Cynicism 101

Last night First Born joined the Brownies. This entails making "The Brownie Promise" in front of her peers and her doting parents. Oh, and The Boyfriend.

The whole ritual took around 5 minutes in which First Born made all kinds of statements that were patently untrue ("I will do a good deed every day"... uh huh...) The most surreal rite was one where she had to promise a demonic one-eyed wooden owl that she would uphold the Brownie Law. It was all positively Masonic (I was waiting to see if there is a special Brownie handshake, but I guess that element of the ceremony is hidden from those of us not in The Craft.)

I also expect that a special circle of hell has been reserved for the adult leaders of these groups of little girls. Such relentless cheerfulness should not go unrewarded. And anyone who can sing a song about the clothing choices of their Aunt Emily that includes the line "Swinging Her Muff" replete with actions and still keep a straight face can't be completely human.

We were also pressganged into helping two of the Brownies achieve their "hostess" badges. I'm not going to go into the sexual politics of why little girls should strive for a badge to prove that they can serve tea, coffee and cakes while little boys get to do things involving machinery and stuff that goes bang, but the whole cuteness of it was faintly nauseating. I also threw them by asking for a glass of water (they stuck manfully to their script: "Would you like milk or sugar?" as they presented me with a glass of clear tepid fluid and a sponge cake that lived up to the word "sponge" by sucking the moisture out of my mouth like some sort of Star Trek special effect.)

Yes, I am a little negative about the whole thing. There's something faintly disturbing about getting a bunch of little children to pledge allegiance to God and The Queen when they don't really understand either concept. That said, First Born did look a little dubious when asked to sing the Brownie Anthem, which involved waving one's finger around and singing about not hiding one's candle under a bush. She whispered to me conspiratorially: "I think the finger is supposed to be a metaphor for a candle. I don't know why we can't use real candles."

"Metaphor". Tch. She's been sneaking a look at the dictionary again.

Gonna Be A Cold Christmas

I woke up this morning, checked for any unsightly pools of blood (none) and rolled onto the floor in my usual inelegant fashion. The trend for wooden floors is a bad one. This boy wants his wall-to-wall carpets, or at least a rug.

Not a floor so cold that your feet stick to it. Or is that just something to do with my feet?

I didn't realise that today was the day my christmas was going to get screwed.

I was actually looking forward to christmas - no putting up with the in-laws, good food and a general giggle with the family. Sadly, this appears not to be. I got a call from the aged grandmother during the course of this morning:

She (quavering in that way that only octagenarians can do): "Oh, hello there - I'm just calling to say how worried I am about your skiing trip..."
Me (uh oh): "Uh huh?"
She: "Yes, I've been talking to your father and he's worried sick too..."

There was then a monologue on how I owed it to father/aunt/sundry other family members to cancel and stay home. The final flourish (after she offered to cover any uninsured expenses) was "...your poor mother would be terribly worried if she were here"

I confronted my father later on in the day and indeed, he had put the old dear up to it. In spite of the fact that every medico has said "Go for it" (the surgeon said "Live your life") the man will not be swayed. And paternal approval matters to me. A lot.

Which means christmas is going to be bad. Reproachful glances will be cast about. Aged grandmother will keep on at this like a dog gnawing a bone. I fly out on the 27th, you see. I may opt to stay home on the 25th.

There are two aspects to this that really annoy me. One is that I no longer feel able to ask my immediate family for anything for fear of the subsequent 'payment' and certainly have no intention of telling them anything about my plans for the future (I mean, if going to Canada is causing this much angst, what will they make of sailing around the world in 2007, or taking part in a 3 week rally from the top to the tip of South America in 2006?)

The other is that I really thought that with The Ex gone, I'd be free of this sort of emotional blackmail.

Bugger.

New Boots For Rabbit

Retail therapy.

It beats any sort of painkiller and is a powerful and addictive drug. In my defence, I'd planned to buy some ski boots anyway - I generally waste the first day of a skiing holiday trying on various hired boots and contracting a case of athlete's foot in the process. So a custom fitted pair of my own, replete with a boot liner moulded to my foot seemed a good idea.

Oh, and the fact that the selected boots were shiny, black and had sparkly bits had no bearing on my purchasing decision...

I was also the question I've been asked at least a thousand times over the last couple of days: "Are you ok?"

Initially I responded with the expected "Fine, thanks" but after the first hour of questioning, my already fragile patience collapsed entirely:

"Oh, hi Newly. Hey, that looks nasty - are you ok?"
"NO! I'm not bloody OK! If I was OK, would I have a comedy bandage around my hand, and the same hand tied to my shoulder in a really uncomfortable sling? Does that look 'OK' to you? If so, you need your head examined..." (and so on, until the person in question retreats and warns his friends that I'm in a 'funny' mood)

Spelling error of the day. I saw a product at the ski shop designed to improve the performance of one's skis. One brand I've seen before is "Kunstpiste" ('Kunst' being the German for 'Art'.) Unfortunately it appeared that a minor typographical error had occurred, and a critical letter omitted. The product had been labelled "Kuntpiste", which my friend and I found to be funnier than a whole bucket of monkeys.

I Got This In 'Nam...

I have a scar on my thumb, acquired when I was 17.

For many years people used to ask me why I never touched spirits or anything stronger than draft beer. I would show them the scar and say "Thats why"

This would then lead on to the story of the time I was 17, and a big fan of neat vodka. One evening I managed to plough my way through 20 doubles to win a bet. At the end of it, I knew I'd done a very silly thing and attempted to make amends by drinking vast amounts of water. Sadly, while carrying three pint glasses from the bar, I dropped the lot. I bent down to collect the shards of glass, and managed to gash my hand.

Afterwards, its a bit fuzzy. I vaguely remember covering the bar's bathroom in blood, the worried barman saying "He *is* 18, isn't he?", being driven to A&E by a girl on whom I had a crush (not realising that my actions would have forever condemned me as a moron in her eyes. After all - getting drunk is big and clever... Isn't it?) and finally being threatened with a stomach pump by an angry nurse.

In the morning I awoke with almost no memory, a huge bandage and the words "Oops. Fucked up" on my lips.

It makes for a good morality tale on the evils of drink.

Unfortunately, that scar of 15 years ago is going to be eclipsed by the huge new one. And the story: "...and thats why I now only eat takeaway food. Washing dishes is dangerous" is not half as interesting.

House Of Horror

I went to bed last night, 'tired and emotional' having raided the scary pills reserved for back pain, munched a muffin, and washed the whole lot down with a stiff drink. I wasn't planning on going into work tomorrow and so had no plans to wake up until the little hand on the clock was way past 12.

It seems an unknown Good Samaritan had other ideas.

At 6am I was woken by the doorbell, followed by an urgent banging on the door. Bleary eyed, I staggered upstairs and peered outside.

"Good morning sir," said one of two officers of the law, "May we come inside?"

I glanced back at the kitchen. The muffins had been put away.

"Just checking you're alright sir," said the first officer, "We've had a call from a member of public."

The second officer glanced at my hand. Then at the kitchen. Then at my hand again. He muttered something to his colleague.

It was then that I realised what had happened. The kitchen window looks out onto a communal walkway. The window was spattered with blood. The sink was full of crimson water. Blood was caked liberally on the surfaces. My father and I (well, him mainly and me supervising) had planned to clean it this morning, but right now it looked like a murder scene. A neighbour had walked past earlier and thoughtfully called the police.

I look forward to appearing in Crimewatch.

What Did I Do Wrong?

Another day, another night in Accident And Emergency.

I've managed to slice my thumb right down to the bone. The how is so silly and ridiculous that I won't even bother going into it (ok, I will; I was washing up some kitchen knives...)

So, 2004. A red letter year in the life of Newly Single. Got dumped, broke back and now near-as-dammit cut an important digit off my right hand. What has fickle fate in store for me next, I wonder? A freak accident involving a combine harvester, an industrial sized tub of lime jelly and the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders?

I can but hope.

Oh, and medicine 101? What do you do if you've severed a vein and need to staunch the flow? 10 points to all those who had the word "tourniquet" in their answer. Did the hospital have such a thing? Of course not. Instead, they snipped the end off a rubber glove and used the cap of an old hypodermic to twist the thing tight. Good to see my tax pounds going where they're needed.

(I'd also add that the care was excellent. Thank you, Nurse Ros, for putting up with my ramblings and thank you Doctor unpronounceable, for your deft work with needle and thread.)

Tomorrow night was supposed to be a First-Born night. Ain't gonna happen. This weekend I was supposed to be going to Barcelona. Ain't going to happen.

Whats next? Suggestions, please...

24 Shopping Days To Go

And I'm nauseatingly organised. Seriously. I've almost finished writing christmas cards, and last night I did the last of the gift wrapping.

I have also decided to turn my flat into the most gaudy example of christmas consumerism there is. There will be tinsel. There will be glittery things. There will be fairy lights.

I shall, of course, justify this on the pretext of First-Born, but in reality it will all be for ME. I may even hum a happy christmas tune to myself (although not the ones I used last week to distract myself from being prodded in sensitive areas. Obviously.)

There is, as mentioned before, the gap where the advent calendar should be. I speculated what other religions do for an advent calendar. Do Muslims have something similar for Ramadan? Maybe a month of little empty envelopes and then one at the end containing a bloody big bar of chocolate? It could be recycled for when the Christians to the Lent thing prior to the great chocolate blow-out of Easter.

And yea, Religion shall speak unto Religion through the medium of chocolate.

I *like* the sound of that.