A dark smudge on a grey horizon

Once again I assure you all that normal service will be resumed soon….

I am extremely lucky to have met some wonderful human beings in my life. I have adopted my own ‘sister’ and have friends who demonstrate that it’s not all about family. I have great friends who look out for the mess of a human that I am and they do it tirelessly despite the lack of any reward.

I am far from normal and very hard to understand, hell I haven’t much of a clue how I work and I have been me for 45 years! Whilst nobody understands me I have friends that accept my own level of insanity. These amazing people realise that 130 hr weeks are normal for me but question me when I ‘overdo’ it. They send me food parcels when they realise that I may not have eaten for a couple of weeks which is just a little longer than normal.

Unfortunately I have never been able to translate this into my love life. I have met, and slept with, some of the lowest forms of life out there. I have actually risked my life for people who I shouldn’t ever have acknowledged in the first place. Most importantly I have created two wonderful people with something that should have either been put down or sterilised. I remain immensely sorry for the mother that I , unwittingly, inflicted on my children and only hope that they can both realise this and accept an old man’s apology.

For those who wonder on my single status let me share the meaning of the tattoo on my right hip. That tattoo simply says ‘played 14-07-07’, the date is far later than it should be but it was intended to match the ‘player’ tattoo on one of my more dangerous ‘liaisons’. Should you be somebody who is privileged to see this tattoo, it is shown rarely, please don’t think that you can add the end date or that you can be the one that ends the game. It doesn’t matter who or what you are, I have been played by the best and for the worst of all stakes so you are not good enough to end this.

Make no mistake I am not ‘damaged’ I am not ‘troubled’ I am not a basket case who can be rescued, I am not waiting for the right woman to save me. I am broken, not chipped, not worn I am shattered, destroyed and, quite simply, toxic. As an Engineer I am, above all , logical and 45 years tells me a story that can’t be changed. Don’t ever think you can save me because there is nothing to save and for you there is everything to lose. Some dark souls can’t be saved and are better left to wander….

Its not you but its definitely me

Let me start this post by pointing out that this, what you see every day, is my happy face. I know, because you tell me, that I look variously miserable, angry or broody but the truth is that this is me at my happiest.

I needed to point that out because tonight has involved good meaning people offering or trying to set me up with their friends. This whole idea is based on a myth. some bullshit fed to us as kids that we are better as a couple or that some other person offers us a reason to drive on, utter rubbish of course. Now every persons friend is ‘different’ but of course they would say that because they, quite rightly, love their friends.

So today, again, I pointed out that I am 45 years of age and in those years I have met several ‘different’ girls/women’ but the one stable thing is the result, this boy does not do well at relationships. In short I am an a**ehole, I don’t try to be, don’t set out to be, but I am it’s just who I am. I won’t cheat on you or treat you badly, I will do all that I can but what I offer will never be, and has never been, enough. The thing is that, at 45, I am cool with that. Your friend may be the nicest person on earth but I can make her into a demon hell I could turn an angel into satan.

It is not intentional, I don’t set out to do it and I guess that I would rather it didn’t happen but it is one of the few reliable skills that I have. See your daughter, your sister, your ex? I can turn them into utter ar**holes, every one a winner. I can’t hit a coconut at a shy but I could turn a nun into a right dick, it’s what I do.

So if you think I am great and you think I am just what your friend needs then think on after all she is your friend not mine. I will make her hate me, you will wonder both how that happened and why you were involved. The truth is that being single suits some of us, probably most of us, and some of us are so driven that it is only us that can be with us. I don’t mean this as some ego trip, I hate me, there is genuinely nothing in or about me that I like but, unlike the rest of you, I am stuck with me and I have learned to live with who I am.

Being single is not a bad thing and, in some cases, it’s a humanitarian thing because you don’t need me ruining more people it’s just not fair on those of you that feel some odd need to have a partner (good luck with that)

Its a world, whose is irrelevant

I live in a world that is not where you live. I know that you think we are friends or mates or that you know me but honestly, I’m kinda unique. So to those that see me in their office, not for me. Those that see me as an enforcer, not for me. Those that think I am security, not for me. Can I do these jobs? Yes, Have I done these jobs? Yes.

I may sound like you but I’m not you, in truth I’m not sure who I am but that doesn’t matter I’m not you. You want me to be you, want me to help you, sympathise and empathise with you, no problem but I’m not you. Do I have tattoos? Yes, have I lost my kids? Yes, Have I done bad things? Choose a side, am I a good guy? There aren’t any that’s just fantasy.So I am who I am will be who I will be and will be dammed by my choices they call that life.

This evening I went to the pub, a pint or maybe two. No intention to stay out was quickly replaced by a late night, that is the joy of pubs, don’t forget them guys! I met up with a crowd that didn’t colour coordinate with me, my t shirt said ” I beat cancer, by cancer I mean my wife” one of them had cancer. There are two ways of dealing with this, for you. For me it’s just life hell,for some of its a shitter. For my mate Mick an opportunity to use lines such as “shut up I’m talking to baldy” and “did you lose all hair” before killing it with ” you are all drinking on her sympathy”. Cancer is a powerful and indiscriminate disease but hey if you can’t laugh at it then it all becomes serious and tedious.

Think thats odd? Maybe you’re right but happiest cancer survivor in Essex left the pub. Some of us are not born to be nice, eloquent or clever but there’s a humanity in our lives that you couldn’t understand. You may not know me, may not need to befriend me but one day you will be happy to meet me, it’s just how it is. So do I know how to hurt you? Can I make a living out of chaos? That is irrelevant lets live for the day……

Accidental precision, the trouble with hair and who ate my tracks?

I spent some time recently doing some jewellery repairs, it’s not something that I am particularly experienced at but I do enjoy it. The whole process of making joints, preparing the surfaces and then encouraging the, often reluctant, silver to adhere is quite cathartic. Obviously I don’t perform this work in a workshop or an Industrial environment, I do it in my kitchen. I always carry out a thorough risk assessment though before carrying out such work and it usually reminds me to cover the counter top and sometimes even have water on standby.

Since my hair has been less keen to stay with me since the accident i have now taken to applying a baseball cap to restrain my hair. In days of old the smell of burning hair could be shrugged off but when combined with moulting the maths really doesn’t make sense. It would appear that I hadn’t thought all of the possibilities through though and my interaction with the gas torch did not go fully as planned. There is a dark spot on the peak of my cap where it got in the way of the flame but it was not the only casualty. I have to say in the battle of hair verses flame, flame certainly won and I am now sporting a stripe of missing eyebrow! Once again I am astounded by the clinical precision that can come with a mistake, I couldn’t have lanced a neater strip of hair removal if I had actually tried. Obviously I am looking forward to explaining the balding badger look to all that I meet but I thought that I would kick off with you guys. I am hoping that the curse of prodigious eyebrows shows its positive side by filling in the gap post haste, bloody hair its nowt but trouble!

In other news I was victim to a scary new tactic from the New Delhi call centre mob yesterday whilst dealing with my broadband contract. Obviously there was the expected repeat loops of explaining the issue to various idiots and getting nowhere but in the end we concluded that the account would all come right on the next invoice. I felt moved to ask mahatmacoat whether he thought that this was right, if I am wrong then I need to make payment immediately but they can correct later. After a couple of goes he agreed that it seemed somewhat unfair but “that’s how it is”. It was then that he launched his latest tactic, doubtless learnt during the festive break, “would you allow me to inject some humour into our conversation?”

I was taken aback, certainly there had been no humour this far but the question caught me unaware. It turned out that the question was rhetorical and for a moment I thought that I was to be treated to a stand up routine, alas it was not to be. I allowed him 1 line of what seemed like a philosophy quote before I hung up. I warn you all this is not humour, please don’t get your hopes up it is just a ploy to keep you on the phone.

Finally I would like to ask you all a question, what is the purpose of I-Tunes? From what I have seen it appears to exist for the purpose of randomly deleting tracks from my library and generating new albums and strange artist names. It seems incapable of understanding that a disc contains an album and so reguarly generates new albums to hide single tracks in. The whole system seems less reliable than the Lotto and is as far from convenience as an Indian call centre! When I open I-Tunes and select an album I know that I will be surprised to see half the tracks missing and then will need to delete said album and reload it, from my CD, what’s the bloody point?

The only thing that the sour apple seems to do for me is to give me album artwork, which looks very nice on my IPod. The thing is that I already have the artwork, its on the disc case, and I have never known a song fall of a CD it just doesn’t happen. After another few hours of yelling at the incompetent apple monster and asking where it had hidden tracks 4,7,11&13 of an AC-DC album I gave up. That is it Mr Apple, you have broken me congratulations. I have downloaded Winamp which looks like an 80’s car stereo, they tell me that it can interface with all of my crab apple toys but frankly I couldn’t care less. In the two days that this has been installed it has not eaten any tracks, not recreated albums in its own image and well in truth it has not done anything that I haven’t asked it to do. It doesn’t offer me the option of including artwork which is a shame but based on experience this was a step too far anyway. If anyone can tell me why on earth we should be burdened with such poorly performing garbage software then please burn your explanation moot a CD and I will feed it to I-Tunes.

The odour of power, pets and washing machines and an aching chasm

Like many of you I detest foreign call centres, everything about them is horrible. The silly attempts to sound local “I would be wishing you a Happy New Year” or “How good to hear from you I look forward to serving you good” to name but two. There is an unpleasant dishonesty in this, please don’t ask me how I am “this morning” when it is 10pm in your Calcutta call centre, contrary to corporate beliefs this does not ‘foster a relationship’ it makes me hate you. Then there is the one thing that they cannot script into foreign call centres, the art of negotiation. An English call centre is like an English market stall, the conversations that we have are a constant churning negotiation albeit with little change in position. With a foreign call centre there are one or two decision gates and that is it, they stall and there is no movement. Gone are the days of “let me speak to your manager” because Manjita’s manager is going to tell you the same thing, he is reading from the same 5 page leaflet and rules are rules. Don’t misunderstand me the result is the same but the English have a culture of sympathetic noises and conciliatory tones that makes the whole experience somehow seem better.

I had cause to change my electricity supplier recently and was pleased to see that the new provider operated from English call centres, what a pleasant surprise. What they hadn’t told me, but quickly became apparent when I called them, was that the English call centre had a starting age of 60. I gave my details to a half deaf half-wit who made me repeat everything several times. When he asked for my postcode I started phonetically with “Charlie” only to be greeted by a patiently enunciated “no sir your post code” but I persevered as he taped my answers into the computer with a solitary arthritic digit. When he asked for my phone number I enquired as to why he needed it and he said “In case we get cut off so I can call you back” on the third repeat of the number I saw my chance for freedom and confirmed the incorrect number. Another few questions and the will was well and truly beaten out of me so I killed the call. I can only apologise to whoever gramps phoned next, it wasn’t a prank call from the Alzheimer’s society he really did work for an energy company.

The next day I tackled the same arrangement by way of one of those ‘live chat’ things. When Manhandru answered I realised that if this service had also remained in the UK then it was based in Birmingham which offered no more advantage. Could they help me apply because the online quote didn’t do quarterly payment options I enquired, “yes this is certainly something that I can do with you” was not an inspiring reply. When he directed me to a link I advised that I had already filled the form in and it asked me to call, it was ok he assured me he “would help me fill it in”. Ah but you misunderstand I insisted, I can fill the form in but it doesn’t cover my circumstances. I had to decline repeated offers of assistance to fill my name and address in before he conceded that I should “call the help centre”. I had to ask whether this was the “English geriatric help line” that I had called yesterday and was advised “yes sir they can help you”.

Swearing that this would be my last attempt I hit that gem of a thing, more rare than diamonds or gold, an English call centre operative. She clearly didn’t want to be there or to read out the garbage that they are obliged to so we skipped merrily through that with good humour on her part and good grace on mine. Did I want her to read the terms and conditions out aloud or should she email them? “burn them for all I care just please don’t read them out”. The killer question though was “why are you moving your electricity supplier” which I considered before answering “because your electricity smells nicer”. After a snigger she asked “no really” and in best straight face I answered “yes the current supplier is horrible, smells worse than wet dogs. My friend has yours and his house smells much better” As she typed my reason in the box doubtless marked “other” she did quietly ask “do you have any pets” and I assured her that I didn’t, she was probably worried they wouldn’t like the smell of the new electricity bless her.

In other news I purchased a new washing machine, unusually I took this step before the old one exploded. The old one was not in the best of health but, like an faithful old dog facing the lethal injection, it performed perfectly after the new one was ordered. When I ordered the machine I looked at the schedule of charges and agreed to £10 to remove the old one given the hassle the task would be. The £5 to disconnect was a no go since I did this myself but the £20 to install was a tough question. I know in reality that there is nothing involved in installing the machine and the delivery guys would bring it as far as the kitchen as part of the delivery but there was one killer, the wrapping disposal. Whenever I purchase large article I spend an eternity breaking down the packaging to bag it as refuse then have to vacuum the widely distributed polystyrene chips. But £20, just to take some wrapping away? what the hell it’s a New Year damn the expense, I ticked the box and paid my invoice.

When the washing machine arrived I knew that I had been had, there was no packaging. As experts in deliveries the logistics firm had obviously realised that cumbersome packaging invariably has to be lost before delivery to ease access through doorways. Given the New Year I smiled through gritted teeth as an 18-year-old ‘installed’ the machine and cautioned that I should consider a clip for the waste hose, I assured him I would, I could have brought a lot of clips for £20! My new machine is shiny, lights up and beeps so it must be better but I may not have though the purchase through as fully as one should. My old machine had a 6KG load but struggled with a double bed so I had to divide bed linen into two loads. Ever a fan of efficiency I opted for an 8KG machine that would comfortably take the bed linen on with room to spare. After the delivery guys left my machine blinked at me expectantly like an eager puppy, we both knew that it needed a trial run. I had some laundry waiting and launched it into the machine, well to steal a friends phrase it was like throwing a peanut down a bowling alley!

I ate a sloppy lunch so that my hoodie needed washing, well you can’t change a hoodie without the T-shirt can you?  In they went and along with an errant pair of socks but still it sits in the kitchen blinking at me, desperate to show its capability, while my laundry basket remains stubbornly empty. At this rate it will be next week before I use the machine, I may need some more shirts to cope with bi-weekly washing!

 

Rewriting history

I have left the weekend with one key hope, that my children do not share my stubborn gene. In all fairness I don’t hold a lot of hope out, between stubborn and lazy my own family have little contact. Over the weekend I tried again to raise my kid sister, it was (as always) impossible. For every hundred calls she may answer one, or at least text to say that she is busy. I work full time, I travel and I work away from home yet my kid sister who has never worked is invariably too busy to answer the phone, go figure.

I think as a family we just rebelled against enforced contact. My parents split when I was young and my mother pushed very hard to make my father maintain contact. Her heart was in the right place but the enforced visits were a strain on both sides. My father was one that wanted to be there for the golden age. In all his many children’s lives there would come a time when he could bask in his role, albeit briefly and mostly without justification. The problem with enforced visiting was that when I hit that time I wasn’t interested anymore. I had two sisters, the older one passed away a few years ago. In a style that was very much her own she called me out of the blue and we spent some time catching up over a few weeks. Then she committed suicide, perhaps I should have seen that coming, perhaps that’s why contact is shunned in my family.

So my kid sister will remain elusive until she has sufficient drama or concerns to fill a call. You know the types of calls, you mention some massive drama and the response is generally “oh no that’s terrible, anyway let me tell you about ….” The real kicker for communication is my own children, who I love dearly. They have reached ages where they have things to do in their own lives and I am not so important, all entirely natural of course. Unfortunately they live with a woman who hates me and they are too young to understand the sacrifices and efforts that I have to make to keep them, in the style to which they are accustomed. 

They have reached the stage in life where an absent father is merely an alternative funding source. My remaining hope is that they rebel against history and rekindle our relationship, some history is horrible to watch repeating. Having just been through Father’s day in the UK I have seen so many examples of love and loss. It has been a poignant reminder that our time here is limited and memories can’t be created after the moment has passed.