If You Only Knew

I have no idea why I kept this. Its a picture of my class from the first day of 'big school' 21 years ago. I found it amongst a pile of pictures that I rescued from The Ex (you won't be surprised to know that all trace of me, and my family have been excised from the former marital home with surgical precision. First-born wasn't pleased.)

And so there you have me. Aged 11. Thankfully I've grown into the ears somewhat and whoever was responsible for cutting my hair has been suitably punished. But I wonder what was going on behind those eyes. What were my hopes and dreams? I think I variously wanted to be an astronaut, journalist or cartoonist, but I can't really remember. I find that my memories only last 4 or 5 years, and then turn into stories, so I can't remember the memory itself, just the story of it.

And I wonder what Newly Single circa 1983 would make of his 2004 incarnation. Probably impressed with all the toys, but not impressed with the failure to see the world (preferably from 100 miles up, through the window of a pressurised tin can.)

I love looking at these old photos and wondering what happened in the days/weeks/months after the photo was taken. What the people in the photo were thinking. What they did with their lives.

Which is why I'm a bad conversationalist when I pop into my local pub, the walls are covered with photos of the regulars from the last 200 years. The results of last night's football game pale compared to what the imagination can conjure up from an old photo.

Fried Burnt Potatoes At The Newly Single Cafe

Weekend number 2 in the new house. Slowly, everso slowly, stuff is coming together.

For example, I actually bought some food to put in the fridge. This will doubtless have a severe impact on the takings of local kebab shop and the chippy.

I have a bowl of oranges on the windowsill in an attempt to demonstrate to the postman that this is a House Of Health. The crate of beer sitting on the kitchen worktop admittedly undermines this appearance somewhat.

And yes, I really have done some damage to my back. I suspect whatever power governs fate (known hereon as The Bastard) took exception to my old-person rant and cursed me to walk like a 95 year-old nursing a full incontinence bag.

I can only hope The Bastard didn't hear the name I ascribed to the elderly gentleman who nearly ran me down ("Sorry, sonny. Didn't see the red light. My eyes aren't what they were, you know...")

Putting A Pole Where It Doesn't Belong

Today I am walking around like the oldie I mocked in the previous post. No sign of an improvement in the busted-back front and I'm getting concerned about going skiing in a mere 2 and a half months.

Sundry advice has been offered:

"Lie down in bed for three days"
"Do stretches and exercises"
"Lay on the floor here and I'll walk on you"

The latter offer would have been entertained longer had it come from a nubile young thing rather than my 120 kilo boss.

That said, I am bucking for a skiing injury. While I sit here wincing and wishing I were dead, let me recount a couple of stories...

* Story 1, or "How I Became Part Of The Scenery"

I'll start by saying that in most things I do, what I lack in talent I make up for in enthusiasm. Skiing is no different. Which is how I found myself careering down a black run by mistake and hit a tree. When I opened my eyes I found myself on my back, hanging head first over what looked like a sheer drop. My foot was still attached to a forlorn looking ski, which in turn was firmly attached to the tree.

What to do? If I remained hanging there, I'd surely freeze. But I didn't fancy sliding headfirst down an icy black run. I pondered this as skiiers slid past, allowing themselves a chuckle at my dilemma. In the end I released the ski, and spent long seconds scrabbling at the ice as I slid down the slope. Another tree helpfully stopped me, and I began the long trudge back up the slope, nursing bruised ribs and leaking red stuff out of an impressive gash.

As I retrieved my gear I was showered with snow. I looked up and saw another skiier in an identical predicament - upside down, ski in tree. He waved at me and said "Ja, ja - see; I haff done vat you did - hahah"

"Haha" I dutifully replied, and left him to it.

And strangely, skiing is still my second favourite past-time.

Later tonight: "Story 2 - The Day I Wiped Out An Entire Ski School"

Ex-isms, Part 376

One of the purposes of this journal was to record 'events' during the divorce process in case I needed to know what happened and when.

No need to do so now, but old habits die hard. So here's the latest:

She: "It's First-born's parent's evening next week. Are you going to go?"
Me: "Of course"
She: "The Boyfriend wants to go too. I thought we could all go together..."
Me: "!"
She: "Yes, the teacher sounded a little surprised too. You don't mind, do you?"

This isn't normal, right? I mean, what do you reckon - some sort of tumour pressing on the 'common-sense' part of her brain?

Now Then, Young Man...

What is it about little old ladies and cashiers? I stand in the queue at the market. There is a little old lady in front of me, shuffling towards the cashier, clutching her purchase. With a trembling hand, she passes the tin of prunes or whatever over the counter.

"That'll be 39p, please" responds the cashier in a bored voice.

39p? 39p! The oldie is thunderstruck. She actually has to *pay*? Cue long minutes of fumbling around in her sundry coats for her purse until the shop closes or hell freezes over. Whichever is soonest.

I'm definitely getting more intolerant with age. And with the aged. Must be to do with me getting older; I found myself referring to the landlord's lawyer as "that young chap" the other day.

Tune in later tonight for an update on The New Adventures With The Ex... heh...

Oh The Domesticity Of It All

I never thought I'd find myself using the words "happily" and "ironing" in the same sentence. I've spent the last week using shiny new appliances, and tonight was the deflowering of the iron and ironing board.

I watched TV for the first time in months and subjected innocent fabric to alternate sessions of steaming and scorching. All the while humming a slightly madly happy tune.

It won't last. Anything made this cheaply will probably catch fire at an inopportune moment. Probably while I'm 'entertaining':

"Can you smell burning?"
"Hell yeah, baby. I'm hot tonight!"

Well, how many times in a lifetime could one use such a cheesy line? Possibly once would be too many.

Thankfully I'm out tomorrow on either

a) An evening of polite conversation and drinks with my colleagues from the US office
b) A mission to ensure there are no meetings the following day, and the usual loud visitors are very, very quiet.

The intention is usually a). However, I then persuade them to try a pint of real beer. Its a bit like lighting the blue touch paper of a firework, standing back and waiting for b) to make an appearance.

Army Ants

I'd planned to extoll the virtues of British Telecom on Saturday.

They were to transfer my number from my aunt's house to my new place. A charming call-centre lady told me it would be no problem, and that the change would occur at midnight on Friday.

"Yay" said I, noting that my Spanish friend was still waiting for the national phone company over there to connect her phone. 6 weeks and counting.

So on Saturday I plugged in my phone, picked up the receiver and... nothing... dead. On Monday I called the nice call-centre lady and listened to profuse apologies and a promise to send an engineer out.

And indeed, the engineer did come out. He couldn't find the fault. So he phoned a friend. He couldn't find the fault either. After two or three hours there were something like 5 engineers crawling over my house, trying to find the break in the line.

With this sort of exponential increase, I speculated that I might find myself with the entire workforce of British Telecom in my house by the end of the day. Maybe I could start my own phone company. Maybe I might get to meet the lady from the call-centre with the nice voice.

They found the fault. My house backs on to a lingerie shop (yes, really) and the phone line was routed through a false ceiling. They'd put up partitions for changing rooms and snipped through the line. For my team of engineers it was the work of a moment to reconnect the severed cable.

Sadly, they refused to fit a webcam.