Chrimbo

I’ve got to that age where I’ve started looking back at childhood Christmases. It wasn’t all tinsel and plenty. They seemed magical at the time but now I can see that they were tinged with a sort of sadness. Like that time the kids from down the road were looking through the window and laughing at the Action Man that Father Christmas had bought me. Well, it was an Action Man to me, I didn’t know any better. It was my sister’s cast-me down Cindy doll with its hair cut short and a bit of boot polish smudged across the top of its nose. It was in regimental dress uniform, though, so it was special. Some dress uniforms include the kilts in the regimental tartan. This one included a pink PVC mini-skirt. Well, I wasn’t to know, I mean, what do you know when you’re a littlie? 

David Purbright, he had a proper Action Man. With Eagle Eyes. There was this little stick in the back of his head — the Action Man, not David Purbright — and if you waggled it to the left his eyes shifted to the right; waggle the stick to the right and the eyes shift to the left. And if you waggled it to and fro the eyes shot from one side to the other until they got stuck and he had to bash its head on the edge of the kerb to get them moving again. Kids from five streets away would cluster round and watch as David Purbright made Action Man’s eyes waggle to and fro. “Do it again, David! Brilliant!” 

iPads‽ Pfah! 

Three wishes

A traveller chanced upon an oil lamp lying amongst some rocks in a deserted place. Laughing at his own folly, he brushed the dust off the lamp then gave it a vigorous rub with his shirt sleeve. There was a brief wisp of smoke, the smell of brimstone and cardamons and a sudden flash of purple light.

"I am the genie of the lamp," said the Djinn, "And I must grant you three wishes."

The traveller stared at the Djinn for some time. And as he stared he thought. And as he thought his eye caught the sharpness of the Djinn's sword. And as he thought the more his eye caught the coldness of the Djinn's eye. And as he thought the yet more his eye caught the cruel sardonic smile on the Djinn's lips.

"Tell me," said the traveller, "What is the usual punishment for men who try to be clever and wish for an infinite number of wishes?"

"Is that what you wish?" asked the Djinn.

"Certainly not!" replied the traveller. "I cannot imagine anything more foolish."

"Perhaps the punishment would be to grant the wish," said the Djinn slyly.

"I expect it would be," lied the traveller. "A wise man would not wish for such a thing. And even one as foolish as I would be wise enough not to do so."

"Why so?" asked the Djinn.

"Man is capable of the most terrible errors of judgement, even with the best of intentions," replied the traveller. "It is best that there is a limit to the mischief he may bring upon himself and the world."

"A man who understands the importance of boundaries is a wise man indeed," mused the Djinn. "Perhaps you would wish to impose a limit of time? All you could ever wish for a whole year, perhaps?"

The traveller smiled. "Oh no. I have too little faith in my own self-discipline or judgement to do that. Besides, I suspect that such a heady brew would be impossible to taste once and then willingly walk away. No, I shall do no such thing, I shall know my limits."

"You cannot be persuaded?" asked the Djinn.

"I cannot be persuaded," said the traveller.

"You still have your three wishes," said the Djinn.

"I still have my three wishes," said the traveller.

Happy New Thingy!

Time flies when you're having fun.

2016 has to be the year where I get my arse in gear and start getting things written down. The four novels are mapped out in my head, together with a ton of dialogue; I've drawn the map of the locations and I've even got bits of stuff scribbled down in notebooks but none of that counts for anything if I don't get down to the grindstone.

Best wishes to all from me, the Small Object Of Desire and the Cat I Do Not Have.

2014 and all that

Well, that's been a rum old year. Luckily nothing too untoward this time; I hope the same can be said for yourselves.

Still working at Helminthdale; seriously considered jumping ship in this year's bloodletting but it works out that there's a considerable financial advantage to hanging on for next year's bonfire of the public services. I've survived it this long I should be able to survive another year, though it's hard work not to be extremely despondent with it all. Many of my friends have jumped ship from their respective local authorities; I can only envy them. I have my list of stuff I'm planning to do when I get paid off.

Helminthdale has been Helminthdale, except perhaps a bit more so: a shrill, last-minute lurch into insanity before the inevitable winding-up that must be in the offing in a year or two.

The Small Object of Desire has had a good year, being involved in a quite spectacular bit of new development for one of this year's quite spectacular new library developments (the number of these is ironic in a year where libraries are being closed or offloaded onto press-ganged volunteers but only the churlish couldn't take some positives from a visit to any one of them).

At home all is cluttered and messy and cheerful. The Cat I Do Not Have has discovered the joy of howling fearfully at the cat from next-door-but-one early on a Sunday morning. The Small Object of Desire has commandeered the dining room as The Sewing Room. Most of the sofa is piled eighteen inches deep in Books To Be Read.

Take care and be nice to each other.

Gladness

The Small Object of Desire is in that mood where she needs to have been drawn by Leo Baxendale.We'd been round to my parents' for lunch and they'd had "Pollyanna" on the telly, the one with Amanda Burton as the auntie. We were back at mine with pots of tea when she asked:

"That film your mum and dad were watching..." 

"Pollyanna?" 

"Yes. Pollyanna. What was that all about?" 

"It's a timeless classic. Haven't you seen it before?" 

"No. What was it about?" 

"Well... Gladness and the redemptive power of positive thinking. And that." 

"What a lot of toss. I'm going for a poo."

Everybody say: "Ahhh..."

Stung by reading yet another bit of thin blather, I turned to The Small Object of Desire and said: "I should become a library consultant. I can write a pile of weak bollocks like this."

"No you can't," she said. "Besides, you're not capable of kissing enough arses to get the work in the first place."

This is easily the sweetest thing she's ever said to me.

Jolly

2014 set out its stall on day one: more dark and dismal at noon that during the midnight celebrations. The Cat I Don't Own has been bored silly: punctuating periods of mad tear-arsing up and down the stairs with moody longueurs at the doorstep. When I suggest that she may want to go outside for a romp in the garden (or at least a crap) she gives me a look, mutters something about it pissing down then goes to have a kip on the pile of books on the spare bed. (There's a pile of books on the spare bed because the bookcase in the living room fell to pieces again, irreparably this time, due to overloading.)

Strangely enough, it's been mild enough outside for there still to be some bumblebees floating round the garden. There's thin pickings at the moment: just the Mahonia and a few primroses. The cyclamen finished a couple of weeks ago and the snowdrops are only just above ground level. I keep meaning to do something about the Winter flowering in the garden. If 2014 pans out the way I'm hoping it will I should have slightly more time for sorting these things out.

Hope

Happy 2014. Hopefully it won't be as shitty as 2013.

Consequences of an overdose of The Beano Book

I so wanted this to be a cover of the Bay City Rollers number.

Chrimbo singalong

It's been a rough old year for many of us.

Pull up a glass of sherry and pour yourself some turkey gravy as we sing along to those carols we loved as children.

Season's greetings to you and yours. Play nice and stay safe.

Spoor

I had a slight gardening mishap. Nothing too bad: I'd just jabbed myself with a garden implement. Unfortunately it was in one of those places where the amount of blood pouring out is entirely out of proportion to the size of the wound. I thought I'd managed to patch myself up without spilling any on anything that couldn't be wiped clean, but apparently not. A couple of hours later I heard a shout from the bathroom:

"Eeeww... Is this your blood on the bog roll?"

I don't know what she imagines I get up to while she's out having her hair done.

Archaeology

The Small Object of Desire is at a Time Team Adulation Society meeting tonight

She'll be the one stood at the back, with a bottle of vodka, shouting: "Tony! Tony love! Is that a bit of Samian ware or are you just pleased to see us?"

Tuesday singalong

Music for pleasure

We really do have conversations like this while we're cleaning our teeth...

"Did I dream this or did Max Bygraves die recently?"

"I don't know. Are you sure it was Max Bygraves?"

"No, that's why I was asking."

"Was it the other bloke, the one with the jumper?"

"Val Doonican?" 

"No. The Christmas one."

"Perry Como?"

"No. The other one."

"What other one?" 

"Is Val Doonican dead then?" 

"I don't know. I'll have to look it up on the 'net." 

Pumpkins to you, too, madam

Well-heeled couple and their unruly children mooching round St Ann's Square. Children accosting strangers in the dark and yelling: "Trick or treat!" I explain, gently, to one child that it isn't Halloween yet. "You're nine days early," I say.

Yummy-Mummy-manquée looks daggers at me. "Don't deprive them of their childhood! They should have something more than just a skinny frappucino with pistachio syrup and a harlequinade of gaily-coloured crushed macaroons! Look at Rosy-Chi-Chi's creative wearing of an off-the-peg Halloween urchin costume straight from Guardianista Pre-Loved Tat. Give them some money you unfeeling swine!"

Fuck off lady, I can't be doing with it.

I gave a pound to a beggar at the bottom of Deansgate.