The other answer

“How’s the wrists?” or “how’s the?” accompanied by a shimmy of fully operational appendages are two of the most common greetings that I receive nowadays. I have no complaint with this; in most it shows a degree of interest or care and I guess they are now one of my more distinguishing features.

My favoured answer is “they are still there”, the complexities of daily life are mine after all and not particularly interesting. For the sake of completeness though I thought I would share with you the extended version of “they are still there” just for the record so to speak.

If you ask after the wrists in the morning then the statement includes the fact that I will have awoken a dozen times in the night. Each break to my sleep will have been caused by some pain; a movement of shoulder that has settled is the most common one. Having been woken by pain I will shift but here Ms Nature is at her best, probably on account of being wide awake, and the movement will always increase the pain first. It is not just the shoulders of course; the wrists get their fair share of stabbing pains and excruciating lock ups.

When I eventually get up I stretch, like the rest of the world, but for me the stretch is… well… louder I guess. Like rolling a sack of logs down a hill all of the pieces in all of the joints have to settle into today’s horizontal position. Through this cacophony of crunches and creaks there is an undercurrent of pain as I press unwilling joints into action for another day.

I have learnt to never leave the kettle filled the night before because it leaves me testing my load carrying capacity with a vessel full of boiling water. Better to drop the empty kettle when my wrist declares that it has not yet ‘booted up’. There are teeth to brush of course, a task that can no longer be performed in a daze. The trouble with restricted wrist movement is that something else has to compensate, in the case of teeth brushing this is my head. If the bathroom mirror was a one way sheet of glass then the viewer would see my head take on a number of jaunty angles like a curious canine.

If my hair goes into a ponytail then this is an exercise on par with a major construction project and, again, requires me to be fully alert. I have now perfected the task and rarely get left with a bunch of hair grasped in the only hand that is capable of applying a band to said bunch of hair.  Tucking a shirt in is like Russian roulette crossed with salsa as I generate the complex angles necessary to reach my lower back. Get the angle wrong and Ms Nature is there with a crack of pain to educate me.

Once I have completed the necessary tasks and head off for the day I have to settle a right knee into perambulation, something it likes to start slowly. Icy steps or potholes are ill-advised until the aforementioned joint has booted into full operational mode. If you have the misfortune to travel alongside me first thing then you will notice that for the first couple of hours I am repeatedly cracking joints that are aching or working pains out.

All done now you must be wondering? Of course not, next up is the aching that comes from using the limbs. Like a child who has tidied their room they do like it to be known that they have been busy.

I won’t bore you with the evening instead I paraphrase the great Mr Haynes and say that “the evening is a reversal of the morning”. So next time you hear me say “they are still there” treat yourself to a smile as you now know what that actually means.

Scary numbers and decisions

In the interests of ensuring that this blog is an accurate record of my search for the next pub I will share the weekend with you.

The current target has taken on a sudden urgency with the vendor wanting to complete before end of February. Given the delays and difficulties in getting this far the sudden urgency is a nuisance that I could do with avoiding but, as they say, if it was easy….

The outsider in terms of reports was the stonemason but he turned it around in record time and has ended up being the only report received in time. I know the surveyors issues and roof work is something that I am more comfortable estimating.

This weekend I managed to avoid the issue of a deadline for offers today by getting stuck into plumbing. Yesterday was D day though and I settled down with a glass of scotch and a calculator. This is the step into reality and, despite the length of the search, it is a big step. Looking at spending every penny on a project that is so far away and in a trade that is so embattled really hits home when you are looking at numbers.

One offer already exists so that pretty much pins the low end of my offer. I could come in below this and hope that the other offer is weak but that is a dangerous move so the question is how much should I raise the bar? Obviously any saving is welcome as it will help the long months of renovations and the slow build of trade. But if I come in too close and the other offer is strong then I may lose.

I generated my number and in it went. This morning I received a call telling me that it’s a positive offer and will go forward with the agents recommendation subject to all of the usual proof of funding etc. There is lots of watch this space but the culmination of all of the first stage work is sitting in a rather simple email the response to which could determine the rest of my life.

Nature’s alarms and Mr Mum

Ok so maybe my post yesterday re the battle with Ms Nature was premature. At 2am this morning I shifted in bed and woke to a spike of sharp pain and a crunching sound! I consulted my encyclopedic knowledge of medicine for an appropriate course of action. So if you happened to be passing my apartment at 2am I trust that explains why I was doing dumbell curls.

This morning involved another good soak in warm water to get some movement back. This technique is great but not brilliantly suited to cold days when the temperature change can be quite unpleasant to say the least. But I’m no quitter so whilst I may have declared victory a little early it was only the timing that was incorrect and not the outcome.

Over the weekend I was struck by another aspect of the ‘defeminisation’ off women. The big butch, chain smoking women with children seem to have taken over the ‘father figure’ role and abandoned the mother one. This is not a critique of size or appearance, there is something more in the general demeanour of these women. They are easily observed at one of their frequent meeting places: the cafe or Iceland on welfare day and the pound shop three days later.

These people move in packs like a terrorist cell and can be quite intimidating. But the really scary thing is the affect that they will have on their offspring. The sons will grow up thinking that women fight like men and can take a punch. These will not be boys that grow up caring for their mother, there will be no fragile old ladies to visit with grandchildren.

Then there is the daughters, brought up with a wrestler as a role model. These girls will learn from a young age that it is better to learn to slug it out than to waste your time learning to construct an eloquent repose. They will attend the first school disco looking like they put their makeup on with a magic marker, having asked mum for advice.

Remember that I just point out this stuff, look around you this week and you will soon spot your own examples.

Early morning glamour and accidental windows

They say that it is not what you see that forms your opinions but how you perceive what you see. I would like to put the record straight for anybody that saw me take a dive just outside the station at half past five yesterday morning, I was not drunk. I did, as we all instinctively do, turn around and see if anybody had spotted my disagreement with gravity and think it was all clear but thought I would clarify in case I missed somebody.  This was, of course, a further episode in my ongoing battle with Ms Nature. I had arisen to some pain and, more critically as it transpired, a pervading weakness in my knee never one to give in to such frivolities I pushed through my morning walk.

My principle remains that if I don’t succumb to the restrictions that my knee tries to introduce then it will tire of the game. I ploughed through to the station with little more than wince but a misjudged kerb presented the opposition with a window of opportunity and it struck home. The sudden weakness and accompanying pain wasnt expected and I crumbled, albeit briefly. After a quick assessment I realised the error and recovered, never actually hitting the ground, limping off in the correct direction whilst mentally scolding my adversary.

You may think it odd that I feel the need to clarify my position, few people would have assumed that I was drunk surely? Well I would have agreed with you but as I struggled on I passed a seating area which was occupied a middle-aged couple who would not have had the same defence. They were sharing, swig for swig, a bottle of Lambrini, remember it was half past five in the morning. In fairness I only wrote this post after seeing an advertisement for said ‘wine’ on the television last night and pondering the difference between the glitzy party image and the chilly winter’s morning scene.

In other news I was passed over by our legal system once again so await an update in the New Yea, fingers remain crossed that it won’t be too much longer. The odd thing was that the walk to the grocery store (thank’s DVLA) on Monday was a real relief and made me realise what a stress the 4 pm phone calls generate. The concept of knowing that I was in the hotel until Friday and not playing everything day by day felt like a genuine pleasure.

Fast cats and blue men

Another glorious morning here on the coast. I walked to work along the front and marvelled again at the detritus left by tourism. I have a lovely walk to the station, bordered for most of the way by the ocean, but I want more. I want to join the throng of people on Ryde pier waiting for the fast cat. Weekly commuting is not a long term proposition though, I need to change from well travelled to rarely travels. Fast cat commutes are just a step on the way to my pub watch out I’m coming to a community near you soon!

I have had some eclectic conversations with a friend lately that seem to have summed up the world of relationshits (that is not a spelling mistake). Once again the conclusion is that there are as many unhappy single women as there are men. This leads me to reconsider the options available to distinguish these groups. Perhaps we could generate lists and key people in each area could exchange them? Or how about a keyring with a symbol that makes it clear you’re available but only to real people. Actually scrub the keyring idea it is far to reminiscent of 1960’s swinger’s parties. A hat, a scarf, a tie? How about a T-shirt that says “I sleep alone but not through choice”. The trouble with all of these is that they attract the wrong sort of attention, I think I will write to Alan Sugar this is clearly a challenge worthy of the apprentice!

Because these are my conversations we have also debated the appropriate clothing for smurf hunting. Last night I was semi-convinced that a group of girls dressed as burgers were going to raid the local Ann Summers due to smurf shortage. Yes you read it correctly and for foreign/young readers a smurf is a blue creature with a white hat.

In other news I am trialling the cling film method of healing tattoos. In fairness to the method I should note that I used kitchen roll last night so may not have started well. First report is that the sensation of sweat leaking and dribbling down your leg is odd to say the least. Lefty seems to have forgiven me for tattooing but righty is still sulking painfully today.

Confessions of a ??

Is it just me or perhaps my lifestyle that means I have reverse psychology when food shopping? I spent my time at work this week convinced that the weekend held hot sausage sandwiches. I have no idea why but I was convinced. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and brought milk…. I looked at various sausages but they just didn’t do it for me. It’s not a laziness thing, I love to cook, I just get incredibly uninterested in food when its in a store. I can plan elaborate meals and delicacies but when faced with shopping its so uninspiring.

I did think that it was the absence of a freezer but its not that, it is the shopping experience. I know exactly what I need to cook a meal, not just a sausage sandwich, but can’t face purchasing. It’s not a financial issue, I just seem to consume every calorie in every pack just by seeing it and then I’m too full to consider food. It really is the oddest reverse psychology. They tell us that shopping when hungry is bad because we over purchase, I guess like being drunk. My hunger dies at the sight of food in a store, the more I look at the more bloated I feel when I leave. The difficulty with this is that when the hunger returns the cupboards are empty. It is the same with all of the ready meals that we are meant to drawl over, I just see processed fat.

Whilst I am clearing out oddities with food, does anyone else get freaked by some sounds? I think it is time spent in the food industry. Knowing how critical crunch is in selling some foods, it has twisted my view. I can honestly cook a meal get two mouthfuls in and be so disgusted by the noise of eating it that it has to be discarded. The thing with noise is its a perception so its not one meal, its a meal at a point in time. I can eat pizza happily but then one day it will just sound like some animal chewing through congealed fat and that’s it, trash can calling. Now I am a man, I am not overly concerned with weight and I am sensible enough to know how a healthy diet works, so why?

I lived for ten years with anorexics, my ex wife was sectioned because the issue grew that serious. But I recognised it, I dealt with it and I didn’t think it had affected me, in fact I am sure it hasn’t. I see no logical reason why I have this odd relationship with food and I am acutely aware right now of some of the audience of the blog. I am not an unhealthy weight, I don’t eat particularly badly but I just don’t eat like I should. I guess part of it is waste, the issue that when I buy anything then there is only me to consume it but that doesn’t explain it properly. It is almost like I know that there is a mass of fat in food, I know that I like eating and I know that combination is unlikely to be good in the long term. There is a battle between the voice of my mother in my ear telling me to ‘clear my plate’ and me hating feeling full. There really is nothing I hate more than to feel stuffed, I like curry but hate eating it for the horrible bloated feeling in the morning. The best morning for me follows an evening meal of health shake, just that and I wake up energised and happy. The more calories in at night the worse the morning is.

As for the noise thing, I really don’t know. Perhaps I see it as an audible indication of the garbage that I am eating? But it can’t be that because it seems just a random thing, random foods and random times. The only thing that has got me through some restaurant meals is my sheer bloody mindedness and refusal to be beaten.

Why did I chose today to share? I have visited both grocery stores in town and still purchased no food, that was two separate visits as well. I am going to the pub later to discuss funeral arrangements for our Laney and I know I will be home later hungry. Hey it’s my blog and my weirdness gets recorded here, feel free to tell me its normal.

Too drunk to charge?

It may well be a skill set that I don’t possess but I have to praise the desk staff at the hotel this morning for maintaining their patience. The lady checking out in front of me commented that she was ‘doing well to be up given I was in the bar until 22:30’. She was passed her check to review and seemed taken aback by the charges. For those in the UK let me explain that the rack rate for a bottle of corona lager is £4.55 and you may have some sympathy.

‘This doesn’t look like my bill’ she tried, a difficult position to take when you have admitted consuming more alcohol than you planned. She pointed out some drinks that she didn’t recall ordering and apparently wouldn’t usually drink. The desk staff remained adamant but her next shot was inspired, ‘that looks similar to my bill last month, could the date be wrong?’ At this point she was passed the signed checks. Now at this point most people give up, after all the evidence is irrefutable, but no this was a fighter. To amused smiles exchanged between me and the receptionist she continued to protest the illegitimacy of the charges.

It was now that I found the real cause of the smirks from behind the counter, they revealed the secret weapon in their armoury. After the signatory evidence they had one more killer shot to deploy, one that I have not seen in some 6 years of using this hotel. The manager strode back to the desk, spun a monitor and showed exhibit 2 to the complainant. The evidence? CCTV of the purchase and shaky signature being exchanged in payment.

A nervous ‘oh apparently it was me’ was rapidly followed by a charge card with which to settle the charges. All of this was graciously received by a receptionist displaying the most polite and professional smile. That, my freinds, is what they call the consummate professional, not a hint of smug victory and I take my hat off to them for that.