This has been a tricky year in many respects. My depression surged back into play, which meant my desire to do anything was sapped. So I was back on the anti-depressants - a new one this time, Sertraline. It has helped my mood, but I'm still not getting a great deal done. Exercise has been sporadic at best, and shifts at work have meant that I've missed every book club meeting at my library this year. Shifts are changing as of now, but the last meeting of the book club was, er, the last one. Inevitably.
Work has been consuming a lot of my time. I like things set and predictable (on which more in a moment), and there has been such fluidity in staffing that this has been nigh on impossible. On the one hand, it looks as though things will at last settle down. On the other, I really need to force myself out of my comfort zone and into a different job with better pay and prospects, which inevitably means more hours.
A while ago a friend recommended to me that I should get myself checked out, and the other week the assessment rolled around. I have Asperger's. It was something I had rather suspected ever since he'd suggested it, although if you'd told me it a year ago, I should have been quite sceptical. A lot of things I had assumed were sensations everyone (or a great many people) experienced are not. For instance, I presume now that most of my readers cannot imagine how incredibly, viscerally unpleasant tobacco and marijuana smell to me. Likewise, the reason I always feel too warm in surroundings comfortable to others is because I have as marked a hyposensitivity to cold as I have a hypersensitivity to odours.
While I was unsure what benefit this knowledge could have prior to the diagnosis, it has been somewhat reassuring, and suggested a few things I can do to attempt to alter my situation for the better. It's also good to know that all the time I have spent thinking other people are nuts has been subjectively right. As the doctor said, I tend to stay close to the rules, which means I am likely to be more technically correct than many others. As Hermes Conrad's superior says in Futurama "[T]echnically correct - the best kind of correct". Boom-boom! I am not forgetting that they (you?) have been subjectively right about me being crazy, mind you.
One of the particular elements of this condition that is really apparent to me is my love of detail, routine and plans. I can go "off-script", but it's unpleasant. Maybe it's like having an angry sergeant shouting in your ear while you're trying to play chess. Who knows? So moving from one routine to another is arduous. On the other hand, I know from past experience that I can make overnight changes to existing routines, which alterations I will cling to more stubbornly than an amorous puppy might cling to an embarrassed socialite's leg. So there's hope.
There is perforce a "but". The qualifier here is that I don't understand things, and I fail to grasp them in such a fundamental way that nobody can work out how to help me do them. For instance, talking to the fairer sex at a bar. I used to think there was a way to do this. I've developed the more nuanced and realistic approach that there must be an awful lot of ways to do this, what with everyone being different. However, any past success I have had in this has been a) totally fortuitous, b) fifteen years ago, and c) arguably partly based on the physique I had back then. Part of the problem may be that conversation is a tricky beast, but an equally large part is that people are often remarkably tedious.
Yes, we monomaniacs find polymaniacs as boring as they find us: football has never been, is not, and will never be in any way interesting; soap operas are markedly less fascinating than paint drying on a wall, as at least one can read a book as the paint dries, without it droning into your ears. And so on. I suppose the main difference is managing to fake interest by nodding along when people talk about Mourinho or whatever, as I have done twice this past week. On Monday, mind you, I heard a contemporary jockey's name, and thought him a seventies snooker player, so expect no more than a facade if you talk to me about such things.
In closing, I hope you've had an easier year of it than I have,* and I rather selfishly hope I get one of those easier years for myself next cycle round the sun. Merry Christmas to you all, and a Happy New Year.
* Sometimes people take such statements as "I have suffered worse than any other human! Pity me!" Don't be silly; don't take it that way.
Showing posts with label Romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Romance. Show all posts
Thursday, 24 December 2015
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Busy, busy, busy!
As the absence of updates has probably indicated, I have been up to my ears in this and that lately. First came my mate's stag, which took place in distant, darkest Wales. Well, really, really sunny Wales, truth be told. You think you know a country, and then it tries to help the sun set fire to your skin! We had a grand time, blasting away at clay pigeons, stumbling up a river in wetsuits, a curry (with suitably impossibly hot addition for the stag himself, naturally!), and a spot of dancing. It was a splendid do, and a certain amount of alcohol may perhaps have been consumed. Behold the stag in his manliest pose.
A few weeks later came the wedding, which was absolutely delightful. The place-settings were marked in unusual fashion, so I now have a rock with my name on it right next to me. I think this means I can't be killed. Unless rocks aren't bullets. I might need a philosopher to weigh in on this point. The bride and groom very kindly took into account my eccentric dietary preferences, and provided a vegan chocolate cake, which I shared with a lady with an egg allergy. It was a whole cake, so in combination with Scotch and a three course meal (including champagne sorbet!) I didn't manage to finish it off. It was a beautiful day, with sunlight again abounding. There's something very strange happening to the weather in Wales, I believe. Here are the happy couple cutting the cake.
Many congratulations again, Martyn and Vickie!
A few weeks later came the wedding, which was absolutely delightful. The place-settings were marked in unusual fashion, so I now have a rock with my name on it right next to me. I think this means I can't be killed. Unless rocks aren't bullets. I might need a philosopher to weigh in on this point. The bride and groom very kindly took into account my eccentric dietary preferences, and provided a vegan chocolate cake, which I shared with a lady with an egg allergy. It was a whole cake, so in combination with Scotch and a three course meal (including champagne sorbet!) I didn't manage to finish it off. It was a beautiful day, with sunlight again abounding. There's something very strange happening to the weather in Wales, I believe. Here are the happy couple cutting the cake.
Many congratulations again, Martyn and Vickie!
Saturday, 6 October 2012
The things kids say!
Well, that's grossly unfair to children. Children say silly things because they know no better. When adults talk rot, however, one has licence to laugh one's head off - or raise a sceptical eyebrow if one is a follower of Surak of Vulcan, or as we Earthlings may know him, Zeno of Citium. One example that always makes me sparkle with sarcasm is Marilyn Monroe's comic line, "I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out
of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my
worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best." To be honest, I doubt I could have handled Marilyn Monroe at her worst. I am none too fond of drugs or mood-swings, and she seems exceedingly scatty and unreliable. She was inarguably pretty, but not over-burdened with insight. It gets even better when people misremember "handle" as "love", yielding the absolute nonsense that one has to begin by loving someone who is awful, expecting them magically to improve. There's a phrase that describes that situation: abusive relationship.
Some people are worth handling at their worst so that we can enjoy their best, but it's a fallacy to believe that all are. Worse, it's a dangerous fallacy, one that can leave the deceived party stuck in an awful and irremediable situation for years, working like an ass. Yes, I know whereof I speak. Let's leave that aside; it's a tired discussion. Let's look at the other side of the coin. I am flawed, "But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best." This is nothing but an excuse to stay flawed. It isn't a rallying cry to personal satisfaction but to stagnation and indolence. Rather than bother with self-improvement, one should simply remain as one is until death takes us and we decay. It is an idea that is depressing in the most fundamental sense, assuring us that we are right not to bother pushing ourselves, learning and growing. I am not arguing that we should all rush out and book parachute lessons before moving to the Congo to become aid workers, but the static life is no good for people.
Having begun with the heights of philosophy, I shall end in the same way. Consider these two thoughts of geniuses of our (I use that rather loosely) age.
These are my principles. If you don’t like them I have others. Groucho Marx
Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog. There’s just so little hope of advancement. Snoopy
Some people are worth handling at their worst so that we can enjoy their best, but it's a fallacy to believe that all are. Worse, it's a dangerous fallacy, one that can leave the deceived party stuck in an awful and irremediable situation for years, working like an ass. Yes, I know whereof I speak. Let's leave that aside; it's a tired discussion. Let's look at the other side of the coin. I am flawed, "But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best." This is nothing but an excuse to stay flawed. It isn't a rallying cry to personal satisfaction but to stagnation and indolence. Rather than bother with self-improvement, one should simply remain as one is until death takes us and we decay. It is an idea that is depressing in the most fundamental sense, assuring us that we are right not to bother pushing ourselves, learning and growing. I am not arguing that we should all rush out and book parachute lessons before moving to the Congo to become aid workers, but the static life is no good for people.
Having begun with the heights of philosophy, I shall end in the same way. Consider these two thoughts of geniuses of our (I use that rather loosely) age.
These are my principles. If you don’t like them I have others. Groucho Marx
Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog. There’s just so little hope of advancement. Snoopy
Thursday, 12 July 2012
My folks' anniversary
This was just the other day. We had a load of relatives, two girlfriends and a friend round. You might correctly surmise from the sheer number of people that we're Catholic. This is not the whole family by any means! This is mainly Mum's side of the family. Dad's side (being Anglican) is far less numerous. It was rather a nice day. Mum had laid on lashings of food, and the weather behaved itself until about 7pm, letting us all sit and chat on the lawn. We had almost enough chairs for everyone, which surprised me, for one! Everyone had a nice time, and there was a game of hide-and-seek played by some of the younger folk, which they all enjoyed immensely. I participated in that just so far as to mislead hunters into heading in the wrong direction, "She went thataway!"
Friday, 15 June 2012
Wonderful Wedding Number Two!
I had a lovely time in Cullen the other weekend. Almost everyone reading this will be scratching their heads, muttering to themselves, "Where? Did he mention this in a previous post?" Cullen is a teeny-tiny place in Scotland, where my friend's family live, and where she and another friend got married. I stayed in the charming Norwood Guest House in the town, which is run by an absolutely charming couple. I admit I was attracted by the name, since it brought to mind Sherlock Holmes! I am happy to report no sinister lumber-yard fires occurred during my time there. I shall spare you the details of the drive. Suffice to say that on the Thursday I got up around midday, collected two friends from Manchester Piccadilly about 21:40, reached Cullen at about 07:30 on Friday morning, and finally got to sleep an hour later. I went through four cans of Red Bull.
The town itself is beautifully situated on the slope of a hill, facing out to sea. There's a lovely little harbour, and a sea wall against which the sea was epically dashing itself on the Sunday. But let us return to the Friday. After a nap of a few hours, I met up with everyone - it was quite the joyful reunion of folk from the old alma mater. I was especially pleased to see and catch up with Sarah and Jack, whom I hadn't seen since university! Jack was the Best Man, but isn't a man, and arguably her name isn't Jack. If you don't understand, you clearly aren't an alumnus/a of Lampeter! We chatted for ages, and had a grand old time. On the Saturday we all met up in the town square, where TJ, the groom, led us on the picturesque trip to the beautiful church. It lies some distance from town, I learned, because the aristocrats decided they'd move the town so the church was more secluded. Friendly bunch, eh! There was a minor emergency before the wedding, with Sarah sending her tights to the bride via Dave. I drove Dave over to save time, but he couldn't recall Caroline's parents' house, so someone got Sarah's tights through their letterbox. I think Sarah recovered them later!
The church itself is quite old. The heart of Robert the Bruce's wife is buried within, and the Ogilvie-Gordons are buried there, too. Anyway, everyone was there in good time for the wedding. I am happy to say that I recognised the tune of one of the three hymns, if not the words: the peril of being the wrong religion is that we all have different hymns. Although I keep finding myself singing unfamiliar things when I'm at the 10:30 instead of my usual 8:35 am Mass on Sundays. Digression over! The bride looked lovely, and the groom the very picture of a distinguished gentleman! The priest put everyone at their ease, and a harpist played her instrument in accompaniment to Caroline's arrival and at other points. There then followed an abundance of photography, within and outside the church. Smiles abounded!
Following the ceremony, there was a wee pause of half an hour or so, and then we adjourned to the church hall, where a lovely spread had been put on for us. So considerate had Caroline, TJ and their families been to my peculiar vegan needs, that there was more choice I could have hoped to enjoy. I was very grateful. There were little favours and boomarks for all the guests, which was handy, as I was able to slip mine into my copy of Catch-22 later on. Following the meal, there was a break while most of us got changed into more relaxed clothes and ambled up to the Cullen Bay Hotel. As befits a celebration in Caledonia, a certain amount of Scotch was imbibed, including a 1974 cash strength one, which was utterly heavenly! Around midnight, I think, we all trundled out en masse, and ambled in an approximately homeward direction, a day well spent!
On the Sunday I had arranged with Dave to go for a walk, but shortly before we were to set out, the bride and groom arrived, so we cancelled our plans, and had a nice afternoon chatting with them. Later on, Dave and Maz and I went for a stroll around the clifftop paths which Dave had earlier reconnoitred. It was very pretty, and not too cold, despite the wind sweeping in off the North Sea. On the Monday, we did get to go for the walk. What we thought was five miles turned out to be more like seven or eight, and only two of us remembered to bring water! The sun was quite hefty, and I managed to catch some despite repeated applications of factor 30. It's great being ginger, really! We saw the ruins of Findlater Castle, which left me a little confused. The castle, although it was tricky to reach on foot, was overlooked by the surrounding cliffs, rendering it not terribly defensible, I should have thought. Historically, it was taken following a siege. The castle's main purposes appeared to have been to monitor the sea approaches, and to provide a nice spot for a picnic. If only we had brought one!
On the Tuesday, we left about 9am. The bride had prevailed on me to take a few things they had no space for themselves. This meant I wasn't driving back to the bottom of Cheshire, but to Milton Keynes. There's a nice church just down the road from me. I am going to have to start persuading my friends to have their nuptials there so I'm not driving off to Wales and Scotland again. ;-) We stopped off at home so I could pop my washing in the machine and get a change of clothes for the next day. I caught up with Sam's chap, Erik, who hadn't been able to make it to the wedding, but unfortunately got caught in a foul-up heading home, adding two hours to a two and a half hour trip. I got home on the Wednesday night about half eight, having driven 1,210 miles, I think, and my brain was pretty much mush! It was a delightful occasion, but if I visit Cullen again, I'll take the train to somewhere nearby, I think! I hope you enjoy this small selection of photos.
The town itself is beautifully situated on the slope of a hill, facing out to sea. There's a lovely little harbour, and a sea wall against which the sea was epically dashing itself on the Sunday. But let us return to the Friday. After a nap of a few hours, I met up with everyone - it was quite the joyful reunion of folk from the old alma mater. I was especially pleased to see and catch up with Sarah and Jack, whom I hadn't seen since university! Jack was the Best Man, but isn't a man, and arguably her name isn't Jack. If you don't understand, you clearly aren't an alumnus/a of Lampeter! We chatted for ages, and had a grand old time. On the Saturday we all met up in the town square, where TJ, the groom, led us on the picturesque trip to the beautiful church. It lies some distance from town, I learned, because the aristocrats decided they'd move the town so the church was more secluded. Friendly bunch, eh! There was a minor emergency before the wedding, with Sarah sending her tights to the bride via Dave. I drove Dave over to save time, but he couldn't recall Caroline's parents' house, so someone got Sarah's tights through their letterbox. I think Sarah recovered them later!
The church itself is quite old. The heart of Robert the Bruce's wife is buried within, and the Ogilvie-Gordons are buried there, too. Anyway, everyone was there in good time for the wedding. I am happy to say that I recognised the tune of one of the three hymns, if not the words: the peril of being the wrong religion is that we all have different hymns. Although I keep finding myself singing unfamiliar things when I'm at the 10:30 instead of my usual 8:35 am Mass on Sundays. Digression over! The bride looked lovely, and the groom the very picture of a distinguished gentleman! The priest put everyone at their ease, and a harpist played her instrument in accompaniment to Caroline's arrival and at other points. There then followed an abundance of photography, within and outside the church. Smiles abounded!
Following the ceremony, there was a wee pause of half an hour or so, and then we adjourned to the church hall, where a lovely spread had been put on for us. So considerate had Caroline, TJ and their families been to my peculiar vegan needs, that there was more choice I could have hoped to enjoy. I was very grateful. There were little favours and boomarks for all the guests, which was handy, as I was able to slip mine into my copy of Catch-22 later on. Following the meal, there was a break while most of us got changed into more relaxed clothes and ambled up to the Cullen Bay Hotel. As befits a celebration in Caledonia, a certain amount of Scotch was imbibed, including a 1974 cash strength one, which was utterly heavenly! Around midnight, I think, we all trundled out en masse, and ambled in an approximately homeward direction, a day well spent!
On the Sunday I had arranged with Dave to go for a walk, but shortly before we were to set out, the bride and groom arrived, so we cancelled our plans, and had a nice afternoon chatting with them. Later on, Dave and Maz and I went for a stroll around the clifftop paths which Dave had earlier reconnoitred. It was very pretty, and not too cold, despite the wind sweeping in off the North Sea. On the Monday, we did get to go for the walk. What we thought was five miles turned out to be more like seven or eight, and only two of us remembered to bring water! The sun was quite hefty, and I managed to catch some despite repeated applications of factor 30. It's great being ginger, really! We saw the ruins of Findlater Castle, which left me a little confused. The castle, although it was tricky to reach on foot, was overlooked by the surrounding cliffs, rendering it not terribly defensible, I should have thought. Historically, it was taken following a siege. The castle's main purposes appeared to have been to monitor the sea approaches, and to provide a nice spot for a picnic. If only we had brought one!
On the Tuesday, we left about 9am. The bride had prevailed on me to take a few things they had no space for themselves. This meant I wasn't driving back to the bottom of Cheshire, but to Milton Keynes. There's a nice church just down the road from me. I am going to have to start persuading my friends to have their nuptials there so I'm not driving off to Wales and Scotland again. ;-) We stopped off at home so I could pop my washing in the machine and get a change of clothes for the next day. I caught up with Sam's chap, Erik, who hadn't been able to make it to the wedding, but unfortunately got caught in a foul-up heading home, adding two hours to a two and a half hour trip. I got home on the Wednesday night about half eight, having driven 1,210 miles, I think, and my brain was pretty much mush! It was a delightful occasion, but if I visit Cullen again, I'll take the train to somewhere nearby, I think! I hope you enjoy this small selection of photos.
Friday, 1 June 2012
Wonderful Wedding Number One
Last Wednesday I went down to Wales for my friend's wedding. We met at uni - wargaming, naturally - but since he lives in Swansea, and I in Cheshire, I tend not to see Mark that often. I couldn't turn down this invitation, mind, as I was the (Co-)Best Man! On the Thursday we trundled over to Cardiff and had a couple of games of Flames of War. There was Mark, Jay (the other Best Man), Mark's dad and a couple of his friends, and I - and Mark's younger brother popped in to say hi. It says how very rusty I am that I got outflanked by the same unit commanded by the same opponent in the same terrain in both games I played. Clearly, you do have to tell me twice! We had a nice time, and had a full day.
On the Friday Mark's affianced, Marie, was doing last-minute wedding stuff, so Mark and I got to take care of their baby, Lily. She's usually good as gold, but was teething. I know very nearly nothing about babies, and my dramatic reading of video titles failed to distract her from her primary purpose of crying. Mark was hoovering, and so couldn't help. Thinking back, we really should have done that the other way round. She's very fond of her dad, and doesn't cry if he's holding her. Well, she certainly cries a lot less, anyway! She seemed phlegmatic when Mark popped on The Walking Dead, and lots of chaps wandered about missing bits of faces and trailing their innards. I'm not much of a zombie fan. I heretically find Romero's original Dawn of the Dead something of a yawn-fest. Nonetheless, I quite enjoyed the show. Given my love of wordplay, my favourite bit was the appearance of a doctor called Jenner who worked for the CDC and even mentioned smallpox. Simple things for simple minds!
Come the Friday evening, we trundled out to TGI Friday's, where they kindly knocked up something vegan for me. Then at the end of the meal, as it was a special occasion, they gave Mark a glass filled with cream and three cherries. The idea is that one stands on a chair and tries to eat one cherry. Something got a bit lost in translation, and he ended up eating all three cherries and drinking all the cream! The truly remarkable thing was that his stomach did not then rebel against this alien incursion. I'll draw a veil, as is only proper, over the events of the rest of the stag evening, as is right and proper. Suffice to say that even Mark's ironclad stomach was eventually defeated.
The Saturday was mainly a day of rest, and saw us watch most of the second season of The Walking Dead. When Channel 5 catches up, I shall have to watch the last two episodes, as that is all I missed. The Sunday was the big day, and we all pottered about, preparing, putting on suits, gathering buttonholes and so on. Needless to say, there were hiccups. The bride had the rings at her parents' house, and had meant to bring them over on the Friday or Saturday. Having forgotten, Mark was to pop over on the Sunday to pick them up. But when he got there, only Matt was left in the house,the others having gone out, and they'd not told him where the rings were! Happily, they came with the bride to the venue, Sketty Hall, and we didn't have to come up with some crazy last-minute plan!
The bride looked lovely, the groom very smart, and both were brimming over with happiness. The marriage went off without a hitch, and then we adjourned for the wedding meal. After two very nice courses we paused before dessert for speeches from the Bride's father, Paul, from Mark, and lastly from me. I was a little nervous, but all seemed to go well. Then there was dessert, followed my merriment, revels, dancing and a teeny-tiny amount of drinking! I shared a taxi back to Mark and Marie's place, as they were spending the night at a snazzy hotel. All in all, a lovely time!
On the Friday Mark's affianced, Marie, was doing last-minute wedding stuff, so Mark and I got to take care of their baby, Lily. She's usually good as gold, but was teething. I know very nearly nothing about babies, and my dramatic reading of video titles failed to distract her from her primary purpose of crying. Mark was hoovering, and so couldn't help. Thinking back, we really should have done that the other way round. She's very fond of her dad, and doesn't cry if he's holding her. Well, she certainly cries a lot less, anyway! She seemed phlegmatic when Mark popped on The Walking Dead, and lots of chaps wandered about missing bits of faces and trailing their innards. I'm not much of a zombie fan. I heretically find Romero's original Dawn of the Dead something of a yawn-fest. Nonetheless, I quite enjoyed the show. Given my love of wordplay, my favourite bit was the appearance of a doctor called Jenner who worked for the CDC and even mentioned smallpox. Simple things for simple minds!
Come the Friday evening, we trundled out to TGI Friday's, where they kindly knocked up something vegan for me. Then at the end of the meal, as it was a special occasion, they gave Mark a glass filled with cream and three cherries. The idea is that one stands on a chair and tries to eat one cherry. Something got a bit lost in translation, and he ended up eating all three cherries and drinking all the cream! The truly remarkable thing was that his stomach did not then rebel against this alien incursion. I'll draw a veil, as is only proper, over the events of the rest of the stag evening, as is right and proper. Suffice to say that even Mark's ironclad stomach was eventually defeated.
The Saturday was mainly a day of rest, and saw us watch most of the second season of The Walking Dead. When Channel 5 catches up, I shall have to watch the last two episodes, as that is all I missed. The Sunday was the big day, and we all pottered about, preparing, putting on suits, gathering buttonholes and so on. Needless to say, there were hiccups. The bride had the rings at her parents' house, and had meant to bring them over on the Friday or Saturday. Having forgotten, Mark was to pop over on the Sunday to pick them up. But when he got there, only Matt was left in the house,the others having gone out, and they'd not told him where the rings were! Happily, they came with the bride to the venue, Sketty Hall, and we didn't have to come up with some crazy last-minute plan!
The bride looked lovely, the groom very smart, and both were brimming over with happiness. The marriage went off without a hitch, and then we adjourned for the wedding meal. After two very nice courses we paused before dessert for speeches from the Bride's father, Paul, from Mark, and lastly from me. I was a little nervous, but all seemed to go well. Then there was dessert, followed my merriment, revels, dancing and a teeny-tiny amount of drinking! I shared a taxi back to Mark and Marie's place, as they were spending the night at a snazzy hotel. All in all, a lovely time!
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Auf wiedersehen, folks!
In a few hours I'm heading off to Wales. My good friend Mark is getting married to his fiancée, Marie, on Sunday, and I'm the Best Man. Needless to say, I have been worrying myself silly trying to write a speech that's not going to send everyone to sleep. The last time I gave a Best Man's speech I got heckled by a little boy for being too dull. Anyway, I'll be back here on Monday night, I think, but not for long. I have another wedding to go to in Scotland that Thursday. I don't have to write anything for that one, praise be! I should be back from that the following Tuesday, and it is then that I intend to get back into the Wild West (see below) and make a few more gaming boards for Space Hunt. I have had a Wild West river crossing board on my bedroom floor (or chair or bed or desk) for weeks now, and I want to get it finished and up into the attic! I also finally want to get that hotel done and dusted. Until next Tuesday or so, when I shall have some wedding shots for you, I wish you all a lovely week and weekend!
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Happily Ever After
Yes, you've probably guessed it: I have started watching the second season of Ally McBeal. If you didn't guess that, then either you'll never be Sherlock Holmes or you've not been reading this blog too long. As a child one of my favourite stories was (and still is) The Prisoner of Zenda. A dashing hero and a heroine who is not only beautiful and refined, honourable and in love with the hero, but also tragically bound to another. There's a bittersweetness to their love, but it doesn't destroy it. Just lately I have been reading The Three Musketeers (which I wrongly assumed myself to have read years ago), in which is a tangled web of broken hearts. The cardinal, scorned by the queen, seeks to turn the king against her. The queen, hurt by the king's unwarranted cruelty and neglect, turns to the adoring, admiring duke. I don't know how well this ties in with my thoughts, as I have yet to finish the tale.
I have also been reading Middlemarch, in which a young lady mistakenly falls for an erudite old man, discovering too late that his life is far too dry for her. Now I'm watching Ally McBeal, which is always about hearts getting broken, and people worrying about eternal love! Back in 2004 I was supposed to be married. Luckily, it didn't come off. Funnily enough, in the episode of Ally McBeal I just finished, a young lady remarked of her run-in with doom, "Just think how terrible it would be if I'd married a man who didn't love me!" Of course, my situation wasn't quite the same. For one thing, I wasn't a choir director dating a Church Minister! Less facetiously, that fictitious relationship was just a few months from start to end, whereas my fiancée and I had been dating for about four and a half years, and engaged for most of that.
The last year was a mess, in short. I'd finished uni, so would drive to Wales to see her, where she still studied. Long drives are awful, and I was a lot more flappable in those days! I'd be stuck behind a lorry for half an hour, stuck in a chair for the full length of the trip, and arrive very frustrated. A top tip for youngsters who are attempting to make a long-distance relationship work, don't go straight from a stressful environment to trying to cheer up someone who is on edge because she isn't enjoying her degree. It won't necessarily work! Indeed, that final period really demolished my conception of myself for years afterwards. I mentioned The Prisoner of Zenda above. The hero in that endures all sorts of travails for his love, but after about six months of being greeted with snappishness, which induced snappishness in me, I reached a nadir I never thought I could come to. I have no idea who started the fight, but the result was that she burst into tears, and I irritably left and had a drink in the Student Union.
Sorry, you were probably expecting from my use of nadir and the claim that I destroyed my self image that I threw her out a window or somesuch. I'm far too prosaic for that sort of behaviour, and far too sensitive, as you can see by my esteeming going away in a huff as a bottomless pit of evil. The thing was, she'd always been accustomed to burst into tears, and I'd always consoled her, but this time I just gave up. I'm more mature these days. Not only would I not regard that sort of behaviour on my part as reprehensible, but I wouldn't be in a relationship where weeping was a regular feature! Call me picky, people! At the time, however, I really did feel bad. I felt there was a change in our relationship then, but I later realised it had been a lot earlier, back in September, when she had hinted she wanted to leave me. I'd misinterpreted that as her needing reassurance that I wouldn't leave her.
Even that isn't accurate. Before she came to university, she had been seeing a guy, and had broken up with him to date another fella at uni. She ever after regarded the uni guy as a diabolical love-rat, as he soon realised they were ill-suited. A more decent human being than that guy one would be hard-pressed to find, but she had had a tough time, so it was easier to put people into black or white boxes rather than search for nuance. I got put into the good box, but I doubt it was ever meant to be. At first I wasn't in love with her, then we broke up for about eight hours, and I realised I was, but the guy she dated before uni is the man she married when she went back home, so I rather suspect that was just meant to be. It's rather sweet, if you think about it. Friends think I should be angrier about it, and about two years after she left me I was, but I have always been soppy about love. Even during the dark days of my depressed years, when I believed I'd never find anyone, weddings always cheered me up!
There's just something so wonderfully cheering about seeing two people displaying how much they love one another. Not every wedding I've attended has worked out, mind you. I can't pretend that I live in a fantasy land where everyone makes the right choice all the time. However, most have, and in one instance I shan't specify, when the marriage broke down, it did eventually (tortuously!) lead to something better. That is the thing about "Happily ever after" as I said to one half of that marriage in its final days, it does not exist. I think Pratchett or someone else once quipped that you could only ensure a perfect marriage by murdering the bride and groom immediately after the vows. Nobody has a perfect marriage, and nobody has a happily ever after, because we don't live in saccharine fairy tales. We can have wonderful lives, and I know a lot of people who I don't believe will ever separate. Some (of my generation) have been together for a decade or more, and the other week I was reunited with a couple who have known each other since they were eight years or so old!
These characters in Ally McBeal keep worrying about the future and eternal love, and that's fair enough. Everyone does worry about those things. But if you worry about them too much, you can end up doing some really dumb things. I was thinking of them too much when I refused to accept that my fiancée and I were just miserable together. I was thinking of that oft-quoted bit of St Paul about how Love is always patient, when I ought to have been thinking, "We've had a good run, but this just isn't working any more." I've seen that happen to other people, too, and sometimes one party was to blame, and then again there have been situations with no fault on either side.
Don't mistake me. I don't believe in happily ever after, but I do believe in love. In fact, I probably still place it on too high a pedestal, if anything! Stop undermining my rationality, o villain of a subconscious! :-D I've long admired Audrey Hepburn. Some friends (a darling couple, incidentally) presented me with some pictures of her as a Christmas present, and I have framed two. I daren't frame more, as I think I have said, as I feel that having a room covered with pictures of a dead fashion icon suggests I am either gay or a serial killer - or perhaps both! That really isn't the impression I want to make. But she is beautiful, and her images really bring a light to the room. Like the Princess Flavia, the heroine of The Prisoner of Zenda, she is beautiful but unattainable, as close to fiction as anything, really, given she is both dead, and only her image lives on. Even in the perfect women, I can find fault: I've never been keen on all the smoking in Breakfast at Tiffany's, mind you! :-D It's a wonderful film, that. If you haven't seen it, then permit me to persuade you. I once convinced a friend by telling him it was the story of how two prostitutes fell in love, which was very far from the perception he had of it at the time.
To return to Ally McBeal for a moment, one of the characters, John Cage, is
accustomed to "admire [a beautiful woman] from afar", fantasises about a family life with her, and can't think of a thing to say to her. It's really tempting sometimes not to talk to a pretty girl, as I was saying to a friend this weekend, lest she spoil the image one has formed of her. It is a little silly to think in that way, but sometimes it is so pleasing to imagine a fallacy. The latest edition of the Vegetarian Society's periodical arrived on Monday, and the theme of this issue was relationships - unsurprising, perhaps, given we have just had Valentine's Day. There was a chap in there writing from Yorkshire, where there is a distinct dearth of vegetarians. I have to admit to a little amusement on reading his castigation of you regular folk (for on balance you readers ain't veggies, I'm guessing), and then lament at the way he gets told off in much the same manner when he meets vegans. There must be something odd about Yorkshire if he's running into lots of vegans and not so many vegetarians, don't you think? I'm pretty sure they outnumber my lot many times over!
Erm, I digress. Anyway, I bet that chap will see a pretty girl and be reluctant to talk to her, as he can think to himself, "She's a vegetarian and we'll live happily ever after." It's tempting to behave like that, but we'll pretty soon run out humans, if we all do! Of course, it doesn't help when one honestly can't think of anything to say. Well, anything useful! I can sometimes think of not a single pertinent, clever, witty or elegant remark. "But, Pete, you can waffle for England! Look at this pseudo-philosophical meandering above!" Yes, but sometimes my mind just goes. I had a funny experience a couple of years ago, I guess, or at least fourteen months. I was out with a friend and had had a few drinks so I could talk to girls. Y'see, it predates my therapy. So nothing came into my mind, but I knew that the only way to get anywhere is to say something! So I desperately wracked my brain, certain that if I didn't speak I would just scurry off in silent terror.
I tell you, quoting lines from films people have never seen is probably not the greatest idea I've ever had. The bafflement didn't go away, but I did. Actually, if I had persisted, I might have made something of it, as I had at least effected an introduction, however ridiculous! I had another go the other week at talking to a girl in a bar, and it went better than that, though I still crashed and burned. In a less amusing way, which probably says something in support of the "use unknown film-lines to chat people up" idea. "My name is Luke Skywalker and I'm here with Ben Kenobi!" That could work, although anyone who understood the line would probably be a bit put off by the subtle insinuation of incest. You might say I'm over-thinking that, but it just really makes me back away from the line, my hands held out defensively lest it attack me.
I did write down a few amusing lines and adaptations before Christmas, but I lost the list. I recall there was a Flash Gordon one: "My name is Hans Zarkov! Come with me in my rocket ship to save Earth from Emperor Ming!" There's a risk with most lines that I'll be mistaken for an escaped mental patient. ;-) I have dated crazy ladies in the past, so perhaps this will be a good way of finding more. I have to say I like a bit of bonkers in my beloved, a nougat of nutty in my nearest and dearest, a dash of doolally in my darling. OK, I'll stop with the alliteration. Normal can be so humdrum at times, although I am rather humdrum a lot of the time myself. I like a little shock of unusual behaviour every now and then. So I might give that a go now. I'll go pen some gibberish to some ladies at OKCupid, then try to remember that when meeting someone it is just acceptable to say, "Hi, I'm Blah. What's your name?" I had honestly forgotten that until just now. Trying to chat up folk online messes with one's head sometimes!
So wish me luck as I go looking for love eternal and happily ever after. ;-) Well, as I go looking for someone who fits me and is a bit quirky and kinky in all the right places. Er, and fancies a chat about something or other. Which is likelier? Me winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket or me finding the perfect vegan, wargameress, grammar Nazi, Audrey Hepburn look-alike out there somewhere? :-D Good luck to all of you seeking that special someone, and my hearty good wishes to those of you who already have! God bless you all! :-)
P.S. I watched American Psycho today for the first time in years, and I have to admit it isn't just a black comedy. I'd recalled there being less tension and more humour. That said, several scenes reduced me to laughter, most notably: when Patrick tries to strangle Luis in the toilets, only for Luis to mistake this for an advance and start kissing Patrick's hands. To be fair, it was Christian Bale, and Matt Ross is hardly unattractive himself. I digress!
I have also been reading Middlemarch, in which a young lady mistakenly falls for an erudite old man, discovering too late that his life is far too dry for her. Now I'm watching Ally McBeal, which is always about hearts getting broken, and people worrying about eternal love! Back in 2004 I was supposed to be married. Luckily, it didn't come off. Funnily enough, in the episode of Ally McBeal I just finished, a young lady remarked of her run-in with doom, "Just think how terrible it would be if I'd married a man who didn't love me!" Of course, my situation wasn't quite the same. For one thing, I wasn't a choir director dating a Church Minister! Less facetiously, that fictitious relationship was just a few months from start to end, whereas my fiancée and I had been dating for about four and a half years, and engaged for most of that.
The last year was a mess, in short. I'd finished uni, so would drive to Wales to see her, where she still studied. Long drives are awful, and I was a lot more flappable in those days! I'd be stuck behind a lorry for half an hour, stuck in a chair for the full length of the trip, and arrive very frustrated. A top tip for youngsters who are attempting to make a long-distance relationship work, don't go straight from a stressful environment to trying to cheer up someone who is on edge because she isn't enjoying her degree. It won't necessarily work! Indeed, that final period really demolished my conception of myself for years afterwards. I mentioned The Prisoner of Zenda above. The hero in that endures all sorts of travails for his love, but after about six months of being greeted with snappishness, which induced snappishness in me, I reached a nadir I never thought I could come to. I have no idea who started the fight, but the result was that she burst into tears, and I irritably left and had a drink in the Student Union.
Sorry, you were probably expecting from my use of nadir and the claim that I destroyed my self image that I threw her out a window or somesuch. I'm far too prosaic for that sort of behaviour, and far too sensitive, as you can see by my esteeming going away in a huff as a bottomless pit of evil. The thing was, she'd always been accustomed to burst into tears, and I'd always consoled her, but this time I just gave up. I'm more mature these days. Not only would I not regard that sort of behaviour on my part as reprehensible, but I wouldn't be in a relationship where weeping was a regular feature! Call me picky, people! At the time, however, I really did feel bad. I felt there was a change in our relationship then, but I later realised it had been a lot earlier, back in September, when she had hinted she wanted to leave me. I'd misinterpreted that as her needing reassurance that I wouldn't leave her.
Even that isn't accurate. Before she came to university, she had been seeing a guy, and had broken up with him to date another fella at uni. She ever after regarded the uni guy as a diabolical love-rat, as he soon realised they were ill-suited. A more decent human being than that guy one would be hard-pressed to find, but she had had a tough time, so it was easier to put people into black or white boxes rather than search for nuance. I got put into the good box, but I doubt it was ever meant to be. At first I wasn't in love with her, then we broke up for about eight hours, and I realised I was, but the guy she dated before uni is the man she married when she went back home, so I rather suspect that was just meant to be. It's rather sweet, if you think about it. Friends think I should be angrier about it, and about two years after she left me I was, but I have always been soppy about love. Even during the dark days of my depressed years, when I believed I'd never find anyone, weddings always cheered me up!
There's just something so wonderfully cheering about seeing two people displaying how much they love one another. Not every wedding I've attended has worked out, mind you. I can't pretend that I live in a fantasy land where everyone makes the right choice all the time. However, most have, and in one instance I shan't specify, when the marriage broke down, it did eventually (tortuously!) lead to something better. That is the thing about "Happily ever after" as I said to one half of that marriage in its final days, it does not exist. I think Pratchett or someone else once quipped that you could only ensure a perfect marriage by murdering the bride and groom immediately after the vows. Nobody has a perfect marriage, and nobody has a happily ever after, because we don't live in saccharine fairy tales. We can have wonderful lives, and I know a lot of people who I don't believe will ever separate. Some (of my generation) have been together for a decade or more, and the other week I was reunited with a couple who have known each other since they were eight years or so old!
These characters in Ally McBeal keep worrying about the future and eternal love, and that's fair enough. Everyone does worry about those things. But if you worry about them too much, you can end up doing some really dumb things. I was thinking of them too much when I refused to accept that my fiancée and I were just miserable together. I was thinking of that oft-quoted bit of St Paul about how Love is always patient, when I ought to have been thinking, "We've had a good run, but this just isn't working any more." I've seen that happen to other people, too, and sometimes one party was to blame, and then again there have been situations with no fault on either side.
Don't mistake me. I don't believe in happily ever after, but I do believe in love. In fact, I probably still place it on too high a pedestal, if anything! Stop undermining my rationality, o villain of a subconscious! :-D I've long admired Audrey Hepburn. Some friends (a darling couple, incidentally) presented me with some pictures of her as a Christmas present, and I have framed two. I daren't frame more, as I think I have said, as I feel that having a room covered with pictures of a dead fashion icon suggests I am either gay or a serial killer - or perhaps both! That really isn't the impression I want to make. But she is beautiful, and her images really bring a light to the room. Like the Princess Flavia, the heroine of The Prisoner of Zenda, she is beautiful but unattainable, as close to fiction as anything, really, given she is both dead, and only her image lives on. Even in the perfect women, I can find fault: I've never been keen on all the smoking in Breakfast at Tiffany's, mind you! :-D It's a wonderful film, that. If you haven't seen it, then permit me to persuade you. I once convinced a friend by telling him it was the story of how two prostitutes fell in love, which was very far from the perception he had of it at the time.
To return to Ally McBeal for a moment, one of the characters, John Cage, is
accustomed to "admire [a beautiful woman] from afar", fantasises about a family life with her, and can't think of a thing to say to her. It's really tempting sometimes not to talk to a pretty girl, as I was saying to a friend this weekend, lest she spoil the image one has formed of her. It is a little silly to think in that way, but sometimes it is so pleasing to imagine a fallacy. The latest edition of the Vegetarian Society's periodical arrived on Monday, and the theme of this issue was relationships - unsurprising, perhaps, given we have just had Valentine's Day. There was a chap in there writing from Yorkshire, where there is a distinct dearth of vegetarians. I have to admit to a little amusement on reading his castigation of you regular folk (for on balance you readers ain't veggies, I'm guessing), and then lament at the way he gets told off in much the same manner when he meets vegans. There must be something odd about Yorkshire if he's running into lots of vegans and not so many vegetarians, don't you think? I'm pretty sure they outnumber my lot many times over!
Erm, I digress. Anyway, I bet that chap will see a pretty girl and be reluctant to talk to her, as he can think to himself, "She's a vegetarian and we'll live happily ever after." It's tempting to behave like that, but we'll pretty soon run out humans, if we all do! Of course, it doesn't help when one honestly can't think of anything to say. Well, anything useful! I can sometimes think of not a single pertinent, clever, witty or elegant remark. "But, Pete, you can waffle for England! Look at this pseudo-philosophical meandering above!" Yes, but sometimes my mind just goes. I had a funny experience a couple of years ago, I guess, or at least fourteen months. I was out with a friend and had had a few drinks so I could talk to girls. Y'see, it predates my therapy. So nothing came into my mind, but I knew that the only way to get anywhere is to say something! So I desperately wracked my brain, certain that if I didn't speak I would just scurry off in silent terror.
I tell you, quoting lines from films people have never seen is probably not the greatest idea I've ever had. The bafflement didn't go away, but I did. Actually, if I had persisted, I might have made something of it, as I had at least effected an introduction, however ridiculous! I had another go the other week at talking to a girl in a bar, and it went better than that, though I still crashed and burned. In a less amusing way, which probably says something in support of the "use unknown film-lines to chat people up" idea. "My name is Luke Skywalker and I'm here with Ben Kenobi!" That could work, although anyone who understood the line would probably be a bit put off by the subtle insinuation of incest. You might say I'm over-thinking that, but it just really makes me back away from the line, my hands held out defensively lest it attack me.
I did write down a few amusing lines and adaptations before Christmas, but I lost the list. I recall there was a Flash Gordon one: "My name is Hans Zarkov! Come with me in my rocket ship to save Earth from Emperor Ming!" There's a risk with most lines that I'll be mistaken for an escaped mental patient. ;-) I have dated crazy ladies in the past, so perhaps this will be a good way of finding more. I have to say I like a bit of bonkers in my beloved, a nougat of nutty in my nearest and dearest, a dash of doolally in my darling. OK, I'll stop with the alliteration. Normal can be so humdrum at times, although I am rather humdrum a lot of the time myself. I like a little shock of unusual behaviour every now and then. So I might give that a go now. I'll go pen some gibberish to some ladies at OKCupid, then try to remember that when meeting someone it is just acceptable to say, "Hi, I'm Blah. What's your name?" I had honestly forgotten that until just now. Trying to chat up folk online messes with one's head sometimes!
So wish me luck as I go looking for love eternal and happily ever after. ;-) Well, as I go looking for someone who fits me and is a bit quirky and kinky in all the right places. Er, and fancies a chat about something or other. Which is likelier? Me winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket or me finding the perfect vegan, wargameress, grammar Nazi, Audrey Hepburn look-alike out there somewhere? :-D Good luck to all of you seeking that special someone, and my hearty good wishes to those of you who already have! God bless you all! :-)
P.S. I watched American Psycho today for the first time in years, and I have to admit it isn't just a black comedy. I'd recalled there being less tension and more humour. That said, several scenes reduced me to laughter, most notably: when Patrick tries to strangle Luis in the toilets, only for Luis to mistake this for an advance and start kissing Patrick's hands. To be fair, it was Christian Bale, and Matt Ross is hardly unattractive himself. I digress!
Saturday, 21 January 2012
A Disastrously Good Time!
Last night was a bit of a disaster. Last Friday I had told Mawbs and Deaks that "next week" we'd go and talk to scary wimminz.* Unfortunately, Mawbs misunderstood me to be referring to tonight, Saturday. As it turned out, all the pretty girls who had been out for several Fridays in succession were suddenly and inexplicably absent from Newcastle last night. In short, bugger all happened except me complaining that teenagers look like teenagers. Frustrating. Anyway, tonight was a grand improvement. Mawbs, Nath, B & Laura all came over to Congleton for some drinks. Then we had a Thai and resolved to have a couple more drinks. L decided to go into this pub rather than that pub, and then had no idea where to update her telephonic-internet-a-ma-jig location to.
So I asked the two comely girls at the next table what the pub's name was, and we got to chatting after they had overcome their surprise that a native of Congleton should not know the pub's name. Mawbs was most surprised of all that I remembered, when introducing our party, to call him by his forename, which is something I almost never do. Public schools can leave one calling people by their surnames for years, and leave one baffled when Lib Dem councillors are accused of rudeness for so doing (apologies for being unable to find that story with a quick google, but the chap's name escaped me). Anyway, things were going well, and they suggested we meet up with them in the next place, as both our groups were coincidentally going to Wetherspoon's. So we arrived, and they were at a four-seat table, and there were five of us plus the two of them. My friends cheerily told me to trundle along, and so I went and continued the chat. Unfortunately for me, lacking Mawbs to engage the other girl, Angie, the conversation hit a bump, and there was a languor of about a minute, in which time the girl I was interested in, Scooby (nickname from an odd boss years ago), texted her ex. When a girl checks her 'phone every few seconds for a text from her ex, I think I can read the signs, so I politely excused myself, and wished her the best of luck (sincerely, though you are welcome to doubt my sincerity :-D ).
There then followed some commiseration from my friends, and some rather chipper analysis of the sequence of events from me: "'I don't know where I am! Help!' is a good chat up line. Mawbs, we'll try that in Revolution next week. Er, hang on." So it didn't go as well as it might have, but it went quite well, I felt, given I haven't been in that sort of situation (of chatting up a girl at a bar) for about seven years. I did feel a certain amount of anxiety, but I was never terrified. If I'd tried doing that a year ago, I would have been a nervous wreck. Given the circumstances, I'd say that was a pretty good bit of work, albeit something to build on rather than something to be proud of in itself.** I managed not to talk quite so much, too, though I did say some fairly dumb things. It was a good foundation for next week, anyway! I learned the valuable lesson that if you can't think of owt to say, it helps to have someone else there to keep the conversation going. So that's what wingmen are for!
* I should throw in an explanation here, as it's a wee bit unfair to expect anyone to be up-to-date not only with my mind but also the minds of my offline mates. Except you psychics. You doubtless know every nuance of every word I type. For the rest, the situation is as follows. I don't find the fairer sex frightening. I used to, just like I found my own (fouler?) sex frightening. Strangers scared me! I'm better now and "scary wimminz" is used in a self-consciously self-mocking fashion.
** Several friends will promptly disagree (as Nathan did a short time ago) on the reasonable ground that I haven't done anything like this in years, so even baby steps are still better than nowt!
So I asked the two comely girls at the next table what the pub's name was, and we got to chatting after they had overcome their surprise that a native of Congleton should not know the pub's name. Mawbs was most surprised of all that I remembered, when introducing our party, to call him by his forename, which is something I almost never do. Public schools can leave one calling people by their surnames for years, and leave one baffled when Lib Dem councillors are accused of rudeness for so doing (apologies for being unable to find that story with a quick google, but the chap's name escaped me). Anyway, things were going well, and they suggested we meet up with them in the next place, as both our groups were coincidentally going to Wetherspoon's. So we arrived, and they were at a four-seat table, and there were five of us plus the two of them. My friends cheerily told me to trundle along, and so I went and continued the chat. Unfortunately for me, lacking Mawbs to engage the other girl, Angie, the conversation hit a bump, and there was a languor of about a minute, in which time the girl I was interested in, Scooby (nickname from an odd boss years ago), texted her ex. When a girl checks her 'phone every few seconds for a text from her ex, I think I can read the signs, so I politely excused myself, and wished her the best of luck (sincerely, though you are welcome to doubt my sincerity :-D ).
There then followed some commiseration from my friends, and some rather chipper analysis of the sequence of events from me: "'I don't know where I am! Help!' is a good chat up line. Mawbs, we'll try that in Revolution next week. Er, hang on." So it didn't go as well as it might have, but it went quite well, I felt, given I haven't been in that sort of situation (of chatting up a girl at a bar) for about seven years. I did feel a certain amount of anxiety, but I was never terrified. If I'd tried doing that a year ago, I would have been a nervous wreck. Given the circumstances, I'd say that was a pretty good bit of work, albeit something to build on rather than something to be proud of in itself.** I managed not to talk quite so much, too, though I did say some fairly dumb things. It was a good foundation for next week, anyway! I learned the valuable lesson that if you can't think of owt to say, it helps to have someone else there to keep the conversation going. So that's what wingmen are for!
* I should throw in an explanation here, as it's a wee bit unfair to expect anyone to be up-to-date not only with my mind but also the minds of my offline mates. Except you psychics. You doubtless know every nuance of every word I type. For the rest, the situation is as follows. I don't find the fairer sex frightening. I used to, just like I found my own (fouler?) sex frightening. Strangers scared me! I'm better now and "scary wimminz" is used in a self-consciously self-mocking fashion.
** Several friends will promptly disagree (as Nathan did a short time ago) on the reasonable ground that I haven't done anything like this in years, so even baby steps are still better than nowt!
Thursday, 19 January 2012
A funny thing happened on the way to the forum today
Kev, you asked for a non-wargaming one, so here you go!
I really do just shoehorn inaccurate titles in, don't I? In fact, I popped to a contemporary supermarket today. I didn't jump in the Delorean and zip back to practise my Latin and buy some olive oil from some chap not wearing trousers. I was picking up a few ingredients for a chocolate and rum cheesecake I made for Mum, for which the recipe follows. Anyway, I also picked up a picture frame. Some friends bought me some beautiful pictures of Audrey Hepburn for Christmas, so I need frames for them. Since I was in the "household stuff" bit of the store, there were all sorts of bits and bobs lying around. It gave me a momentary pang that at thirty, when so many of my contemporaries have long since picked out decorations for their own homes, I am not in sight of that milestone. Well, in a sense.
I have bowls, plates, ramekins and various kitchen bits and pieces upstairs, and downstairs a set of saucepans,* all residue from my relationship with Jenny. I am surrounded by bookcases and so on, likewise residue from said relationship. In the main, however, I don't have that accumulated pile of possessions, and I rather felt that lack for a few seconds. Then I went and finished my shopping. Tomorrow night I am going out with Mawbs and Deak, and we are going to try our hand at entrancing the good ladies of Newcastle-under-Lyme. I doubt I'll be back here tomorrow night declaring I have met my true love, but it's a start. Sometimes one doesn't want to admit to oneself that one's wary of relationships, having been hurt in the past. Sometimes one uses the third person to make things seem yet more distant! :-D
Tomorrow night should be amusing, at the very least. If my honest attempts at chatting to a lady fall down, I shall fall back on comedy. That said, I have been advised repeatedly in very definite terms that I am not permitted to use my favourite lines. First, from Futurama, a line uttered by Bender in his sleep, "Hey, sexy momma, wanna kill all humans?" Second, from Back to the Future, "I'm George, George McFly. My density has popped me to you." I think the former will be my exit line if things go badly, as it always amuses me. The latter has a little more history. I was out with Mawbs some time before last February, and we espied two pretty girls on the far side of the room. Pretty is a rather insubstantial adjective, and anyway, could only fairly be applied to one of the young ladies.** Her companion was a vision of beauty. You won't believe it, but I'll tell you anyway. She not only looked quite like the actress Natalie Portman, but appeared even prettier.
This was before I had my hypnotherapy session last year, so I wanted to talk to her, but didn't know how. Only the acquisition and consumption of some Dutch Courage (strange that I have never seen such a brand of alcohol on sale) gave me the strength to perambulate to the far side of the room, dragging Mawbs, unwilling as he was wise, with me. Faint heart never won fair lady, as the saying goes, and that rather scuppered me before I began. We got there, and I turned about, the room being full of people, and rather loud, we had probably not been observed. Mawbs was about as nervous as I was, but less laden with "Courage", and sought to persuade me that, as I had no plan or opening line ready, I should beat a tactful withdrawal. While he was right in one sense, in another I felt a personal need to at least make an attempt. I realised that if I let my brain engage, that it would concur with Mawbs, and talk me out of action, as it had done for years before last February.
So I shut off my brain, turned round, and declaimed to Natalie Portman's prettier twin the first thing that my brain offered me, "I'm George, George McFly. My density has popped me to you." Her response was confusion, even when I repeated the line, so I apologised and beat a tactful retreat. My courage was just about up to an unsuccessful attempt, but not to a prolonged siege! Mawbs then explained to them that I wasn't an escaped mental patient, and shortly thereafter rejoined me. So that's the history of that line. Funnily enough, I suspect that that recounting would go down quite well as an introductory story tomorrow - provided I was sensible enough to excise the information that the lady in question was drop-dead gorgeous. Even beautiful women are often self-conscious about whether their beauty measures up to that of others.
Tomorrow night we two, armed with a third in the form of Deaks, will sally forth to battle the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I am a little worried it won't go well, and a little worried that it shall. I'm not the same chap I was this time a year ago, though, so I will be making the attempt. One cannot damn oneself to inconsequence and inactivity, waiting in terror behind the DJ booth for that pretty girl you have your eye on to come talk to you. Well, since that worked perfectly well with Jenny, as she sought me out, let us say that one cannot do it twice! I may recount that tale at a future point. With the best possible will toward her, I rather hope to find someone of finer qualities tomorrow. Anyway, if you are in N-u-L tomorrow and see that fella who's visible on this blog in a tiny picture by the name Pete, but with a thin ginger beard drawn on him that ain't in the pic, then that's, er, Mawbs or possibly Deak. I'll probably write something when I return tomorrow night on this. Au revoir, mes amis!
Recipe for Vegan Chocolate Cheesecake
200-300g Sainsbury's ginger biscuits***
100g margarine
170g dark chocolate
225g vegan cream cheese spread****
50ml Captain Morgan's rum
Some blanched almonds (for decoration and because almonds are great)
Some dried cranberries (as many as you like, really)
1. Pulverise biscuits.
2. Melt margarine and mix in with biscuit bits.
3. Make the base with the above (Steps 1&2) mixture.
4. Melt dark chocolate.
5. Add as many dried cranberries as you like, the rum, the melted chocolate and the vegan cream cheese and mix thoroughly until a lovely chocolatey paste is formed. Don't worry about the cranberries being lumpy so long as everything else is well-mixed.
6. Smooth the chocolate mixture atop the ginger biscuit base.
7. Decorate with almonds and leave to chill.
8. Heart failure. :-D
* Which Dad has murdered by repeatedly putting them in the washing machine. Top tip #1: non-stick coating does not like to stay on when dumped in one of those things. Top tip #2: one can stop Dad doing it repeatedly, but he'll always end up doing it again.
** I use young lady rather indiscriminately. We weren't chatting up toddlers. I think the ladies were in the early to mid-twenties.
*** 200g will give a thinner and more coherent base, but 300g seems to work quite well. These are just about the only vegan biscuits they have these days, sadly. I think their Rich Tea ones are ok still.
**** I used Tofutti today and Scheeze last week and both worked perfectly well.
I really do just shoehorn inaccurate titles in, don't I? In fact, I popped to a contemporary supermarket today. I didn't jump in the Delorean and zip back to practise my Latin and buy some olive oil from some chap not wearing trousers. I was picking up a few ingredients for a chocolate and rum cheesecake I made for Mum, for which the recipe follows. Anyway, I also picked up a picture frame. Some friends bought me some beautiful pictures of Audrey Hepburn for Christmas, so I need frames for them. Since I was in the "household stuff" bit of the store, there were all sorts of bits and bobs lying around. It gave me a momentary pang that at thirty, when so many of my contemporaries have long since picked out decorations for their own homes, I am not in sight of that milestone. Well, in a sense.
I have bowls, plates, ramekins and various kitchen bits and pieces upstairs, and downstairs a set of saucepans,* all residue from my relationship with Jenny. I am surrounded by bookcases and so on, likewise residue from said relationship. In the main, however, I don't have that accumulated pile of possessions, and I rather felt that lack for a few seconds. Then I went and finished my shopping. Tomorrow night I am going out with Mawbs and Deak, and we are going to try our hand at entrancing the good ladies of Newcastle-under-Lyme. I doubt I'll be back here tomorrow night declaring I have met my true love, but it's a start. Sometimes one doesn't want to admit to oneself that one's wary of relationships, having been hurt in the past. Sometimes one uses the third person to make things seem yet more distant! :-D
Tomorrow night should be amusing, at the very least. If my honest attempts at chatting to a lady fall down, I shall fall back on comedy. That said, I have been advised repeatedly in very definite terms that I am not permitted to use my favourite lines. First, from Futurama, a line uttered by Bender in his sleep, "Hey, sexy momma, wanna kill all humans?" Second, from Back to the Future, "I'm George, George McFly. My density has popped me to you." I think the former will be my exit line if things go badly, as it always amuses me. The latter has a little more history. I was out with Mawbs some time before last February, and we espied two pretty girls on the far side of the room. Pretty is a rather insubstantial adjective, and anyway, could only fairly be applied to one of the young ladies.** Her companion was a vision of beauty. You won't believe it, but I'll tell you anyway. She not only looked quite like the actress Natalie Portman, but appeared even prettier.
This was before I had my hypnotherapy session last year, so I wanted to talk to her, but didn't know how. Only the acquisition and consumption of some Dutch Courage (strange that I have never seen such a brand of alcohol on sale) gave me the strength to perambulate to the far side of the room, dragging Mawbs, unwilling as he was wise, with me. Faint heart never won fair lady, as the saying goes, and that rather scuppered me before I began. We got there, and I turned about, the room being full of people, and rather loud, we had probably not been observed. Mawbs was about as nervous as I was, but less laden with "Courage", and sought to persuade me that, as I had no plan or opening line ready, I should beat a tactful withdrawal. While he was right in one sense, in another I felt a personal need to at least make an attempt. I realised that if I let my brain engage, that it would concur with Mawbs, and talk me out of action, as it had done for years before last February.
So I shut off my brain, turned round, and declaimed to Natalie Portman's prettier twin the first thing that my brain offered me, "I'm George, George McFly. My density has popped me to you." Her response was confusion, even when I repeated the line, so I apologised and beat a tactful retreat. My courage was just about up to an unsuccessful attempt, but not to a prolonged siege! Mawbs then explained to them that I wasn't an escaped mental patient, and shortly thereafter rejoined me. So that's the history of that line. Funnily enough, I suspect that that recounting would go down quite well as an introductory story tomorrow - provided I was sensible enough to excise the information that the lady in question was drop-dead gorgeous. Even beautiful women are often self-conscious about whether their beauty measures up to that of others.
Tomorrow night we two, armed with a third in the form of Deaks, will sally forth to battle the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I am a little worried it won't go well, and a little worried that it shall. I'm not the same chap I was this time a year ago, though, so I will be making the attempt. One cannot damn oneself to inconsequence and inactivity, waiting in terror behind the DJ booth for that pretty girl you have your eye on to come talk to you. Well, since that worked perfectly well with Jenny, as she sought me out, let us say that one cannot do it twice! I may recount that tale at a future point. With the best possible will toward her, I rather hope to find someone of finer qualities tomorrow. Anyway, if you are in N-u-L tomorrow and see that fella who's visible on this blog in a tiny picture by the name Pete, but with a thin ginger beard drawn on him that ain't in the pic, then that's, er, Mawbs or possibly Deak. I'll probably write something when I return tomorrow night on this. Au revoir, mes amis!
Recipe for Vegan Chocolate Cheesecake
200-300g Sainsbury's ginger biscuits***
100g margarine
170g dark chocolate
225g vegan cream cheese spread****
50ml Captain Morgan's rum
Some blanched almonds (for decoration and because almonds are great)
Some dried cranberries (as many as you like, really)
1. Pulverise biscuits.
2. Melt margarine and mix in with biscuit bits.
3. Make the base with the above (Steps 1&2) mixture.
4. Melt dark chocolate.
5. Add as many dried cranberries as you like, the rum, the melted chocolate and the vegan cream cheese and mix thoroughly until a lovely chocolatey paste is formed. Don't worry about the cranberries being lumpy so long as everything else is well-mixed.
6. Smooth the chocolate mixture atop the ginger biscuit base.
7. Decorate with almonds and leave to chill.
8. Heart failure. :-D
* Which Dad has murdered by repeatedly putting them in the washing machine. Top tip #1: non-stick coating does not like to stay on when dumped in one of those things. Top tip #2: one can stop Dad doing it repeatedly, but he'll always end up doing it again.
** I use young lady rather indiscriminately. We weren't chatting up toddlers. I think the ladies were in the early to mid-twenties.
*** 200g will give a thinner and more coherent base, but 300g seems to work quite well. These are just about the only vegan biscuits they have these days, sadly. I think their Rich Tea ones are ok still.
**** I used Tofutti today and Scheeze last week and both worked perfectly well.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Panic on the streets of Congleton! Also: General Store
A shocked feeling overcame me when I saw the Ebay fees for this month amounted to slightly over £50. More fool me for not being aware that they charge you about ten per cent, I suppose. On that note, do buy something, won't you? On a less mercenary note, I popped out today and picked up some more balsa wood and foamcard. See below for the General Store's current appearance. Of perhaps more interest was an excellent arrival in the post this morning: Dark Skies is here. Needless to say, I've been exposing myself to episodes I don't really remember from half a lifetime ago. The show ran in the US in '96-7, so I expect we got it a year later when I was in the Sixth Form at school. I've mentioned it to friends, who have either a vague recollection of something or who have no idea what I'm on about, like the three friends I spoke to about it on Saturday. I think they didn't remember Babylon 5, either, and one had mysteriously missed every episode of The X-Files. Call Mulder and Scully. Everyone else really was doing homework back in the day. No wonder my A-level results were so dreadful! :-D
Did I ever tell you kids the story of How I Met Your Mother? That show's made two or three references to the mother in six series? With that sort of pedigree I can tell you a rambling tale from my childhood with as much justification that it's "how I met your mother" - except I'm not dating anyone. Mm, but I'm not a fictional character, so I'm back to level-pegging. "Story, Pete!" Oh, yeah. I was lying in bed, and it was so nice and warm and comfy, when suddenly Dad knocked apologetically at my door, peering in to let me know that he had overslept, his alarm not having gone off, and that I now had about thirty minutes to get to school for one of my German A-level exams. It's a thirty-ish minute trip in good traffic. So I threw on my clothes, bundled my brother into the car, and roared off into the distance. I can't say with any honesty that my brother was pleased with my driving that morning. I think fear is an apt adjective, and anger is another good one. I was monomaniacal. Let me reassure any policemen reading this that I'm sure I kept to the speed limits. Probably. It's more than a decade ago, officer. I couldn't say for sure.
We certainly overtook a lot of people, and it's probably the only occasion when I have ever stood a chance of making a good time round the Top Gear test track. So we reached Newcastle, and hit a traffic jam. Oh. We managed to get past it after several agonising minutes, and got to school. For some reason one of the groundsmen took exception to my driving into the Quad. It's probably because it was full of schoolchildren, and you can't drive cars there. Some minor bureaucratic detail such as that. I stopped the car outside A-block, decamped, and flew indoors. I may have thrown the keys at my shell-shocked sibling or he may have fled the madman's car at the earliest opportunity. I burst through the doors of the Memorial (for the Great War, and later the Second World War) Hall just before the papers were to be given out, my tie clutched in my fist, and my socks tucked in my pocket, a sheen of sweat on my fat, red face. I got there in time.
I don't think it helped much, though. GCSEs had been so easy that I had been dissuaded from studying much for A-levels. The fact that I was going through your basic teenage depression (with a few bells and whistles) didn't help, either. My A-levels were awfully disappointing. That said, if I'd got the good results I had expected, I'd never have ended up in Lampeter. If I had to do it all over again, I'd rather go there than anywhere else. The people I met there were wonderful, and they have become if anything even more so. The university gave me a nice degree in Classics, then I hung about for another year getting a Masters in Ancient History. I haven't put either of those to much use as yet. Translating Latin bits and bobs for friends is as far as that's gone! But the striking difference between school and university was that I realised I had to work to get results. I did work and I did get results. I could have worked harder, but I couldn't have worked much harder while dating a girl with depression - and intermittently battling my own! One needs to unwind.
After that relationship, mind, I slid into thinking "Well, I put in all that effort, and that's what I get out of it?" That's not a healthy attitude when you've had one proper relationship. You might end up thinking such is always the case: generalising from the unique. I imagine that's rather sooner got over if you can talk to people. I couldn't do that for years. Every attempt was an exercise in terror and frustration. D'oh! Well, I've mislaid my health, I have no job, and whenever I have submitted recently to friends that we should say hello to those pretty girls at the end of the bar, they have nervously declined. In those circumstances, what can one do but ignore one's comrades temporarily? Roll on tomorrow night, when I shall try to remember not to woo women with defunct '90s sci-fi shows. Maybe current comedy shows will work better? I'll report back! Until then, enjoy some images of the General Store with its new roof.
Did I ever tell you kids the story of How I Met Your Mother? That show's made two or three references to the mother in six series? With that sort of pedigree I can tell you a rambling tale from my childhood with as much justification that it's "how I met your mother" - except I'm not dating anyone. Mm, but I'm not a fictional character, so I'm back to level-pegging. "Story, Pete!" Oh, yeah. I was lying in bed, and it was so nice and warm and comfy, when suddenly Dad knocked apologetically at my door, peering in to let me know that he had overslept, his alarm not having gone off, and that I now had about thirty minutes to get to school for one of my German A-level exams. It's a thirty-ish minute trip in good traffic. So I threw on my clothes, bundled my brother into the car, and roared off into the distance. I can't say with any honesty that my brother was pleased with my driving that morning. I think fear is an apt adjective, and anger is another good one. I was monomaniacal. Let me reassure any policemen reading this that I'm sure I kept to the speed limits. Probably. It's more than a decade ago, officer. I couldn't say for sure.
We certainly overtook a lot of people, and it's probably the only occasion when I have ever stood a chance of making a good time round the Top Gear test track. So we reached Newcastle, and hit a traffic jam. Oh. We managed to get past it after several agonising minutes, and got to school. For some reason one of the groundsmen took exception to my driving into the Quad. It's probably because it was full of schoolchildren, and you can't drive cars there. Some minor bureaucratic detail such as that. I stopped the car outside A-block, decamped, and flew indoors. I may have thrown the keys at my shell-shocked sibling or he may have fled the madman's car at the earliest opportunity. I burst through the doors of the Memorial (for the Great War, and later the Second World War) Hall just before the papers were to be given out, my tie clutched in my fist, and my socks tucked in my pocket, a sheen of sweat on my fat, red face. I got there in time.
I don't think it helped much, though. GCSEs had been so easy that I had been dissuaded from studying much for A-levels. The fact that I was going through your basic teenage depression (with a few bells and whistles) didn't help, either. My A-levels were awfully disappointing. That said, if I'd got the good results I had expected, I'd never have ended up in Lampeter. If I had to do it all over again, I'd rather go there than anywhere else. The people I met there were wonderful, and they have become if anything even more so. The university gave me a nice degree in Classics, then I hung about for another year getting a Masters in Ancient History. I haven't put either of those to much use as yet. Translating Latin bits and bobs for friends is as far as that's gone! But the striking difference between school and university was that I realised I had to work to get results. I did work and I did get results. I could have worked harder, but I couldn't have worked much harder while dating a girl with depression - and intermittently battling my own! One needs to unwind.
After that relationship, mind, I slid into thinking "Well, I put in all that effort, and that's what I get out of it?" That's not a healthy attitude when you've had one proper relationship. You might end up thinking such is always the case: generalising from the unique. I imagine that's rather sooner got over if you can talk to people. I couldn't do that for years. Every attempt was an exercise in terror and frustration. D'oh! Well, I've mislaid my health, I have no job, and whenever I have submitted recently to friends that we should say hello to those pretty girls at the end of the bar, they have nervously declined. In those circumstances, what can one do but ignore one's comrades temporarily? Roll on tomorrow night, when I shall try to remember not to woo women with defunct '90s sci-fi shows. Maybe current comedy shows will work better? I'll report back! Until then, enjoy some images of the General Store with its new roof.
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