Where did I put those keys?

I woke up in the early hours this morning feeling uneasy about something. I could not remember seeing my car keys. Now I knew that they would be hanging up in the downstairs toilet, or cloakroom if you have had an expensive education. I knew!

But I still had to go and have a look.

Just to check.

Just so that I could go back to sleep. But of course by the time I had got up, put on a dressing gown, we had visitors staying, gone down, checked that they were there on the little hook thing in the downstairs toilet / cloakroom, the keys not the visitors, felt them, ditto (Why did I do that?) I was wide-awake. So I went and made a cup of tea. I thought about going up and asking Lucy if she wanted one. Guessed, correctly as it happens, that that would not have been a good idea, so just made one for myself.

I started thinking about keys. I remembered an incident a couple of years ago. It was a Saturday. It was our daughter Trisha’s birthday. Lucy was taking her into Stockport to do whatever mothers and daughters do in Stockport. I had Alex. He was grumpy because he had to come up to watch me play rugby later on, and that apparently is “so boring”. Alex and I left the house before Lucy and Trisha, to nip into Buxton just to do one or two things. They would be gone by the time we got back. (Stay with me there is a point to this!)

And when we got back they had gone. No problem, I was expecting it. What I was not expecting was to find that in the rush to get off into Buxton earlier on, I had forgotten to take my keys. I panicked. My rugby kit was in side! Worse the team shirts were inside. A few weeks ago there had been a technical misunderstanding and I had forgotten to collect the kit in time for the game. We had to play in Buxton Ladies shirts! No one was amused (apart from the opposition of course. They found it so funny that they lost the game!) I was unpopular. Very unpopular! I seem to remember that the punishment was both painful and public. That’s why I was panicking. I tried Lucy’s mobile phone. Switched off. Well of course I knew it would be, either that or it would be buried deep in some uncharted part of her handbag where it could never ever be heard.

What was I to do? I was on the verge of tears. Alex had cheered up considerably of course offering helpful suggestions, like breaking the window (put the rock down Alex, do it now!)

Sometimes in the midst of panic you find a little oasis of calm. A sort of lull before the total breakdown I guess. It is in these moments that inspiration often pops up and taps you on the shoulder lightly. Mine was tapping away for all its was worth. “What about the backdoor?”

“What about the backdoor? It’s a door, its locked for gods sake!”

Its nothing if not persistent my inspiration.

“What about the cat flap?”

“Oh brilliant. The cat flap! Its about six inches in height and diameter, I am five foot nine, think about it!”

It stayed calm my inspiration. It changed tack. “There is a key in the back door! There is a cat flap three feet below where that key is. You have an arm. Do you see where I am going with this?”

I saw and I was saved! And I was, though it was a bit of a struggle to get my arm through and then get the key out of the lock. It saved me from pain and humiliation though. And all Alex could say was "Dad why were you talking to yourself?"

Sadly I have more stories concerning keys, but maybe I will save them. Leave them locked away…….

Paranoia and an HTTP 500 Internal Server Error!

I can live with the fact that very few people (none!) read my idiot drivelling. I can just about accept that when I post something to someone else’s blog they may not want to reply. I get worried when I post something to someone’s blog and then minutes later find that his or her blog is no longer obtainable. The voices start up in my head when I find that all the blogs that I have been reading tonight are now unobtainable and I only get the message HTTP 500 Internal Server Error! Have I caused it? Is it my fault? If I have will anyone know?

OK so I do not understand the Internet! It is a big mystery to me, like the internal combustion engine, why people find most sitcoms funny and how George W Bush got elected, not once but twice! But when you’re on it, someone or some machine knows everything that you are doing. There are no secrets in cyberspace. “In cyberspace everyone can see your screen.” And it seems that somebody does not like me! (Only somebody singular?)

Weekend

The fish and I spent sometime together this weekend. Whilst I aimlessly trawled the Internet for ideas and inspiration, they were swimming seemingly just as aimlessly round and round their tank, looking for stray bloodworms and occasionally picking their stones up and then dropping them again. I guess that they had more fun, and when they weren’t swimming round and round they were pressed up against the glass of the tank nearest to me watching what I was doing. Am I their entertainment? Do they look forward to me being there? Do they peer over my shoulder to see what I am looking at? The bloodworms that we feed them worry me though. They come in frozen blocks and look like coloured ice cubes. One day I am going to forgetfully drop one into a drink! I suppose it might catch on , after all you put a worm into a bottle of tequila, and there was the snail in a bottle of ginger beer, though come to think of it that was a landmark legal case. So how about dropping a frozen cube of bloodworms into your gin and tonic? A sort of “snack in a drink”. It would save a fortune in crisps and nibbles.

Out of the Mouths of Babes.

Apparently there is something called Imagined Ugly Syndrome! Something else to add to the list of rare and unusual things that I have got. I told my daughter about it.

"Oh don't worry dad, you haven't got it."

For a few seconds I felt quite well disposed towards her, and briefly thought about ungrounding her.

Then she spoilt it.

"You've just got ugly syndrome!"

Young People!

The cars were festooned with the most amazing spiders webs this morning, highlighted by the moisture from the foggy air. It seemed a terrible shame to disturb them! But I had to go to work.....

A Bit of a Misunderstanding

I was explaining to a friend on Sunday about the Goyt and trying to convey some sense of the fascination and allure that this seemingly unremarkable manufactured piece of countryside holds for me. He listened politely,

“Of course you know that it is one of the top dogging spots in Derbyshire don’t you”. He told me.

I thought it was an odd thing to say. I shrugged. “No I didn’t actually. I mean I can see that it is a good place to take a dog for a walk. The railway track gives easy access and there are an awful lot of dog walkers around when the weather is good."

“That’s not what I mean” he said, and proceeded to explain to me what he meant by dogging.

I was a bit crestfallen.

Yesterday, in between clients, I took a bit of a detour up Long Hill and dropped down the lane parking the car by the pond.

There were no cars. (Good!)

The pond was empty of ducks though. (Not so good?)

The air was misty, thick almost sultry.

It was difficult not to set off down the path into the little valley. The fact that I was wearing patent leather shoes sort of clinched it though. So I just stood and stared at the view and felt the stress and strains melt away. Dogging spot or not, this is still a special place.

This really irritates me!

At Morrisons last night at the baskets only checkout, basket cases would be more apt, the woman in front of me seemed to be operating in slow motion. She would not move forward, and would not empty the contents of her basket onto the conveyor belt, until the guy at the checkout had almost finished with the customer in front of her. And when she did put the sad contents of her basket onto the belt, she refused to pass me the little plastic barrier. I had to reach forward to get it! How inconsiderate can you get? Well much more in her case. Firstly she scorned any offers of help to pack her shopping and took ages to put the few items in three plastic bags. Three! Hasn't she heard of global warming, the energy crisis, or what plastic bags do to dolphins? Then her piece de resistance, paying for her shopping! It came to twelve pounds thirty pence. She stopped packing away her shopping and fished out a battered looking purse. Firstly she tried to make up the amount from the change that she had. She had not got enough but required several goes to arrive at this conclusion. Then she had a look around to see if she had any notes. I was on the verge of offering to pay for it myself, when she found ten pounds and managed to complete the financial part of the transaction. But she was not finished. Oh no! She had to wait for her receipt and put this way in a special place in her purse. Then she finished her packing. And eventually having thoroughly checked that she had not left anything, moved away so that I could get my few items packed and paid for. The guy on the checkout gave me a resigned sort of look. I paid for and left with my bag, and grumpily stalked out of the supermarket. Fine way to start the weekend.

The Archers

Oh dear oh dear! What is going on? The normally staid and boring David Archer has been sniffing around his ex girlfriend Sophie, like a dog round a bitch on heat. Now it seems that his wife Ruth has brought their stockman Sam to the boil and his barely concealed desire for her is bubbling away. I have listened to the Archers for most of my life. It has sustained me through the highs and lows of my own years. Its mundane detail being its great strength. Just occasionally though a storyline leaps out and clouts you about the head. It looks like I am about to be clouted. I have been wrong in the past, convinced that the object of Helen Archer’s desire several years ago was female and we were about to get a lesbian storyline. Okay I was wrong. But this time I think it is fairly clear that marital harmony is going to be in short supply up at Brookfield. Of course it will all end happily. It always (usually) does in Ambridge. Jennifer has forgiven Brian more times than I can remember, Usha has forgiven the perpetrators of the racial abuse that was aimed at her, and the Grundies have withstood more misfortune and bad luck than all the characters of other soaps put together and still carry on smiling and baking and giving Linda Snell free lifts round the village in a pony and trap. I can’t wait for the next exciting episode!

9th October – Somewhere on a University Campus

So I have overcome the small matter of the room being double booked, explained to an academic looking bloke that yes he has also booked the room, but he has it next f******g week! Of course I didn’t say “f******g” just thought it as I commiserated with him, the bearded fool! So I set the room up, make it nice, and an added bonus, all the IT stuff works. People start arriving. Hell they all look like they know things! Momentarily my confidence deserts me. There are a few minutes until I am due to start, so with a breezy smile I announce to the assembled throng, all ten of them, that I am just going to pop out and round up any stragglers!

The gents are several miles away, or so it seems. I arrive sweating, hot and bothered. I have a pee and while trying to concentrate on the evening ahead turn on the tap. Water shoots out and splashes all over my crotch! IT LOOKS LIKE I HAVE PISSED MYSELF! I can’t go back in like this. What am I going to do? Momentarily unhinged I walk out of the toilets and start back to the lecture theatre. I stop. I CANNOT GO BACK IN THERE LIKE THIS! I walk back into the gents. I’ll phone my wife. And say what? Bring me a pair of trousers please and quickly. Even if she does not want a detailed explanation and lets face it most wives would, it will take ten to fifteen minutes for her to get there. Then I have to either find her or more difficult she has to find me lurking in the gents in a part of the building that I am unfamiliar with. Lets face it by the time she gets here they will be dry. Dry! Hand dryer! Brilliant. I walk to the dryer and punch it. Hot air spills out. I try and direct it onto my crotch but the gap is to far to make any difference. There is only one thing for it. So there I am holding my suit trousers under the hot air dryer hoping, no pleading with whatever divinity there is up there, that no one will come in for the next few minutes. They don’t and I make it! The trousers are dry. I put them on and saunter out of the toilets and back to the lecture theatre. There are now fourteen eager faces. “Well good evening” I start. Hell, why is that woman staring at my crotch?

Fog in the Goyt.

The fog is thick and swirls disconcertingly around me. Well at least the forecast was right for a change! Droplets of damp air mist my glasses, making it even more difficult to see. I take them off. They are not much use today. Fog does strange things to the mind. It disorientates you. I know where I am, but where the hell am I? I have been lost up here before with Lucy, several years ago. I fight back against the irrational surge of panic that tries to seep into the dark and doubting corners of my mind. I will walk faster. I quicken my pace. Nothing seems familiar, even the path lovingly trod through out the summer seems strange and unrecognisable. It is the same everywhere, a grey blanket. And through it emerges a familiar sight. The small wooden bridge that crosses a stream and a marshy patch of ground. I recognise it like an old friend glanced across an unfamiliar pub. I stop to lean on the wooden rail and listen. Silence. I carry on up hill, confident now, fears of being lost banished, on up the hill trying to stick to the path. Once I have reached the old railway track I know that it is an easy stroll from there back to the car park. I reach the broken tumbled remains of the dry stone walls that are gradually falling down the hillside, stride over the mound of old spoil, and onto the track. Relief? Yes but I glance back wistfully at the path disappearing into the mist. Now I know that I am not going to wander off the path, I realise of course that it has been fun, a small adventure, taking me away for a few moments from the certainty of our humdrum lives.