distresses me. So having to leave Jersey once again to return to the mainland after a far too short hit-and-run holiday is a sure-fire way to get me in the doldrums.

On the return home, we dropped in on Wifey’s Gran’s house. We took Gran and Sam, her loveable old mutt, to this wonderful bluebell wood she wanted us to see down the road, in the heart of the Dorset countryside.

It isn’t a walk across a deserted sun-dappled beach.
It isn’t an effervescent stride along secluded coves and cliff paths
But it was just the tonic to help soothe away the homesick blues.
.

Check out these birds....

I popped up to the local trading estate for some good old fashioned highway robbery the week before last.

This is how it happens...I need something for the garden and so pop into our local garden centre (which shall remain nameless to negate any potential libel threat). I select what I want, then I go to the counter, put my hands up and get casually fleeced by the woman in the Dick Turpin mask. Like sipping tea through a tramp's sock, it always leaves a slightly bitter taste in my mouth.

Not today though. For hiding in the bushes, unpeturbed by the rampant theft all around, sat these little robins. I was reminded that even in this hectic modern world in which we choose to immerse ourselves, there still is always room for a bit of love for a fluffy bunch of birds
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The fine art of dying on stage (Pub life Telford Oakengates Open Mic night)

With months off work sitting on my arse, I decided on Thursday to take part in the monthly Open Mic Session at my local watering hole.

Before I go further I should clarify, this isn’t the cacophony of noise that alludes to being the weekly jamming session. This is a bon-fide Open Mic session hosted by the Francis and Clare who supply all the kit, speakers, leads, PA system and musicians from all over Shropshire clamour to get their 20 minute slot, wherein you can play anything you like during your 20 minutes of fame.

However, I wasn’t expecting to put my foot through my beloved crafter guitar the week before. And so there I was one week later, the opening act, with a cheap second hand lefter in my sweaty paws: the sort tat that wouldn’t be amiss at a car boot sale.

Now I haven’t played for a bit but I had practiced and was reasonably confident I would do ok. But try as he might, Howard couldn’t get any decent sound out of the thing in the sound check. After a few pregnant pauses, we decided the only option was to place a mic right up in front of the guitar in the hope of getting something. Despite my growing concerns, I decided to have a go.

First song to blow out the cobwebs and settle myself…..bit crap but hey, I got through it….second song….and that’s where things begun to slowly unravel. The sound kept fading in and out as I moved about on the stool and I begun to lose my place….. A few tricky chords later and I started to slip out of control. I lurched from one disastrous chord to the next…. The empathetic audience felt my pain and gave me a sympathetic clap between songs but their gaping mouths confirmed for me that this was car-crash telly and I was the star! My face was burning up like Sputnik on re-entry but I gamefully played on, slowly morphing into the quasi- Lampwick/Donkey dude from the storybook Pinocchio, wildly wind-milling the strings with my cloven hooves in a frenzy of sweat and hair and bellowing out jumbled lyrics…’Hee-haw! .... Hee-haw! .... HEE-HAW!!....’

If the arse of Beelzebub himself was to have opened up in front of me at that very moment, I’d have gladly dived straight in. The end came swiftly… mercifully…when I simultaneously lost any sound from the guitar and my place in the song. Bereft of any dignity, I just stopped, right in the middle of a line, as abruptly as one hears when simply lifting the needle off a record. “I should have quit 2 songs before” I muttered to myself, as I guiltily quaffed the free pint John the landlord gives to performers…

The stage was perfectly set for the next guy, following someone who’d just crashed and burned. However, performers at Open Mic do share a genuine camaraderie. No performer relishes the prospect of following someone who has just wowed the pub with some incredible guitar but equally no-one would wish someone to flunk his set. They share you pain when you flunk because they’ve been there before and know how it feels to play a bad-un.

So what did Grasshopper learn in today’s lesson?

Good at home, unplugged, does not necessarily mean good when you amp up.
I need a new guitar.
The key to any success is to evaluate what has happened and apply you have learned.


Editor’s note: The Francis-Bell duo do a great job providing the staging and equipment for the monthly Open Mic nights which are normally the last Thursday in any month. The atmosphere is friendly and Howard and Clare make you feel most welcome. The crown audience too is incredibly forgiving (as demonstrated in this blog entry)

So if you fancy having a go, contact Francis-Bell at www.francis-bell.com to get a slot. Demand for these slots is fierce. You need to book early to get a slot. And it’s always busy. Go on give it a go, if you fall flat on your arse the worst that will happen is you will land on top of me….

Slugs and snails.....(controlling slugs and snails the old fashioned way)

Slugs and Snails are very interesting creatures. Firstly they are hermaphroditic, each equipped with both male and female reproductive organs, so they can, quite literally, go **** themselves.

And that’s not even the best bit. They have also been bestowed the gift of extraordinarily huge penises. Indeed, the garden slug's penis is nearly half its total body length! Fancy that. (*snigger*) Furthermore, penis size is reflected in the scientific name of one banana slug species - ‘dolichophallus’ - Latin for "long penis."

Amorous slugs make for great voyeuristic entertainment during evening veggie patrol. All you need is a torch (and if you are a bit ‘Marquis de Sade’ some salt to calm their ardour). The sight of a courting pair of slugs majestically circling one another whilst solemnly waving their oversized penises overhead puts the most improbably athletic couples of Pompeii and Khajuraho into a more appropriate and severely diminished perspective.

So, what with our veggie patch on the go, our garden has become a veritable smorgasbord for a Cornucopia of slugs and a Rout of snails. Interesting collective nouns aside, the gardener’s chief enemies Mr Slug and Mrs Snail need to be kept in order- naturally of course, being the diminutive eco warrior that I aspire to be.

Ultimately I’m after a hedgehog. But with hedgehogs being quite the little travellers they are, we need one that wouldn’t ordinarily make it in the wild. So, whilst we wait with trembling anticipation for the phone call to say that that a three legged hedgehog needs a loving home, a few fat toads or frogs would be quite useful keeping slugs and snails at bay. So I have installed a small but bijou nature pond in the back garden, designed specifically to attract toadies and froggies. I’ve put in some nice ferns and I plan to let the surrounding grass grow wild. When the jasmine shoots off again it should look pretty cool.

Last week I added a bunch of tadpoles and when they change into froggies and toadies I will have an army of hungry amphibians at my disposal. Between Wifey’s folks and my mate Rich (see blog ‘Old Man Rich’) I have an almost inexhaustible supply to supplement my forces should the slugs hire some mercenary grass snakes or herons and my army begins to sufer losses.

I’m expecting great things from my raw recruits. Once metamorphosis has taken place, I expect them to get to the battlefront post haste and start engaging the enemy

Signing off, Goosh dolichophallus….


The Enemy.

My army....working hard at fighter school











Allied HQ....

Jake the Master Baker (Pub life in Oakengates telford)

This Easter bank holiday weekend, The Goodchild Clan all entered into the Easter Hot Crossed Bun baking competition at the Crown Inn.

Having won it last year I had a title to defend.
Having failed to get a mention last year, Wifey had a point to prove.
Jake was just in it for the ride.
The judges cogitated and deliberated and finally announced the results. It was a close run thing with Paul (Wifey’s brother) third and me, elbowed into second place by my very own boy.












It was pleasing to note that he was guided into first place by my expert tutelage…

And Wifey? Back to the drawing board I’m afraid. As she was flicking through her Emails yesterday I noticed a Hot Cross Bun Recipe in her In-box….reeks of desperation methinks….

(Cray) Fishing (Fly fishing in shrophsire)

This Tuesday Geoff and I set out once again on a lovely sunny day to the trout pond in Bridgnorth intent on me breaking my trout duck.

I am pleased to say my casting is much improved. My ability to catch trout though, isn’t. I should not be too hard on myself really. I’m casting further and more consistently and I actually hooked a couple of trout but both managed to wriggle free whilst I played them in.

Of course ‘JR Hartley’ blithely caught a brace yet again. He even had the temerity to put the second one back so that he could ‘fish on’.

Not to be outdone though I did land something quite a bit more unusual: a Crayfish.
The advice from the trout pond owner was ‘If you manage to land one, stamp on it’.
Well I wasn’t so enamoured with this approach so being the big softie I am, I let her scurry back into the pond.

Editors note:
I have researched this further and have since found a minefield of byelaws protecting the English Crayfish with one hand and savagely curtailing the all non native Crayfish with the other. My advice if you see one is simply ‘run away’…which shouldn't be too difficult as they are quite ugly.
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Gawn Fishing...

I’ve always fancied having a go at fly fishing. Only problem is that it’s not a sport you can just turn up and have a go. You need the right equipment for starters which costs a fortune and then a licence to boot. Not only that, learning how to cast requires the tutelage of someone already proficient in the skill. Well, wifey’s Old Man, Geoff, I was advised, is a dab hand at fly fishing and what’s more, he had bundles of kit and no-one to go with!

So a couple of weeks ago after a bit of web research, Geoff and I found ourselves at a fly fishing pool near Bridgnorth. We had with us the sort of bag boys love; full of interesting oddities and closed boxes that had not seen the light of day since they were closed away some 15 years ago. Each revealed an array of flies, some brightly coloured, some shiny, some sparkling in the sun, and all incredibly intricate and skilfully created.

There were already several guys fishing at the pool and after exchanging pleasantries with a couple, we headed off to a quiet spot.

Now there really is no substitute for having a go yourself and thankfully the Geoff concurred. He showed me a couple of casts and then I was off on my own having a go with the spare rod. I soon got the hang of it, albeit somewhat weak and lacking in distance.

No such problems for the master though. Geoff rolled back the years in a vintage display of fly fishing. He caught his first on a particular kind of fly called ‘The missionary’ (Every time he said that thereafter, I was childishly forced to stifle a belly laugh)

So I swapped my fly to the same one too…..Nothing.

So we swapped places and continued fishing.…Nothing.
So we swapped back…and he promptly caught his second after a couple of casts.
To add insult to injury, fish were mocking me, jumping out of the water all around me in some kind aquatic trout circus …...

(I wasn’t frightening them with amateurish and clumsy casts).

In short I caught sod all. To make matters worse, all but 1 other person on the pool caught a fish that morning. However I wasn’t unbowed. In fact I loved every minute of it. Having agreed with Geoff that we should make this a regular thing, he promptly gave me a rod and reel from his collection. An exceedingly generous gift and one that I now am compelled to use as soon as another session can be arranged.

Watch out Mr Trout, there’s a Goodchild about…

t

The pool....

The missionary fly; the name of which invoked much hilarity. (the actual image is somewhat disappointing compared to that which I conjured up in my mind’s eye)

Mousey Mousey.....(weird dreams)

Last night I dreamed that I was contracted to train a mouse to run up the side of a van.

Unsurprisingly, the mouse couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery van sides. What irked me more was that my colleague was performing the same task but with a gecko. Unfairly disadvantaged I was considering taking my grievance to ‘The Management’ when fate intervened and I woke up.

Clinincal pshycologists, do your worst….

Exploring the past at Hinkshay (Historical industrial Telford)

With my hiatus in continuance, yesterday I took a chance to enjoy some wonderful sunshine and took off in the direction of Telford Town Park, with a flask of tea and an OS map. My Raison D’être was to locate the Hinkshay pools; remnants ofTelford’s long forgotten golden era of industry. There are 2 pools to be found – the Lower Pool was formed when the dam retaining the Upper Pool (a balancing lake for the canal system) burst. A short stretch of the flooded canal also remains.

I don’t know why I’ve become interested in this bygone era. Perhaps it is a wanting to connect more with Telford or simply curiosity. Either way, I set off in the sunshine and without much trouble (I’m good at reading maps) I found the pools at the bottom of a steep wooded copse.I was tired so I took my leave and had a cuppa by the banks of a crystal clear pool some 10 feet deep and flat calm. It was truly remarkable and delightful that in the midst of the urban sprawl of Telford I could find such tranquillity. The fact that it was Tuesday mid-morning probably helped, but these places are so few travelled by locals that I think you could easily find such solitude on any given weekend. More rare of course, in these busy modern times, is to be able to indulge oneself in a whole day of such pursuits.

When the warm sunny days approach, wifey and I are quick to jump in the car and get out of Telford as quick as possible. But a newfound interest in Telford’s past has opened up a rich and wonderful landscape right on our doorstep: and its there for you all to experience if you simply look close enough.

The Bearded Assassin returns

With no job on the horizon and boredom surging through my veins, Ive decided to have another attempt at a beard (such is the rollercoaster life of the unemployed).

I'm 1 week in and things are looking ok. Week 3 is the acid test because thats when it got itchy last time and had to get it shaved off (at 4.00 am Monday morning I might add).
Alas I feel Im a flogging to nothing here but my indefatigable pursuit of hirsute is admirable and should serve as a example to all those yearn to grow a beard...
enclosed is 'Beard: Take 2: week 1...













Bearded Assassin returns: progress update!!
This beard thing really is the way forward. Ive been getting some rather admiring glances from the ladies in the Post Office queue....
enclosed is 'Beard: Take 2: week 2...










Bearded Assassin returns: The final Hurrah!
The great Beard experiment has finally drawn to a close. After 4 weeks of sturdy growth I have had a shave. To emphasis how pathetic my beard had become, wifey didnt notice I had shaved it off until fully 5 hours later when we were going to bed. I retire, beaten but not disgraced.




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Father and Son bonding (its all about the family)

As its currently half term, my son decided he would like to stop the night and chill with the old man.

With wifey off to work the following morning I thought about how best to entertain my son for the day. I did my contemplating in bed with my eyes closed until 12.30. I finally got up, needled into action by the errie silence from downstairs. I needn’t have concerned myself…Jake had busied himself with playing on the PS3. Not one to interrupt, I left him to it as I shuffled into the kitchen for brunch.

I returned in with some nutritious toast and biscuits and 2 cuppas and then belly-splashed fonzy style on the couch. For the next 3 hours I coached goaded and instructed Jake through various levels of this game before getting bored and sloping off to put up that chest of drawers that I’d been meaning to do for days…..

Then off to the Park Inn to shoot some pool. Which turned into snooker coz the pool cue ball was missing. Mutual frustration at not being able to pot anything and the game soon degenerated into snooker belt-em-up, thrashing the ball as hard as we could in the hope of a fluke pot. This whiled away another couple of hours.

When we had tired of that our minds turned to food so it was a short jaunt up to the Golden Arches (aka Maccy-D’s) for some healthy dinner.

On the way home Jake decided he would like me to show him some chords on the guitar. Well I’m pretty poor as most who have heard me will testify, but Jake can’t play a note and in the land of the blind the one eyed man is King.

Finally, at 9ish, 1 hour later than I’d said to Jake I would take him home and 3 hours later than I said to him mum I’d bring him home, I took Jake home. He loved it and is already talking about stopping over again before he goes back to school.

There’s too much emphasis these days on father and son bonding sessions and ‘heart-to-hearts’.
Although nothing constructive came of this inpromtu day, sometimes father and son need to just kick back and slob out.

So, is this a good example of 'right-on' parenting? Probably not.
Would this have been allowed to happen if wifey had been with us? Not a chance.
Did we have a good time? Damn right we did

The Bearded Assassin (my failed attempt to grow a beard)

During my sabbatical I have taken it upon myself to grow a beard. Why? I don’t know. But I can grow a beard such is my want, now that I don’t have to be concerned with such trivial matters as work since joining the massed ranks of the unemployed.

The results are disappointing. After 18 days, all I have achieved is a tramp makeover. What’s worse, I actually have some lovely blond whiskers which frustrates me further, as a decent blond beard is the stuff of surf folklore.

Instead of looking sagacious and philosophical, I look like a hobo.

I’m going to persevere until next Tuesday so that at least I can look back in my twilight years and recall ‘The time I had a beard’ or to me more accurate, ‘The time I didn’t shave for 3 weeks’

Lazy Days....(bumming about when youre unemployed)

For those of you that don’t know, I am a self employed IT contract manager, which probably doesn’t mean much to the uninitiated so I shall briefly explain. In short, I’m paid by companies on a 3 month rolling contractual basis to prove new software is working correctly before it’s used in anger.

Anyhoo, I have just finished a 14 month stint in the south of England which involved a daily commute on the train of 3 hours each way. I’d rise at 5.30am and would not get back home until 7.30pm. By January I was a barely human somnambulist shuffling from station to work to station to bed. Now that’s over, I find myself at a hiatus. I’ve decided to take some extended leave and get back to feeling human again.

I’m currently 2 weeks into this sabbatical and already I’m feeling quite chipper again. I know this because I’ve begun doing little experiments around the house. The latest experiment is making briquettes from old newspapers. We have 2 wood-burners in our house and its fantastic this time of year to snuggle in front of a roaring fire. But I want to be more eco-friendly, so I’ve been running some experiments withhold newspapers. Now the method is simple; soak said papers in water for about 1 hour, them compress them and leave to dry for 4-5 days. Volia! Renewable slow-burning fuel. I’ve been working on 2 models, one using the loaf tins wifey uses for making bread and the other simply squashed in my hand to make a poo-shaped briquette.

Both burned quite well last night on the fire so I’m upping production. Wifey isn’t so happy about this experiment, because when the plumber came around to fix my botch job on the kitchen he asked about said briquettes festooned all about the house drying out and I told him nonchalantly ‘Oh those belong to the wife – I’ve no idea what they’re for’

Hello!

I am a 40 something bon-viveur and would be raconteur. Variously boyish and childish, thoughtful and thoughtless but to name a few traits; suffice it to say, I have many good points and many many bad ones. I was born in Jersey in the Channel Isles but now currently live in Telford England, with my lovely wife and (on a part time basis) my fantastic son.

So who am I? I can best describe myself as a pessimistic optimist. ‘That’s not possible!!” I hear you cry in unision, (with the more astute amonst you also commeting '....thats an oxymoron!'). So let me try to explain. For me, the glass begins quite full but sooner or later ends up as dry as if left out in the midday sun for a week. The transition from ‘quite full’ to ‘bone dry’ can best be described thus: For the most part, I follow my pre-programmed approach to life that follows five basic steps: (adjectives added for additional clarity)
Joyous optimism.
Deflated realisation
Dumbfounded inertia
Anger and self loathing
Pessimistic acceptance

Of course I don’t follow all five stages in linear progression. For example, the other day I wanted to fit a new sink and drainage pipe in my kitchen. I knew in theory how to do it but stage one was rapidly replaced by stage two and then stage three when I realised I didn’t have the tools for the job with me trying to figure what kitchen utensils could double up as work-tools. A few scraped knuckles and stabbed thumbs later and I’m on stage four. The evening ended in my lonely lament to myself (and the 24 hour emergency plumber) of how cruel life was to me (Stage five).

On the other hand, yesterday, I tried to dig the trench outside the house for the waste pipe. (Stage one). As the club hammer skewed off the kitchen knife that was doubling up as a chisel, and into my index finger, the remaining four stages happened simultaneously. I lingered on stages two and three (Deflated realisation and Dumbfounded inertia) for some time as I viewed the blood blister on my finger. Woe (again) is me....

So, this roadmap to my life has served me well these last forty years. Indeed, there but for the grace of God go I. And before this turns into a diatribe, I will move swiftly on….

My son. What a fantastic lad he is. In many regards a chip off the old block, but blessed with a much more pleasant demeanour and a fantastic attitude to life. It’s like all the bits that make up the sum of me have been put in a giant sieve and the bad bits taken out. We have such fun (especially as he is now old enough to understand and appreciate smutty childish humour – something to which I am most adept)

And finally, my lovely wife, or ‘wifey’ as I like to call her (‘wifey-woo’, when we are using that silly, childish made up speak that partners do for each other as tokens of affection when they’ve long stopped swinging from the chandeliers). I love my wifey dearly and really do believe that she is my soul mate. Now I know that this term is oft overused but for clarity; in my mid thirties, I had accepted that life relationships were simply about having fun with beautiful women until you basically got too old. Then, you simply married the one you were with and hoped for the best. Thankfully fate intervened. I’ve been married for eighteen months and we have been together for 5 years and not once have I ever regretted it. I hope she feels the same because Lord knows; I have the capacity to try the patience of a saint. And Saintly that she is, wifey accepts me warts and all.