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!

Tall things! A silo and a defensive structure!

Yonks ago I bought m'self a water pistol thingy. Well, there's no word for it, is there? Y'can't say, "I bought myself a water carbine." People look at you and ask what a carbine is. Hm. So this big ol' water pistol had a few big canisters for holding ammunition, er, water. The kerjigger died, as is their wont, and I ended up with leftover canisters. One got turned into a fuel storage doodah ages back, and two more are near me now. The one that ended up as a fuel silo was glued in place horizontally, so I messed with that a (really, really tiny) bit this time, and here's a vertical version. "Inspirational, Pete! You switched something from horizontal to vertical! You're a lion among men!" Well, thank you, Imaginary Audrey Hepburn. ;-) The first was in temperate terrain, so this new one will be in snow. Yeah, so I pondered doing something similar with number three, and then decided against it.

Instead, I grabbed a big ol' tub of protein powder, stripped off the enveloping paper and glued it to a bit of wood. I guess this will be a tall bunker or HQ or something along those lines. Er, with a fuel tank or water tank or whatever outside. I also grabbed some spare bits of polystyrene I had lying about for aeons. I recall asking for suggestions about what to do with them months ago, so to those of you who did not speak I say this: "Tut-tut!" So, anyway, this'll be a great tall kerjigger that blocks line of sight to a whole lot of stuff. The small fuel tank (and the roof of the lower floor) is about the right height to obscure GW AFVs. Er, and superheavies, I guess. But not more than titans' shins. On which tedious, hair-splitting note, I shall leave you to these pic-a-chaws what I done took. I think this is going well this week. Yesterday I recounted my adventures this last weekend, and today I'm babbling about how I'm making stuff from stuff. Mm, stuff from stuff - what a great line. Enjoy these pictures, Futurama fans! If you're no fan of Futurama, how the Hell did you end up here?

Trips and Travails, Wales and Wassails!

This weekend just gone saw two birthdays of great import to me. My father has long celebrated his at this time of year, and more recently my friend, Kev, decided to cash in on this, and be born on the same day. It being the former's sixty-second and the latter's thirtieth, the former kindly allowed me to visit the latter. I'll stop using former and latter now. Sorry. Kev lives in Wales. Oh, that's insultingly simplistic. I don't mean to talk down to my readers. See Spot run. Actually, we have a rabbit of that n- "SHUT! UP! PETE!" Erm, yeah, ok. Right, so I set off for Wales at half twelve on Friday. En route to Kev's I was to drop in on the mysterious Grey Wolf, a chap I've known for some years. I had misapprehended a communication from him, and so was laden with all the fresh vegetables I had been able to pluck from my fridge. Top Tip: if someone jokes that they're being forced to eat dog food, explore the possibility that they are actually joking that X, who was supposed to give them nosh, carelessly directed them to a cupboard, bidding them eat its contents, only for them to discover that all therein was dog biscuits.

Anyway, having given GW (don't get confused, wargamerinos) a spot of fresh nosh, I set about securing some windows. I think a rubber seal had never been installed, so I have filled the gap with some Tetrion powder I mixed into a paste. I also inspected the wall of the shower. Some kindly workmen had been the day before and applied tiles to the wall of Grey Wolf's bathroom. The plumber had thereafter arrived, and attempted to fit a shower . . . but there wasn't a gap for the water to come through. Impressive. I hear this has already been dealt with, though. We two (GW and I, not the mysterious plumber and workmen) had a chat for a bit, and then it was on to Port Talbot, City of Light! Someone might have called it that at some point. Maybe.

At Kev's I was reunited with Martyn, whom I knew at uni, his young lady, Vickie, the eponymous owner of the dwelling, dear Peter, and Mark - whom I have not seen in a month of Sundays! - and met his affianced, the delightful Amanda. The sense of humour of our group may be gauged to a degree from the sort of gibberish I come out with on here, so her sliding easily into dealing with it all is a credit to her and the future Mr Amanda. We then proceeded to drink. Amanda and Mark had recently discovered a delightful new recipe: tear some mint leaves, add rum, ginger ale and ice, and imbibe the resultant diluted inebriant. Martyn and Vickie departed first, having drunk little, as he, poor fellow, had a shift beginning at 6am the next day. Amanda and Mark sensibly sidled upstairs around midnight, and Peter, Kev and I were up till gone 2am consuming the concoction.

The following morning I was surprised to learn that over the course of the evening we had gone through three bottles of rum (two of Mount Gay bought for the cocktail, and one of Captain Morgan, which I had brought with me). It rather explains our (or at least my!) somewhat delicate state the next morning! We trundled out for a brief walk with Kev's dear dog, Jess, then pottered back to see Ireland defeat Italy at rugby. Well, we saw about a third of the match at Kev's, then strolled into town and caught the last third. We had set out in (not quite) good (enough) time to get enough seats for the England-Wales game that followed on its heels. I have to say that team sports have never done anything for me. I dig (but do not seek out) martial arts (boxing, fencing, Judo, &c), and will equitably (see what I punned there?) watch showjumping (though horse racing does nothing for me).

Despite that, and the resultant staring at a screen of muscular chaps
running hither and thither, I rather enjoyed the end of the game. Wales and England seemed evenly matched (to my admittedly unaccustomed eye) for the greater part of the game, but toward the end Wales leapt forward and then in a separate incident, prevented England's attempt to claw back her way to victory. The pub in which we sat erupted with cheers. I recall as a teenager being thoroughly startled when a classmate erupted with a scream of joy at England beating someone (Germany?) in a football match we were watching in 1997 or 1998 or 1999. I'm older now, and I burst out laughing, which was an excellent reaction to have. Everyone was grinning from ear to ear at having defeated the villainous English, and so I fit right in. :-D There then followed a traditional Welsh song. I couldn't follow the words, so remarked to Kev that I would imitate his practice of thumping my palms on the table. He told me I'd soon know the words, and it was true that "As long as we beat the English!" are pretty easy to recall!

The villainous Saxons and Angles having been defeated, we retired to a lovely local eatery for a spot of nourishment. Mm, curry. Thus restored we returned to town, where we stood on a very sticky floor with lots of people bumping into us. We circled the wagons around Amanda, as she was more susceptible to buffeting than were we. It was an odd Wetherspoon's, resembling rather a club in Newcastle-under-Lyme than any Wetherspoon's I've ever been in before. After one drink we headed over the road. The volume of music was about the same, the floor slightly less sticky, and there were fewer people. Er, result! Then we pottered home, temporarily collecting a young couple. The feminine half of which was very happy about the rugby result, so I tactfully (and pointlessly - what would she have done? Stabbed me with a grin?) covered my Englishness by laughing in agreement rather than speaking.

Right, er, so we got back, collapsed into our beds (settee in my case), and woke up the next day. On the Saturday Jess the dog had kindly woken me at half six in the morning to see if I wanted to play. I misapprehended this, and tried to let her out into the garden and then into the kitchen. Happily, on the Sunday morning she was asleep upstairs, so I didn't wake until a little after ten, and dragged myself out of bed about twenty minutes thereafter to bid good morning and bye to Mark and Amanda. Poor Martyn, having had to get up for a shift starting at 6am the day before, was today bound to start a shift at 2pm. I'd never be a nurse. My uncle was tried to persuade me to become something in the City, which involved several years of sleeping for perhaps as much as six hours each night. That at least had the benefit of being ordered sleep, albeit insufficient. Looking after people seems to involve neither regimentation nor enough!

Peter, Kev and I thus drove into Swansea. I hoped that a small Hare Krishna restaurant would be pen, while suspecting this would not be the case. We arrived, checked, and ended up at Pizza Express. Lovely pizza, and oilier than normal.! We trundled over to Watserstone's - or whatever they're calling it these days - and I picked up a Richard Morgan book, Market Forces, on Peter's say-so. Then I decided we would treat Kev by watching this new Muppets film. He had been unable to justify it to himself, assuming it to be a kids' film. It is not. Or it is at least enjoyable by all ages. We three enjoyed it greatly!

I quickly dropped Kev and Peter off at Kev's, collected my accoutrements, and darted off to visit my friend, Mark. He's very kindly asked me to be his Best Man at his wedding in May, but owing to my erratic visits to Wales, I've never met his wife-to-be, Marie. I had intended for this to be a chance to say hi, but their wee Lily, who is only some weeks old, was poorly, and their dog, a somewhat less wee hound, was a bit shouty, so Mark and I adjourned upstairs instead. I hope to remedy that omission next time I'm in Wales! I then fixed a dead headlight, as I happily chanced to have a spare in my glove compartment, and set off home again.

On my way down I had stopped the car. It seemed that my Tom-tom was directing me a way that differed from that which the AA's internet service had suggested. This turned out to be so. But on stopping the car beeped and pinged at me, flashing that there was a problem with the oil. I checked the oil. There wasn't a problem. I continued my journey down. On the way back it pinged and beeped and flashed at me again. I checked the oil. It was fine. I very, very cautiously checked the radiator's adulterated water, not being desirous of covering myself with hot steam or boiling water. It was fine. I decided that the car was lying to me and drove back without any trouble. Bonza!

On the way back I saw a bunny sat on a verge, somewhwere on the road between here and J17 of the M6, and got home after 01:00, which meant I was a bit tired. I was driving up the M5, and kept seeing warnings that the M5/M6 interchange was shut. That is in Birmingham, but there is an alternative route! So I turned onto the M42. I pulled over to use the facilities, and the traffic monitor they have told me that the M42 was shut from the next junction. I don't know whether to curse the halfwits who decided to close both of the motorway routes around one of England's major cities simultaneously or to condemn the idiot who decided to pretend that this had happened and hack computer systems to support his amusing lie. Either way, give me an axe, somebody! So I got home around one in the morning when I would otherwise have been home around midnight. I had some stuff to do online, so was then up until gone four (my brother was up for ages).

In short, I am worn out by a wonderful weekend and by two ridiculously implausible evenings of driving! Happy late Birthday, Kev and Dad! Amanda, Vickie and Lily, it was lovely to meet you all! Peter, Martyn, Mark and everyone else I had already met, it was a delight to see you all again. I love you all! :-)

The worst thing about wargames is the waiting

Specifically, the waiting for PVA glue to dry. It's great stuff, but it does take forever to dry. I usually stick it downstairs, but the folks could be keener on having loose sand scattered about the house. So I am avoiding that by scattering it about a corner of my bedroom. Mm, a great improvement! I have managed to get a little painting done, on the piece of terrain which was most advanced, the faux-pile of crates. The whole piece got a coat of brown housepaint, then I added a little yellow and heavily drybrushed everything, then some cream, then cream on its own, then a grey to the crates. Next I applied a wash of Vallejo black, water and Badab Black to the tarpaulin. It's got quite a nice dusty effect right now, but I'm going to add some weathering powders to make it look a bit nicer. I probably shan't post again until Monday or Tuesday, as tomorrow I am off to Wales, and won't be back until Sunday night. So enjoy these pics in my absence.