Blue Hats or Humans discuss?
Friday, September 28, 2007
Books or Children, Children or Books
"Why don't you sell your books Dad?" This from our fourteen, soon to be fifteen, year old daughter. It was prompted by a conversation about our "embarrassing" television. Apparently we have the oldest and therefore most embarrassing tele around. We Birdwatchers have a bit of a thing going really. The worlds most embarrassing tele, the worlds most embarrassing car and until recently we had the worlds fattest hamster.
Anyway back to the books. I explained that I could not possibly sell them. Each one is a friend.
"That's rubbish dad. If you sold each one for £2 then we could get a new tele and a decent car."
I thought for a moment. "Mum wouldn't sell them!" Which put an end to the argument. She accepted this as well.
It made me think about books and children though. Books are reliable, I mean you don't come down in the morning to find that the latest Ian Rankin has suddenly grown and now its pages won't fit between the covers.
Your much loved Adam Smith does not disappear for hours at a time only to come back just as you are about to phone the Police and return sulkily to its place on the shelf, after elbowing for no reason your copy of 1984 out of the way.
Great Expectations does not find you so intolerably embarrassing that it refuses to allow you to read it unless you first put a plain brown cover around it.
Books or Children? I thought a bit more and then remembered how brilliant they had both been at my brothers wedding, looking after the younger children. The excitement in the smaller birdwatchers voice as he tells me about his riding lesson. Seeing our daughter perform in her play. Watching them go off to school in the morning and feeling happy that they are getting on so well and worried for them at the same time. Its not even a contest!
Anyway back to the books. I explained that I could not possibly sell them. Each one is a friend.
"That's rubbish dad. If you sold each one for £2 then we could get a new tele and a decent car."
I thought for a moment. "Mum wouldn't sell them!" Which put an end to the argument. She accepted this as well.
It made me think about books and children though. Books are reliable, I mean you don't come down in the morning to find that the latest Ian Rankin has suddenly grown and now its pages won't fit between the covers.
Your much loved Adam Smith does not disappear for hours at a time only to come back just as you are about to phone the Police and return sulkily to its place on the shelf, after elbowing for no reason your copy of 1984 out of the way.
Great Expectations does not find you so intolerably embarrassing that it refuses to allow you to read it unless you first put a plain brown cover around it.
Books or Children? I thought a bit more and then remembered how brilliant they had both been at my brothers wedding, looking after the younger children. The excitement in the smaller birdwatchers voice as he tells me about his riding lesson. Seeing our daughter perform in her play. Watching them go off to school in the morning and feeling happy that they are getting on so well and worried for them at the same time. Its not even a contest!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Moonshine
When we got back off our holiday, if you can call time spent getting wet and staying in the worlds smallest cottage a holiday, Moonshine, the Hamster with the enormous testicles, was looking decidedly off colour. Apart from having a scruffy and unkempt appearance he was also fat. So fat that he got wedged in the tube that leads from his nest to the rest of his cage. The smallest BW was upset. He has a thing about fatness and fat people. Most of his stories from school begin with the words, "There was this fat boy.....". So owning the worlds fattest hamster was an embarrassment too far. Something had to be done.
His solution was to buy Moonshine an extension to his cage, which basically is a hamster gym, the deluxe version. It consists of a huge wheel and various runs and little spaces which presumably hamsters like. Well Moonshine does anyway. From the worlds fattest hamster he has now become sleek and toned. This is good. I was tempted to tell our third team captain not to worry if we were short on a Saturday as we could always find a place for Moonshine on the team. Of course this is ridiculous as he would have been stepped on or squashed by the ball and then I would have had a difficult interview with Mrs BW . So The smallest BW is now proud of his little pet, in fact as I type this he has just brought him in to see me.
There is of course a down side. Hamsters prefer to exercise just when the rest of us are going to bed. The smallest BW has got used to the constant squeaking of the wheel as Moonshine goes round and round on his fruitless and pointless journey to nowhere. But I haven't and I can hear him from our bedroom. So I have no alternative but to go back to listening to the World Service through my ear phones, a habit that I had managed to break for a few weeks. Never mind, who needs sleep anyway.
His solution was to buy Moonshine an extension to his cage, which basically is a hamster gym, the deluxe version. It consists of a huge wheel and various runs and little spaces which presumably hamsters like. Well Moonshine does anyway. From the worlds fattest hamster he has now become sleek and toned. This is good. I was tempted to tell our third team captain not to worry if we were short on a Saturday as we could always find a place for Moonshine on the team. Of course this is ridiculous as he would have been stepped on or squashed by the ball and then I would have had a difficult interview with Mrs BW . So The smallest BW is now proud of his little pet, in fact as I type this he has just brought him in to see me.
There is of course a down side. Hamsters prefer to exercise just when the rest of us are going to bed. The smallest BW has got used to the constant squeaking of the wheel as Moonshine goes round and round on his fruitless and pointless journey to nowhere. But I haven't and I can hear him from our bedroom. So I have no alternative but to go back to listening to the World Service through my ear phones, a habit that I had managed to break for a few weeks. Never mind, who needs sleep anyway.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Morning with time to kill
Friday morning and for once I am early for my first meeting so I have half an hour to kill. I goto the Lloyds TSB cashpoint. After the usual ritual of pin numbers and entering the amount of cash I need, it informs me that its not doing cash to day and is there anything else I want? Anything else? I want cash and now! I walk away muttering "don't bother mate" to the man standing behind me and stalk off to the Nat West cashpoint. It purrs with delight as I slide in my card. Cash is no problem for it and I am sure that if it could it would have slipped in an extra tenner. At Partners the stationers I buy a propelling pencil. It has a 0.9mm lead which is good as this helps what I laughingly call my hand writing become slightly more legible. The pencil is no problem but there are no refills visible so I ask the helpful shop assistant if they have any refills.
"Oh we don't do 0.9mm leads. You could try 0.7mm or 0.5mm." She trills.
"But you sell a pencil that takes 0.9mm leads ......you must sell the refills....surely?" I sound exasperated. I am exasperated.
She glances at a colleague. Sighs and gets out large catalogue. There is much leafing through, muttering, and more sighing.
"No sorry we don't seem to do them. But the pencil will take 0.7mm leads and we sell those." I stare at her. Has she gone mad? Its a 0.9mm barrel, a 0.7mm lead will just drop straight out, unless I am very much mistaken.
I explain this to her.
She thinks about it, then realises that I have a point.
"I'm just going to go and check with the manager." And off she goes. Time passes. Slowly. A bit more time passes, more slowly. Eventually she comes back.
"Yes we have them in stock." and smiles a sort of smug smile at me. For one nasty nano second I think that she hasn't brought them with her. But luckily for me and her she has. So I buy them.
I need a coffee. At Nero's I have my usual. The cup of Americano is brim full. "Your're sure its not to full?" The Barrista asks.
"No its fine" I say. As I arrive at my destination not a drop has been spilt. As I am setting my tray down the strap of my briefcase catches on the chair and causes me to jerk the tray. The sudden movement means that the coffee spills from the cup all over the tray and onto the table.
I sigh, and begin the mopping up.
"Oh we don't do 0.9mm leads. You could try 0.7mm or 0.5mm." She trills.
"But you sell a pencil that takes 0.9mm leads ......you must sell the refills....surely?" I sound exasperated. I am exasperated.
She glances at a colleague. Sighs and gets out large catalogue. There is much leafing through, muttering, and more sighing.
"No sorry we don't seem to do them. But the pencil will take 0.7mm leads and we sell those." I stare at her. Has she gone mad? Its a 0.9mm barrel, a 0.7mm lead will just drop straight out, unless I am very much mistaken.
I explain this to her.
She thinks about it, then realises that I have a point.
"I'm just going to go and check with the manager." And off she goes. Time passes. Slowly. A bit more time passes, more slowly. Eventually she comes back.
"Yes we have them in stock." and smiles a sort of smug smile at me. For one nasty nano second I think that she hasn't brought them with her. But luckily for me and her she has. So I buy them.
I need a coffee. At Nero's I have my usual. The cup of Americano is brim full. "Your're sure its not to full?" The Barrista asks.
"No its fine" I say. As I arrive at my destination not a drop has been spilt. As I am setting my tray down the strap of my briefcase catches on the chair and causes me to jerk the tray. The sudden movement means that the coffee spills from the cup all over the tray and onto the table.
I sigh, and begin the mopping up.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Taxi Drivers
Last weekend we experienced the good the bad and the ugly of the taxi world. Let me set the scene. My brother was getting married in London. Its where he lives after all so I will forgive him that. (Its also where his girl friend lives which I guess is more to the point). So we set off on Friday from Buxton. We were going by train. We Birdwatchers are proud of our carbon footprint. We order the taxi and wait. Its late. Marginally so but late. And as we only have seven minutes to catch the connection in Stockport its not a great start. I start to blame Mrs BW which is not a great idea.
But the gods smile on us and we make the connection and arrive in London. Another taxi whisks us to where we are all meeting up. Its easy this travelling business.
Fast forward to Saturday evening. We are in Hampstead. I phone a local taxi firm to take us back to Central London. They ask for my number. A couple of minutes later they phone me back. Where are we exactly? How the fuck should I know? They are the taxi drivers. Eventually after a lot of effort, several more phone calls and some swearing by me, they found us. I had actually ordered two cabs as there were quite a few of us.
"Where are we going?" the driver asks
"Just follow the cab in front" I said. (Always wanted to say that!)
And he did. Regardless of traffic lights and other road users. We actually hit a pedestrian! It was a glancing blow and he was drunk but even so. Apart from a raised hand by way of apology from the driver we continued on our way. There was a sort of stunned silence in the cab. And I suppose a stunned pedestrian behind us.
The silence was interrupted every so often by the Sat Nav. It repeated itself in a fruitless and frustrating effort to get the driver to follow its instructions;
"Turn left. Do a u turn and then take the next left. Turn left now!" Which of course was rubbish, and fell on deaf ears.
We arrived safe but a little bit ruffled. The kids enjoyed it though. They though it was great fun almost like being on a fair ground ride! I needed a large drink to recover from the experience. Actually I seem to remember it was several large drinks.
But the gods smile on us and we make the connection and arrive in London. Another taxi whisks us to where we are all meeting up. Its easy this travelling business.
Fast forward to Saturday evening. We are in Hampstead. I phone a local taxi firm to take us back to Central London. They ask for my number. A couple of minutes later they phone me back. Where are we exactly? How the fuck should I know? They are the taxi drivers. Eventually after a lot of effort, several more phone calls and some swearing by me, they found us. I had actually ordered two cabs as there were quite a few of us.
"Where are we going?" the driver asks
"Just follow the cab in front" I said. (Always wanted to say that!)
And he did. Regardless of traffic lights and other road users. We actually hit a pedestrian! It was a glancing blow and he was drunk but even so. Apart from a raised hand by way of apology from the driver we continued on our way. There was a sort of stunned silence in the cab. And I suppose a stunned pedestrian behind us.
The silence was interrupted every so often by the Sat Nav. It repeated itself in a fruitless and frustrating effort to get the driver to follow its instructions;
"Turn left. Do a u turn and then take the next left. Turn left now!" Which of course was rubbish, and fell on deaf ears.
We arrived safe but a little bit ruffled. The kids enjoyed it though. They though it was great fun almost like being on a fair ground ride! I needed a large drink to recover from the experience. Actually I seem to remember it was several large drinks.
DIY Exclusion Zone
There has been an outbreak of DIY in our neighbourhood. At eight o'clock sharp someone starts grinding and drilling and a bit of banging about. A lorry laden with pallets of DIY things will block the road while it unloads. Of course if no 43 starts on a "project" then no 45 feels his manhood has been challenged and for no particular reason will start digging a trench, which he will then fill with concrete and stand and stare at it, proudly.
I don't do DIY. I come out in a rash thinking about it. Mrs BW allowed me to do a little painting a few years ago, and has vowed never to to do so again. I made a bird table in my formative years, that collapsed as soon as a bird landed on it. I have not tried to do so again.
Of course in our neighbourhood if your're a man and you don't do DIY then you must be homosexual. The wife and children are a cover story. A few years ago one of our neighbours came to the front door when I happened to be making bread. I was wearing an apron and had a light dusting of flour over my hands and face. The look on his face said it all. "What are you doing?" he spluttered, shrinking back a little from me. "I'm baking" I said, proudly. "Baking! But you're not a woman!" No well well spotted I thought. "Yes" I added "and Mrs BW is out the back cutting the grass" He went away convinced that I was seriously weird.
On the rare occasion that we have a warm summer evening, I like to sit in the back garden and catch the last rays of the sun and listen to the swallows and swifts zing high but,or the blackbird warn of cats from the bushes, preferably clutching a cold beer. My next door neighbour has to get his lawn mower out. Doesn't matter if the grass has been cut the day before, he can't sit still and rest he has to cut his grass because I guess its what a real man does on a summer evening.
I don't do DIY. I come out in a rash thinking about it. Mrs BW allowed me to do a little painting a few years ago, and has vowed never to to do so again. I made a bird table in my formative years, that collapsed as soon as a bird landed on it. I have not tried to do so again.
Of course in our neighbourhood if your're a man and you don't do DIY then you must be homosexual. The wife and children are a cover story. A few years ago one of our neighbours came to the front door when I happened to be making bread. I was wearing an apron and had a light dusting of flour over my hands and face. The look on his face said it all. "What are you doing?" he spluttered, shrinking back a little from me. "I'm baking" I said, proudly. "Baking! But you're not a woman!" No well well spotted I thought. "Yes" I added "and Mrs BW is out the back cutting the grass" He went away convinced that I was seriously weird.
On the rare occasion that we have a warm summer evening, I like to sit in the back garden and catch the last rays of the sun and listen to the swallows and swifts zing high but,or the blackbird warn of cats from the bushes, preferably clutching a cold beer. My next door neighbour has to get his lawn mower out. Doesn't matter if the grass has been cut the day before, he can't sit still and rest he has to cut his grass because I guess its what a real man does on a summer evening.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
This amused me .....but then I'm a bloke
Comment by the Great Miles Harrison (currently ITV's lead rugby commentator) during the opening game on Friday evening;
"There is so much sport on TV over the coming weekend its going to be difficult to find time to go to the fridge."
"There is so much sport on TV over the coming weekend its going to be difficult to find time to go to the fridge."
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