We have shower power!
Yes, we finally have a shower in our new home.
Since moving in towards the end of August Ka and myself have been cleansing ourselves in the bathtub. Bathing in the tub every morning or night was a novelty at first but soon became a pain, especially when you had to stand around for five minutes at seven o'clock in the morning whilst the rest of the house slept, blurry eyed and shivering, whilst the bath slowly filled up with water. I'd end up kneeling in the tub, facing the taps, ducking my face forward under the water, bowing repeatedly in an effort to waken myself up, probably looking like a watery Damian Lewis.
We purchased the shower back in September on one of our very short visits to B&Q. The visits are short because the wife can't stay in a B&Q, or any kind of home improvement or DIY store, for longer than five minutes, itching to leave as soon as she can.
Whether you’re in for something essential or just a wander, Ka will get impatient within minutes.
I've been pondering on buying a drill for the past few years and always end up borrowing Dad's when there's been need of holes in my walls because of these all too short visits. If I ever get the chance to wander I'll look over the bathroom suites, the doors, the shelving and perhaps pop out to the garden department, dreaming of building a better home, all the while Ka will be huffing and puffing all the way behind me.
It's ridiculous really, considering the amount of clothes shops she drags me round when she's in need of a new outfit, and I don't even get anything out of that. At least being dragged around B&Q could lead to some stylish home improvements or new decor for our home. What do I get out of being dragged round Debenhams, Zara and River Island apart from yet another mind-numbing shopping experience. Ka’s idea of shopping usually involves finding something relevant in the first shop, spending four more hours going around other shops, and then ending up back in the first shop you started in and carrying out the purchase of the item found on the first visit, a purchase that, if made first time around, could have saved you four hours of your life.
You can get a lot done in four hours. Paint many a wall, put up a few shelves or maybe just settle back and get a good chunk of your book read.
Perhaps not fit an electric shower though.
We were told fitting a shower was going to be a costly exercise as the large electrical cable would have to be fitted into the house travelling up from the downstairs fuse box into the loft and then down the bathroom wall into the newly acquired shower which would require around £70 worth of expensive thick electrical cable. By the time January came round I was more than willing to spend the money. We needed a shower and I'd had enough of worshipping in the bathtub every morning.
After contacting various plumbers, I found that many of them showed little interest, having to rely on electricians to help them out on the wiring side thus making their part in the operation rather profitless (in so far as a plumber is concerned anyway). The last plumber we got in charged us £25 for a washer for our downstairs toilet so we wanted to make sure we got the right guy in for the job. Eventually one of the many plumbers contacted me via text and popped round to the house last week to size up the operation. It just so happened this guy took care of the electrical side as well as the plumbing so he was more than willing to help us out.
David the plumber arrived early morning yesterday to measure up, asked for £120 and then disappeared again to get materials. Before leaving the house in the morning, I’d somehow got it into Ka’s head that there was the feint possibility he was a conman as he’d asked for more than half the money upfront. Keeping this in mind Ka ended up getting a little jittery when the ‘getting materials’ absence stretched to an hour long and took it upon herself to check the toolbox he’d left behind, just to make sure there were actually tools inside and not a small note saying something along the lines of “thanks for the £120”.
Thankfully, our suspicious minds proved to be just that and David strolled up the front path at around half past eleven and got straight to work. Unfortunately he didn’t finish until half past seven, disturbing not only little Sophie’s routine but, more importantly, Ka’s with it.
David the plumber was a laid back, easy going kind of guy who managed to drive Ka a little bit nuts with his favourite phase, “slowly but surely”.
Every time I asked David the plumber how he was getting on he’d hum these three words in reply which soon had Ka growling with impatience.
By the time the shower was out it’s box and up on the tiled wall of our bathroom where it belonged the bathtub was full of dust and cement, the walls and ceilings covered in holes and cracks, some of the house’s carpets had been lifted disturbing floorboards and skirting boards and the two bigger kitchen cupboards had been emptied in order to gain access to the stopcock, so the kitchen was covered in pots, pans, Tupperware and oven dishes, not to mention the entirety of Ka’s cleaning equipment, a vast artillery of cleaning products. You’ve never seen so many Mr Muscles. As a result Ka was on the edge of her seat the whole day, fidgeting, moving around nervously and talking through gritted teeth as the dust swirled around us.
Sophie, on the other hand, was quite happy. She lay back in her deck chair, laughing and giggling at the disturbance, smiling and intermittently laughing whilst I gave my calming talks to Ka.
David the plumber smiled at Sophie and reckoned she was a cracker, revealing that he himself had four kids.
Four kids? Four?
Good gawd, no wonder plumbers charge so much for their services if they all have the same family planning issues.
Whilst David had been out getting his materials that morning I had been driving around Glasgow. The car had to get serviced and I had a sleep monitor to pick up from Yorkhill Childrens’ Hospital which Sophie had to get plugged into overnight.
The service cost me £112 at Chaz’s favourite servicing garage in Hillington Industrial estate. Whilst the car had been in, I went a wander with my latest tome, ‘Cloud Atlas’ by David Mitchell, the author, not the googly eyed bloke from ‘Peep Show’. After almost buying a new bathroom in Bathroom Continental and successfully leaving with only a business card and some growls from a grumpy looking saleslady I strolled down to the Burger King and bought a hot chocolate and read my book.
‘Cloud Atlas’ is being released as a big, impressive looking movie next week, directed by German filmmaker, Tom Tykwer, who directed the fantastic ‘Run Lola Run’ back in 1998, and the Wachowski brothers, one of which is now female, and presumably a sister, since the two of them were made famous for creating the Matrix Trilogy. Starring Tom Hanks, Jim Broadbent and Halle Berry, among others, the movie looks like a bit of a ‘must see’ but unfortunately I must read the book first. I have a week. A near impossible feat which I’m sure I’ll fail in achieving but I’ll give it a shot.
After walking back up and settling down in the garage’s waiting room to continue reading, next to another car owner gent, the mechanic informed me I had a dodgy handbrake which needed attention, immediately putting my service charge up. Settling down to get on with the story of musician, Robert Frobisher, three loud women sat down in the chairs opposite. The two sisters and their mother spent the next 45 minutes chatting up the mechanic behind the reception, loudly, talking about their planned dinners for that night, noisily and shrilly berating the younger sister of the two for not knowing how to cook sausages (she had been planning on deep frying them). Once the car was ready and the handbrake in full working order, I politely refused an invitation to dinner and headed to Yorkhill.
As Sophie has been born with a cleft in the roof of her mouth she has to go into hospital for an operation at some point this year to close up the gap in her soft palate. Before this takes place Yorkhill requested that we plug Sophie into a sleep monitor for the night in order to record her breathing, her heart rate and her oxygen levels throughout a normal night’s sleep. So Sophie was wired up before bedtime, the wire sensor wrapped around her foot as it refused to stay on her big toe, which is where the doctor had advised it to be positioned. With Sophie being only three months old her big toe is not exactly big anyway so wrapping any form of taped sensor around the digit was going to be a challenge to begin with and that was before she started wiggling it from side to side in an effort to escape my fiddling hands whilst looking up at me with her big, innocent blue eyes, the hint of a smile over her lips. The wee tyke managed to get the sensor off twice during the night, making the machine’s alarm go off. The shrill, short, bleeping made both Ka and myself spring awake from our beds in shock and look around the darkened room in confusion before we realised what was going on. Sophie remained sound asleep, only flinching a little when I rummaged through her blankets and wrestled to pull her foot from within in order to get the sensor attached once more. We should find out in the next few weeks when Sophie’s operation will be. Whenever that’ll be, I’m sure I’ll still be attempting to read ‘Cloud Atlas’.
Showing posts with label Shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shopping. Show all posts
Sunday, 24 February 2013
Friday, 18 May 2012
Asteroid field of vision
I have spent the majority of May feeling either ill, blind, or dizzy and it certainly wasn’t anything to do with any initial excitement of getting our new fridge.
After Ka’s little head on collision with a collapsing fridge door we had immediately visited the Currys website. Unfortunately we made a slight error of judgement. The fridge we ordered doesn't fit milk. Of all the fridges looked over online, we inadvertently opted for a model that doesn't fit milk.
A fridge that doesn't fit milk. What kind of idiot designed that?
What kind of idiot buys that?
We've had to remove a shelf, from halfway down the inside of the door, off it’s plastic moulded brackets, in order to fit a normal bottle of milk in the door's largest, lower shelf. The middle shelf fits snugly further up the door but has no brackets and thusly cannot hold more than the weight of two spring onions (or sibies) inside it making it very little use whatsoever.
In fact, we're struggling to fit all our usual copious amounts of food in the rest of the fridge. It all seems so much smaller. We can barely fit the salad bowl into it. It’s now a minor task getting the butter out the fridge. Before you nonchalantly reached in, pulled the tub out and flung it on the worktop, now you now have to move things to the side, take things out, balance yoghurts on tomatoes, make sure you don’t hit the door’s bracketless middle shelf and reach to the back of the refrigerator in order to pull the tub out.
Never panic buy household appliances online. Always wait until you can go along to the actual shop, the large open plan shops that make even washing machines look sexy. Up the back, behind the washers and the ovens, are the fridges, where you should open the doors, look inside, admire the cleanliness and check for a decent sized milk shelf.
Okay, there are factors which make an online purchase a little more attractive. No need to travel anywhere. No need to salivate over televisions you cannot afford. You don’t have to bother telling the usually grinning customer service folk to piss off as soon as you walk through the automatic doors and you certainly don’t have to put up with them trying to talk you into buying yearly guarantees for when ‘something goes wrong’ (that will always make me highly suspicious). Not seeing you appliance in the flesh, or it’s plastic coated, thermally insulated form, in this case, can go against you, especially when it turns out to be smaller than predicted. A bit like the opposite of what happens when you go out for a date with someone from match.com. The person you end up greeting at your table turns out to be a very different size, weight and perhaps even age, than the picture advertising themselves on their profile page. In fact, I’m sure those kind of match.comer’s could put away more food than our wee fridge can.
In the following weeks I started suffering a variety of symptoms consisting of various ailments ranging from dizzy turns and headaches to stomach problems (the polite term) and seeing things. Strange, blurry, out of focus shapes, floating around in my field of vision. My stomach was twisting and turning the whole time and at one point, during one day at work, I felt like puking one moment only to nearly collapse of dizziness the next merely sitting at my desk.
All very weird. So I paid my Doctor a visit who basically couldn’t see anything wrong with me at the time and suggested a possible allergic reaction. To me this was an unlikely reason as I usually felt worse in the office. This would make it an allergic reaction to work, something that a lot of other people seem to suffer from.
Great, I thought, what’s going to happen next? Next I’m going to be claiming benefits and appearing on Jeremy Kyle.
Still suffering with the symptoms in the following days I considered the opticians and made an appointment for Saturday morning, expecting my prescription to have changed, thus accounting for the strange, floating dots in my vision and the headaches. How it would explain the stomach pains I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t aware of anyone suddenly having an urge for a toilet pan whenever their vision changed. I suppose it can be quite scary but not to that extent surely.
So I popped down to the opticians on the Saturday morning and optometrist, a chirpy young girl in a grey cardigan, put me through the various tests in which I click buttons on seeing lights, read letters from a projected slide and get ‘pissed’ in the eyes. A rather uncomfortable device which tests your eye pressure. You rest your chin on a pad and look into the dark depths of a rounded black box through a glass lens and suddenly get air spat into your eyes. A test which I’m not afraid to admit, made me jump everytime, like watching John Hurt looking down into that egg again.
The Optometrist then had a thorough look at my eyes after dropping an eye drop, known as Tropicamide, into each eyeball and letting it settle, or sting, for around ten minutes. After administering the eye drops she advised not to drive for at least an hour which I shrugged at casually finding no particular crazy effects going on and quietly certain there’d be no problem in driving home straight after. Following a good ten minutes of looking around in each eyeball, the Optometrist informed me my prescription seemed unchanged but I did have something very interesting going on in my eyes which she’d only ever seen twice before.
Asteroid hyalosis. Asteroids? In my eyes?
“It’s quite nice to look at”, she told me. “It’s like looking into a snowglobe that’s been shaken up”. More like stars than asteroids to the optician’s viewpoint the condition is apparently like looking into a star filled night sky which shifts and circles around, glimmering in the moonlight.
Pleased that I had been able to entertain the Optometrist with my starry eyes for the morning I went to leave unconvinced but not before she insisted on putting me through the eye pressure test again, probably just to amuse herself for a little longer as I jumped and spasmed on the other end of the eye blowing machine again. I suspect she may have been filming me with her mobile phone in order to post it on YouTube for a laugh for all her Optometrist pals.
Afterwards, she insisted my eyes would be fine and I went on my way, almost banging into someone on the way out the shop and then realising I could barely see. Pretty soon I was wondering around the shops in the town centre like a confused Mr Magoo, everything around me blurred, out of focus and melting in and out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see a thing and I certainly couldn’t drive. The blurriness lasted for around an hour but before that hour was over I had to make my way home. I had a Wedding to get to and I was running late.
After Ka’s little head on collision with a collapsing fridge door we had immediately visited the Currys website. Unfortunately we made a slight error of judgement. The fridge we ordered doesn't fit milk. Of all the fridges looked over online, we inadvertently opted for a model that doesn't fit milk.
A fridge that doesn't fit milk. What kind of idiot designed that?
What kind of idiot buys that?
We've had to remove a shelf, from halfway down the inside of the door, off it’s plastic moulded brackets, in order to fit a normal bottle of milk in the door's largest, lower shelf. The middle shelf fits snugly further up the door but has no brackets and thusly cannot hold more than the weight of two spring onions (or sibies) inside it making it very little use whatsoever.
In fact, we're struggling to fit all our usual copious amounts of food in the rest of the fridge. It all seems so much smaller. We can barely fit the salad bowl into it. It’s now a minor task getting the butter out the fridge. Before you nonchalantly reached in, pulled the tub out and flung it on the worktop, now you now have to move things to the side, take things out, balance yoghurts on tomatoes, make sure you don’t hit the door’s bracketless middle shelf and reach to the back of the refrigerator in order to pull the tub out.
Never panic buy household appliances online. Always wait until you can go along to the actual shop, the large open plan shops that make even washing machines look sexy. Up the back, behind the washers and the ovens, are the fridges, where you should open the doors, look inside, admire the cleanliness and check for a decent sized milk shelf.
Okay, there are factors which make an online purchase a little more attractive. No need to travel anywhere. No need to salivate over televisions you cannot afford. You don’t have to bother telling the usually grinning customer service folk to piss off as soon as you walk through the automatic doors and you certainly don’t have to put up with them trying to talk you into buying yearly guarantees for when ‘something goes wrong’ (that will always make me highly suspicious). Not seeing you appliance in the flesh, or it’s plastic coated, thermally insulated form, in this case, can go against you, especially when it turns out to be smaller than predicted. A bit like the opposite of what happens when you go out for a date with someone from match.com. The person you end up greeting at your table turns out to be a very different size, weight and perhaps even age, than the picture advertising themselves on their profile page. In fact, I’m sure those kind of match.comer’s could put away more food than our wee fridge can.
In the following weeks I started suffering a variety of symptoms consisting of various ailments ranging from dizzy turns and headaches to stomach problems (the polite term) and seeing things. Strange, blurry, out of focus shapes, floating around in my field of vision. My stomach was twisting and turning the whole time and at one point, during one day at work, I felt like puking one moment only to nearly collapse of dizziness the next merely sitting at my desk.
All very weird. So I paid my Doctor a visit who basically couldn’t see anything wrong with me at the time and suggested a possible allergic reaction. To me this was an unlikely reason as I usually felt worse in the office. This would make it an allergic reaction to work, something that a lot of other people seem to suffer from.
Great, I thought, what’s going to happen next? Next I’m going to be claiming benefits and appearing on Jeremy Kyle.
Still suffering with the symptoms in the following days I considered the opticians and made an appointment for Saturday morning, expecting my prescription to have changed, thus accounting for the strange, floating dots in my vision and the headaches. How it would explain the stomach pains I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t aware of anyone suddenly having an urge for a toilet pan whenever their vision changed. I suppose it can be quite scary but not to that extent surely.
So I popped down to the opticians on the Saturday morning and optometrist, a chirpy young girl in a grey cardigan, put me through the various tests in which I click buttons on seeing lights, read letters from a projected slide and get ‘pissed’ in the eyes. A rather uncomfortable device which tests your eye pressure. You rest your chin on a pad and look into the dark depths of a rounded black box through a glass lens and suddenly get air spat into your eyes. A test which I’m not afraid to admit, made me jump everytime, like watching John Hurt looking down into that egg again.
The Optometrist then had a thorough look at my eyes after dropping an eye drop, known as Tropicamide, into each eyeball and letting it settle, or sting, for around ten minutes. After administering the eye drops she advised not to drive for at least an hour which I shrugged at casually finding no particular crazy effects going on and quietly certain there’d be no problem in driving home straight after. Following a good ten minutes of looking around in each eyeball, the Optometrist informed me my prescription seemed unchanged but I did have something very interesting going on in my eyes which she’d only ever seen twice before.
Asteroid hyalosis. Asteroids? In my eyes?
“It’s quite nice to look at”, she told me. “It’s like looking into a snowglobe that’s been shaken up”. More like stars than asteroids to the optician’s viewpoint the condition is apparently like looking into a star filled night sky which shifts and circles around, glimmering in the moonlight.
Pleased that I had been able to entertain the Optometrist with my starry eyes for the morning I went to leave unconvinced but not before she insisted on putting me through the eye pressure test again, probably just to amuse herself for a little longer as I jumped and spasmed on the other end of the eye blowing machine again. I suspect she may have been filming me with her mobile phone in order to post it on YouTube for a laugh for all her Optometrist pals.
Afterwards, she insisted my eyes would be fine and I went on my way, almost banging into someone on the way out the shop and then realising I could barely see. Pretty soon I was wondering around the shops in the town centre like a confused Mr Magoo, everything around me blurred, out of focus and melting in and out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see a thing and I certainly couldn’t drive. The blurriness lasted for around an hour but before that hour was over I had to make my way home. I had a Wedding to get to and I was running late.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Unexpected items
Ka has been needing a bit of tlc recently. The mental trials of the last half a year have been tough on Ka, me, not to mention the rest of the family, I suppose. Dad’s heart attack last week also gave us a scare, and it’s all left me rather numb and depressed.
In a vague effort to cheer Ka up, just a little, I left work yesterday to buy her some flowers at the supermarket on my way home.
Now that the newspaper production centre is based in Hamilton we have the joys and inconvenience of being just around the corner from the local Asda. Inconvenience because I now have little excuse when it comes to popping by the shops on the way home to get some cheese or milk missing from the fridge. So nipping into Asda on the way home last night I bought Ka two bunches of flowers, a new set of pyjamas and a new clothes horse.
Okay, a clothes horse is not the most romantic of items or the first thing to go for to cheer your lady up, but, as I'm sure you can guess, I didn't specifically buy it for Ka alone to accompany her colourful bouquet. You certainly wouldn't woo many a woman by buying them a clothes horse (why do they call it a clothes horse anyway? It's nothing like a horse - where's the saddle?). Saying that, would you woo many a woman by buying them pyjamas? Cuddly, cosey pyjamas with Eeyore on the front?
Well, it's better than a clothes horse anyway.
I did suspect coming home with a bunch of flowers together with a folding concertina clothes rack was a risk and could possibly end up with me being concerina’d myself but was confident that the pyjamas would soften the blow.
A new clothes airer, or horse, is something we've been meaning to buy for at least three months now anyway and they were all reduced in the homeware sale, so it was a bargain and would successfully replace the old one, which is now a bloody nuisance.
For the past few months we have had to build the clothes horse with awkward, krypton factor like, precision, involving balancing broken parts against other broken parts and hoping that nobody accidentally hit it on their way by in the hallway, otherwise the thing would shake down into a pile of damp clothing and metal poles with jagged ends. A quick journey through our small hallway, in the past months, has often ended up like a strange version of jenga, involving metallic poles and wet pants instead of the traditional wooden blocks.
It was the ironing board that did it. The ironing board is kept in the same tight corner of the kitchen and at some point in the past year has caused a few breakages to various intersections in the airer's joinings making it the quivering wreck it is today.
Luckily for me, after making it home, the old clothes horse did not end up smashed down over me. Ka liked the flowers and pyjamas and all the hassle at the Asda self service check out was worth it.
No matter how many times I attempt to use those self service checkouts it always takes double the time it should.
After finally getting the scanners to recognise some barcodes I beeped the flowers through and placed them down into a carrier bag, just as the overly patronising animation instructed you to on the monitor, only to be told I had an 'unexpected item in the baggage area'.
I looked round for this mysterious unexpected item to see only the two bunches of flowers sitting there. That couldn't have been right, I thought, as I had scanned both over the glass panels and the machine had beeped it's approval, allowing them passage to the afore mentioned baggage area, so, to my mind, this would make them wholly expected.
Absolutely expected.
Exactly what the machine should have expected.
There was nothing remotely 'unexpected' about them!
Was the baggage area unprepared for such a hefty weight of blossoms?
Was I supposed to keep the flowers in hand as I swept the rest of my items over the scanner?
So, just as all the other times, I had to wait on a 'supervisor' to come over. A young guy, around the age of seven, in an Asda fleece, eventually sauntered over and flashed his badge at the scanner and then pressed the monitor once before giving an abrupt nod and walked off to be useful somewhere else. Perhaps to hold the giant pointing green hand that’s used to tell people which direction to head in once they reach the normal, humanly staffed, checkouts.
Something obviously had to be verified, I thought, as I tried to scan the clotheshorse’s barcode.
Perhaps buying flowers now has an age restriction?
I wondered if I had not moved my item to the baggage area with the correct degree of efficiency?
A clotheshorse through the self service monitor would have been a far worthier contender for an ‘unexpected item’.
In a vague effort to cheer Ka up, just a little, I left work yesterday to buy her some flowers at the supermarket on my way home.
Now that the newspaper production centre is based in Hamilton we have the joys and inconvenience of being just around the corner from the local Asda. Inconvenience because I now have little excuse when it comes to popping by the shops on the way home to get some cheese or milk missing from the fridge. So nipping into Asda on the way home last night I bought Ka two bunches of flowers, a new set of pyjamas and a new clothes horse.
Okay, a clothes horse is not the most romantic of items or the first thing to go for to cheer your lady up, but, as I'm sure you can guess, I didn't specifically buy it for Ka alone to accompany her colourful bouquet. You certainly wouldn't woo many a woman by buying them a clothes horse (why do they call it a clothes horse anyway? It's nothing like a horse - where's the saddle?). Saying that, would you woo many a woman by buying them pyjamas? Cuddly, cosey pyjamas with Eeyore on the front?
Well, it's better than a clothes horse anyway.
I did suspect coming home with a bunch of flowers together with a folding concertina clothes rack was a risk and could possibly end up with me being concerina’d myself but was confident that the pyjamas would soften the blow.
A new clothes airer, or horse, is something we've been meaning to buy for at least three months now anyway and they were all reduced in the homeware sale, so it was a bargain and would successfully replace the old one, which is now a bloody nuisance.
For the past few months we have had to build the clothes horse with awkward, krypton factor like, precision, involving balancing broken parts against other broken parts and hoping that nobody accidentally hit it on their way by in the hallway, otherwise the thing would shake down into a pile of damp clothing and metal poles with jagged ends. A quick journey through our small hallway, in the past months, has often ended up like a strange version of jenga, involving metallic poles and wet pants instead of the traditional wooden blocks.
It was the ironing board that did it. The ironing board is kept in the same tight corner of the kitchen and at some point in the past year has caused a few breakages to various intersections in the airer's joinings making it the quivering wreck it is today.
Luckily for me, after making it home, the old clothes horse did not end up smashed down over me. Ka liked the flowers and pyjamas and all the hassle at the Asda self service check out was worth it.
No matter how many times I attempt to use those self service checkouts it always takes double the time it should.
After finally getting the scanners to recognise some barcodes I beeped the flowers through and placed them down into a carrier bag, just as the overly patronising animation instructed you to on the monitor, only to be told I had an 'unexpected item in the baggage area'.
I looked round for this mysterious unexpected item to see only the two bunches of flowers sitting there. That couldn't have been right, I thought, as I had scanned both over the glass panels and the machine had beeped it's approval, allowing them passage to the afore mentioned baggage area, so, to my mind, this would make them wholly expected.
Absolutely expected.
Exactly what the machine should have expected.
There was nothing remotely 'unexpected' about them!
Was the baggage area unprepared for such a hefty weight of blossoms?
Was I supposed to keep the flowers in hand as I swept the rest of my items over the scanner?
So, just as all the other times, I had to wait on a 'supervisor' to come over. A young guy, around the age of seven, in an Asda fleece, eventually sauntered over and flashed his badge at the scanner and then pressed the monitor once before giving an abrupt nod and walked off to be useful somewhere else. Perhaps to hold the giant pointing green hand that’s used to tell people which direction to head in once they reach the normal, humanly staffed, checkouts.
Something obviously had to be verified, I thought, as I tried to scan the clotheshorse’s barcode.
Perhaps buying flowers now has an age restriction?
I wondered if I had not moved my item to the baggage area with the correct degree of efficiency?
A clotheshorse through the self service monitor would have been a far worthier contender for an ‘unexpected item’.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
The Sainsburys entertainment aisle
I’ve not written on here in what feels like weeks. In fact, it has been weeks. After arriving back from sunny Ibiza, Ka and myself immediately went back to work, straight back to normality with an almighty thump. The last blog I wrote was by the side of a pool, both Ka and myself lying with Carte D’Or ice cream cones. Gawd, even that phrase ‘by the pool’ seems so alien now after 2 weeks being back at work.
We were at the side of the pool last weekend, mind you, but that was in the Hamilton Water Palace with our niece, Morgan.
Morgan had stayed the night on the Friday and after a night of cocktails, bow ties, iCarly and painting (Morgan always paints at Uncle Michael’s house) she was particularly keen to try out her new tankini and bright pink goggles. During the swimming in the Water Palace I kept throwing the goggles further into the pool in an effort to get Morgan to swim out and retrieve them, an effort to try and get her to show me her advancing swimming skills.
Unfortunately she didn’t put up with this for long, only carrying out the task once, before continually shouting at me and going in a huff, accusing me of mistreating her new pink goggles. Apparently she’d only got them the day before. I was merely trying to get her to show us her fantastic swimming abilities, it had not actually occurred to me until afterwards that I was treating her like a water bound dog with a game of fetch.
Anyway, after delivering, sorry, dropping Morgan off home to her Mum and Dad, we escaped home and collapsed once more of exhaustion. Morgan staying a mere one night usually always leaves us exhausted.
Ka was off out with Pauline for yet another girls night out so Chaz and myself went for another carry out in Giffnock. For some reason we’ve got to go all the way to Giffnock for a curry. Chaz insists upon it. I’m not sure what is exactly wrong with the countless curry shops in EK but they are all apparently not good enough for Chaz’s advanced tastebuds. Anyway, we returned to the flat with a a Hot Wheels toy Delorean, a fair number of carrier bags filled with beer offers from Giffnock’s Sainsburys and a cold curry to watch a couple of movies.
Sainsburys. A supermarket not particularly known for it’s special offers but one which has gone up considerably in my estimations after walking in the other day and finding a veritable feast of special offers in the entertainment section. My Dad’s Father’s day present, my Dad’s birthday present, a couple of Cds for myself and a present for Ka were all purchased. Great for the old Nectar card.
Ka was delighted with her gift from the Sainsburys entertainment aisle.
John Barrowman’s latest album.
A whole pound, it cost me. A quid. Unbelievable value for money.
Some might claim, certainly the more cynical of you, that John Barrowman’s latest album wouldn’t be worth a pound.
Of course, I would have to argue.
After the hard week she’d had, Ka’s smile that night was more than a pound’s worth. In fact it was the best quid I’ve ever spent… well, since that Carte D’Or ice cream cone at the side of the pool anyway.
In fact, the cone was dearer than the John Barrowman album!
We were at the side of the pool last weekend, mind you, but that was in the Hamilton Water Palace with our niece, Morgan.
Morgan had stayed the night on the Friday and after a night of cocktails, bow ties, iCarly and painting (Morgan always paints at Uncle Michael’s house) she was particularly keen to try out her new tankini and bright pink goggles. During the swimming in the Water Palace I kept throwing the goggles further into the pool in an effort to get Morgan to swim out and retrieve them, an effort to try and get her to show me her advancing swimming skills.
Unfortunately she didn’t put up with this for long, only carrying out the task once, before continually shouting at me and going in a huff, accusing me of mistreating her new pink goggles. Apparently she’d only got them the day before. I was merely trying to get her to show us her fantastic swimming abilities, it had not actually occurred to me until afterwards that I was treating her like a water bound dog with a game of fetch.
Anyway, after delivering, sorry, dropping Morgan off home to her Mum and Dad, we escaped home and collapsed once more of exhaustion. Morgan staying a mere one night usually always leaves us exhausted.
Ka was off out with Pauline for yet another girls night out so Chaz and myself went for another carry out in Giffnock. For some reason we’ve got to go all the way to Giffnock for a curry. Chaz insists upon it. I’m not sure what is exactly wrong with the countless curry shops in EK but they are all apparently not good enough for Chaz’s advanced tastebuds. Anyway, we returned to the flat with a a Hot Wheels toy Delorean, a fair number of carrier bags filled with beer offers from Giffnock’s Sainsburys and a cold curry to watch a couple of movies.
Sainsburys. A supermarket not particularly known for it’s special offers but one which has gone up considerably in my estimations after walking in the other day and finding a veritable feast of special offers in the entertainment section. My Dad’s Father’s day present, my Dad’s birthday present, a couple of Cds for myself and a present for Ka were all purchased. Great for the old Nectar card.
Ka was delighted with her gift from the Sainsburys entertainment aisle.
John Barrowman’s latest album.
A whole pound, it cost me. A quid. Unbelievable value for money.
Some might claim, certainly the more cynical of you, that John Barrowman’s latest album wouldn’t be worth a pound.
Of course, I would have to argue.
After the hard week she’d had, Ka’s smile that night was more than a pound’s worth. In fact it was the best quid I’ve ever spent… well, since that Carte D’Or ice cream cone at the side of the pool anyway.
In fact, the cone was dearer than the John Barrowman album!
Friday, 8 April 2011
The shopping cloud and scrambled egg
Gawd, I hate shopping. Clothes shopping. For a woman. With a woman. It’s Ka’s birthday tomorrow and I offered to take her shopping on Thursday afternoon, as a treat. As usual though, and absolutely true to form, my patience faltered, shook and then crumbled after an hour or so of obediently following, nodding and, under some stupid, ridiculous notions of helpfulness, suggesting items from the various fashion shops within the EK shopping centre.
It’s always an hour with me. Without fail. Whenever I end up clothes shopping with the wife, I always, without fail, after an hour of pretence and politeness, gain a particularly grey cloud which descends over my head, instantly transforming my mood. The shopping cloud makes me grumpy, impatient, irritable and, most of all, bored. Bored to the very core. So bored I was pestering God to end my inexcusable life whilst standing, dozing outside the New Look Fitting Rooms. The young shop assistants looking at me quizzically as they strode by in their funky tops whilst gossiping among themselves, probably wondering who the nearby guy, collapsing mumbling to himself in low, mumbling, ritual like, intensity was.
To make matters worse, I had forgotten the schools are all off at the moment so the daytime, weekday town centre was not only full of it’s usual old folk, mobility scooters and the folk in serious need of a bath but was full of noisy, irritating kids.
The younger ones wobbling around, stopping dead before you on their wee leads whilst their mothers stopped to window shop or meet their pal Janet, or Moira, a few meters off in another direction. They stand and chat, paying little head to where their little one is, knowing that they’re on the other end of the multi coloured strap. You move round to avoid the child lead just as the mother decides to move round and you end up getting half tangled in the child's rein or performing some kind of limbo routine in the middle of the shopping mall.
What is that anyway, kids on leads? Dogs go on leads, not kids. Kids go in buggys and when they start walking, should be allowed to walk free, not restrained like an unruly pet.
The older kids, otherwise known as teenagers, slouch round in packs. Maybe they should be the ones on leads. They shuffle about, communicating by making strange groaning noises under their breath, laughing like Beavis and Butthead, sexes indistinguishable under the various forms of hairstyles and hoodies.
Oh, to have the hair for a hairstyle again... I remember when I had hair, in the latter teenage years, though I never styled it. I think I went for the more natural look. I was aiming for the Bon Jovi or Jorge Cadete look but I think I ended up with something more akin to the Worzel Gummidge look.
It was my day off. It should have been great to be out the office. Out, away from the quiet, half barren workspace. A Mac scrap heap now lies at the top of the office. Piles of old macs, stacked with wires and keyboards tangled and wrapped around them like some kind of Modern Art piece depicting the continuation of the recession and the death of the busy office by Damien Hirst.
We’re now at the end of our first full week in the newly reformed and reduced production centre and it’s been a busy week. Tea breaks have been almost forgotten about, shifts have been the fastest passing in months, the property adverts seemed more of a struggle and just when I thought I was getting away from Classified planning, it’s back, rearing it’s ugly head again.
It’s Creamy Chicken John’s fault. He managed to get a week off this week, only after an half jesting argument with a doubting Felix about how he’d applied for it months ago. With only twelve people in the office producing the newspapers these days we’ll be lucky if we get any kind of holidays. We’ll just have to make the best of our days off.
Hopefully not spending them in the EK Shopping Centre. Saying that, there was a rather brilliant looking bouncy castle blown up outside HMV. When I say ‘blown up’ I mean as in set up, not actually exploded… that would have been much too exciting and may just have woken me up, bringing me out from under my shopping cloud.
Again though, too many kids. I wouldn’t have had a chance of getting a go on the massive bouncy slide with all those pesky school kids jumping about on it.
Anyway, it was all very selfish of me having that shopping cloud over me. It was my wife’s birthday, and I was out to buy her present so I shouldn’t complain. The task was successfully accomplished at the end of the day as my wife went home happy with yet another pair of new shoes and a new top. Another successful birthday present – but only with her help.
Though there is one surprise left but that one will have to wait till morning. And no, it’s not rude! And is not simply breakfast in bed. She can make breakfast herself. Ka will want scrambled egg and toast anyway, and we both know who makes the best scrambled egg…(it ain’t me).
It’s always an hour with me. Without fail. Whenever I end up clothes shopping with the wife, I always, without fail, after an hour of pretence and politeness, gain a particularly grey cloud which descends over my head, instantly transforming my mood. The shopping cloud makes me grumpy, impatient, irritable and, most of all, bored. Bored to the very core. So bored I was pestering God to end my inexcusable life whilst standing, dozing outside the New Look Fitting Rooms. The young shop assistants looking at me quizzically as they strode by in their funky tops whilst gossiping among themselves, probably wondering who the nearby guy, collapsing mumbling to himself in low, mumbling, ritual like, intensity was.
To make matters worse, I had forgotten the schools are all off at the moment so the daytime, weekday town centre was not only full of it’s usual old folk, mobility scooters and the folk in serious need of a bath but was full of noisy, irritating kids.
The younger ones wobbling around, stopping dead before you on their wee leads whilst their mothers stopped to window shop or meet their pal Janet, or Moira, a few meters off in another direction. They stand and chat, paying little head to where their little one is, knowing that they’re on the other end of the multi coloured strap. You move round to avoid the child lead just as the mother decides to move round and you end up getting half tangled in the child's rein or performing some kind of limbo routine in the middle of the shopping mall.
What is that anyway, kids on leads? Dogs go on leads, not kids. Kids go in buggys and when they start walking, should be allowed to walk free, not restrained like an unruly pet.
The older kids, otherwise known as teenagers, slouch round in packs. Maybe they should be the ones on leads. They shuffle about, communicating by making strange groaning noises under their breath, laughing like Beavis and Butthead, sexes indistinguishable under the various forms of hairstyles and hoodies.
Oh, to have the hair for a hairstyle again... I remember when I had hair, in the latter teenage years, though I never styled it. I think I went for the more natural look. I was aiming for the Bon Jovi or Jorge Cadete look but I think I ended up with something more akin to the Worzel Gummidge look.
It was my day off. It should have been great to be out the office. Out, away from the quiet, half barren workspace. A Mac scrap heap now lies at the top of the office. Piles of old macs, stacked with wires and keyboards tangled and wrapped around them like some kind of Modern Art piece depicting the continuation of the recession and the death of the busy office by Damien Hirst.
We’re now at the end of our first full week in the newly reformed and reduced production centre and it’s been a busy week. Tea breaks have been almost forgotten about, shifts have been the fastest passing in months, the property adverts seemed more of a struggle and just when I thought I was getting away from Classified planning, it’s back, rearing it’s ugly head again.
It’s Creamy Chicken John’s fault. He managed to get a week off this week, only after an half jesting argument with a doubting Felix about how he’d applied for it months ago. With only twelve people in the office producing the newspapers these days we’ll be lucky if we get any kind of holidays. We’ll just have to make the best of our days off.
Hopefully not spending them in the EK Shopping Centre. Saying that, there was a rather brilliant looking bouncy castle blown up outside HMV. When I say ‘blown up’ I mean as in set up, not actually exploded… that would have been much too exciting and may just have woken me up, bringing me out from under my shopping cloud.
Again though, too many kids. I wouldn’t have had a chance of getting a go on the massive bouncy slide with all those pesky school kids jumping about on it.
Anyway, it was all very selfish of me having that shopping cloud over me. It was my wife’s birthday, and I was out to buy her present so I shouldn’t complain. The task was successfully accomplished at the end of the day as my wife went home happy with yet another pair of new shoes and a new top. Another successful birthday present – but only with her help.
Though there is one surprise left but that one will have to wait till morning. And no, it’s not rude! And is not simply breakfast in bed. She can make breakfast herself. Ka will want scrambled egg and toast anyway, and we both know who makes the best scrambled egg…(it ain’t me).
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Tangled, chop sticks and noodles
"No, Uncle Michael, this is how you do it", Morgan said, obviously unconvinced by the way I was using my chop sticks in Wagamama on Sunday afternoon. Morgan picked up the joined sticks and ordered me to break her utensils apart, a simple job, which I somehow managed to bruise my fingers carrying out. Our niece then proceeded to instruct me on the proper way to go about using your sticks, picking them up, shuffling them through her fingers and into the eating position. Not bad for a six year old, but then I would not expect anything less of Morgan. She's a smart little fortune cookie.
It had been a while since I had attempted chop sticks and was my first visit to a Wagamama, both of which Morgan was apparently a regular with, so with her help, she had Ka and myself eating contentedly in no time, scoffing our noodles and beef teriyaki soba.
Morgan even knows how to deter Ka from spending too much time in Primark. Surely a wonderful skill to possess. After lunch we followed Ka into the ever popular clothing retailer however Morgan made sure we spent as little time inside as possible, insisting that I make no comment upon the clothing that Ka was asking our opinion on. We simply replied her in a forced silence. We were out within ten minutes after entering the shop. It worked. I may take Morgan to the shops with us more often.
We were out for a spot of lunch before popping our 3D specs on again and enjoying the latest Disney flick, Tangled, the tale of Rapunzel, the Brother Grimm story about the Princess, kidnapped from her Mother and Father for her magical powers by a wicked old bint and imprisoned in a lonely tower, hidden away in the forest.
The animation was great and the way the animators modelled the new CGI artistic technologies with more traditional artwork was brilliant. The landscapes, water and hair effects were particularly great in some scenes and paired with the dazzling colours just show how each animation, whether under the name of Disney or Pixar, or both, is just getting better and better with each new release.
Earlier in the week, Ka and myself had went again to the cinema with Dougie and Grace, to see 'Morning Glory'. 'Glory' is a light weight comedy drama starring Rachel McAdams as an aspiring TV producer who hires a grumpy, gargoyle like Harrison Ford to work alongside a pissed off, skeletal Diane Keaton to host a failing Morning News show called Daybreak.
What a great name for a failing Morning TV show.
Harrison Ford spends the film looking like someone's slapped his face whilst a certain other morning show of the same name has fallen flat on it's face being presented by a slapped arse.
Anyway, nothing amazing, nothing hilairious, but all watchable enough. That's Rachel McAdams, not the movie. The movie was entertaining and likable enough until we got outside into the Glasgow streets and got drenched walking back to the car.
These two movies in the one week were good to go and see though as a bit of entertaining escapism. Especially good after the last movies we seen consisted of female Ballet Dancers losing the plot in dark, psychological thrillers and Harry Potter still not dying after, yet another, 'darker than the last one', three hours of mildly meandering British star addled film.
The weeks to come will hopefully consist of the Coen Brothers latest, 'True Grit', Pegg and Frost getting back together again for 'Paul' and the Bale and Wahlberg boxing drama, 'The Fighter'.
Other movies out at the moment include Clint Eastwood's latest 'Hereafter', starring Matt Damon concerning the afterlife and three different folk coming to terms with a death and another movie called 'Rabbit Hole' starring Nicole Kidman about a youngish couple coming to terms with the loss of their daughter.
I think we'll skip those ones.
Probably better off with Yogi Bear.
It had been a while since I had attempted chop sticks and was my first visit to a Wagamama, both of which Morgan was apparently a regular with, so with her help, she had Ka and myself eating contentedly in no time, scoffing our noodles and beef teriyaki soba.
Morgan even knows how to deter Ka from spending too much time in Primark. Surely a wonderful skill to possess. After lunch we followed Ka into the ever popular clothing retailer however Morgan made sure we spent as little time inside as possible, insisting that I make no comment upon the clothing that Ka was asking our opinion on. We simply replied her in a forced silence. We were out within ten minutes after entering the shop. It worked. I may take Morgan to the shops with us more often.
We were out for a spot of lunch before popping our 3D specs on again and enjoying the latest Disney flick, Tangled, the tale of Rapunzel, the Brother Grimm story about the Princess, kidnapped from her Mother and Father for her magical powers by a wicked old bint and imprisoned in a lonely tower, hidden away in the forest.
The animation was great and the way the animators modelled the new CGI artistic technologies with more traditional artwork was brilliant. The landscapes, water and hair effects were particularly great in some scenes and paired with the dazzling colours just show how each animation, whether under the name of Disney or Pixar, or both, is just getting better and better with each new release.
Earlier in the week, Ka and myself had went again to the cinema with Dougie and Grace, to see 'Morning Glory'. 'Glory' is a light weight comedy drama starring Rachel McAdams as an aspiring TV producer who hires a grumpy, gargoyle like Harrison Ford to work alongside a pissed off, skeletal Diane Keaton to host a failing Morning News show called Daybreak.
What a great name for a failing Morning TV show.
Harrison Ford spends the film looking like someone's slapped his face whilst a certain other morning show of the same name has fallen flat on it's face being presented by a slapped arse.
Anyway, nothing amazing, nothing hilairious, but all watchable enough. That's Rachel McAdams, not the movie. The movie was entertaining and likable enough until we got outside into the Glasgow streets and got drenched walking back to the car.
These two movies in the one week were good to go and see though as a bit of entertaining escapism. Especially good after the last movies we seen consisted of female Ballet Dancers losing the plot in dark, psychological thrillers and Harry Potter still not dying after, yet another, 'darker than the last one', three hours of mildly meandering British star addled film.
The weeks to come will hopefully consist of the Coen Brothers latest, 'True Grit', Pegg and Frost getting back together again for 'Paul' and the Bale and Wahlberg boxing drama, 'The Fighter'.
Other movies out at the moment include Clint Eastwood's latest 'Hereafter', starring Matt Damon concerning the afterlife and three different folk coming to terms with a death and another movie called 'Rabbit Hole' starring Nicole Kidman about a youngish couple coming to terms with the loss of their daughter.
I think we'll skip those ones.
Probably better off with Yogi Bear.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Some kind of normality
Ka's in Africa. That's the latest. One of the wee boys in Ka's Nursery turned round to one of her colleagues today and asked, "When's Ka coming back from Africa?".
This was after the kids had all been sat down last week and told the story of how Lucy went to Heaven. Obviously this particular little boy hadn't been paying much attention. Either that or he's under the impression Heaven is a northerly region of the second largest continent and Ka's joined Lucy over there for a safari.
It was back to some kind of normality this week as I went back to work for the first time since before the new year. It was harder than I thought, sitting at my computer, working on ads again after everything that has happened, so I was a little sluggish to begin with.
It just doesn't seem right. Ka and myself feel like we should be doing other things. Life should be more enjoyable, messier and more hectic after the build up of the past nine months. We should be getting used to a new way of life when, in reality, life is pretty much the same as it was nine months ago. Nothing has changed except the grief we will forever feel at the back of our minds, slowly sinking out of sight but never relieving it's weight.
Work, gym, cinema, shopping, meals at relatives. They have all been attempts at keeping us occupied but all seem vaguely different somehow. We can't escape the feeling that there should be more going on. Someone else around, keeping us occupied.
Yesterday morning I was on one of my many stridings through the wilderness that is the EK shopping centre, surroundings not unlike the wilds of Africa described by Ka's wee nursery pupil by the look of some of the folk that inhabit the place on a normal weekday morning as some of them look as if they've just escaped from cages.
Another trip to the dentist had been successfully accomplished on time with just moments to spare. After, once more, answering and grudgingly attempting to tell of recent events involving losing one's baby, in this instance to the friendly receptionist and our nice dentist, I went on my way through the mall with polished teeth..
Next stop, the post office and as I marched I spotted something whilst passing one of the larger charity shops that stopped me dead in my tracks. A large Yamaha keyboard, adorned with buttons, dials, screens and, well, keys, sat looking at me from within the Debra shop under the out of the question price tag of £35.
A hazey dream of reminiscence filtered into my mind. Back in the day, (cue Dvorak's Hovis music), during the High school years I always toyed with the idea of learning keyboard and piano. At the time, most of my mates could play some kind of instrument, to some kind of extent and were keen to form a band, of some kind. Colin sang and swung his guitar, whilst Nocker strummed and Bungle battered the drums.
The keyboard appealed to me. It made cool noises and played beats for you that you didn't have to spend hours making up yourself. I'd always thought it'd be quite cool to learn piano too. Stevie Wonder, Elton John, Barry Manilow, Rowlf the Dog, they'd all mastered the art before me. If a blind guy, a rocket with glasses, a grinning mannequin and a dog could do it, so could I.
Of course, I never did. Colin managed to teach me one song on the bass but that was about as far as my contribution to music went. I'm far better off merely listening.
Anyway, after seriously considering the prospects of buying the Yamaha for around five seconds I decided against it. I realised that if I brought that massive keyboard home to my one bedroom flat, Ka would probably take it and batter me over the head with it. The last thing she needs at the moment is me setting up a Yamaha in the middle of the living room, switching off all the lights, standing in my tie and going all Kraftwerk on her.
It's more like Kraft Foods in our house, the amount of cheese on crackers we're putting away. Great to have in the house for guests but not so great when your looking for nibbles whilst watching the telly. The calories I'm piling on must be immense!
Yes, the passing of Baby Lucy has left the two of us feeling at a loss and looking for more meaningful things to do to keep our minds busy, but I doubt bringing home a second hand Yamaha keyboard is an answer.
A break somewhere would be more worthwhile, probably not a trip to Africa though.
This was after the kids had all been sat down last week and told the story of how Lucy went to Heaven. Obviously this particular little boy hadn't been paying much attention. Either that or he's under the impression Heaven is a northerly region of the second largest continent and Ka's joined Lucy over there for a safari.
It was back to some kind of normality this week as I went back to work for the first time since before the new year. It was harder than I thought, sitting at my computer, working on ads again after everything that has happened, so I was a little sluggish to begin with.
It just doesn't seem right. Ka and myself feel like we should be doing other things. Life should be more enjoyable, messier and more hectic after the build up of the past nine months. We should be getting used to a new way of life when, in reality, life is pretty much the same as it was nine months ago. Nothing has changed except the grief we will forever feel at the back of our minds, slowly sinking out of sight but never relieving it's weight.
Work, gym, cinema, shopping, meals at relatives. They have all been attempts at keeping us occupied but all seem vaguely different somehow. We can't escape the feeling that there should be more going on. Someone else around, keeping us occupied.
Yesterday morning I was on one of my many stridings through the wilderness that is the EK shopping centre, surroundings not unlike the wilds of Africa described by Ka's wee nursery pupil by the look of some of the folk that inhabit the place on a normal weekday morning as some of them look as if they've just escaped from cages.
Another trip to the dentist had been successfully accomplished on time with just moments to spare. After, once more, answering and grudgingly attempting to tell of recent events involving losing one's baby, in this instance to the friendly receptionist and our nice dentist, I went on my way through the mall with polished teeth..
Next stop, the post office and as I marched I spotted something whilst passing one of the larger charity shops that stopped me dead in my tracks. A large Yamaha keyboard, adorned with buttons, dials, screens and, well, keys, sat looking at me from within the Debra shop under the out of the question price tag of £35.
A hazey dream of reminiscence filtered into my mind. Back in the day, (cue Dvorak's Hovis music), during the High school years I always toyed with the idea of learning keyboard and piano. At the time, most of my mates could play some kind of instrument, to some kind of extent and were keen to form a band, of some kind. Colin sang and swung his guitar, whilst Nocker strummed and Bungle battered the drums.
The keyboard appealed to me. It made cool noises and played beats for you that you didn't have to spend hours making up yourself. I'd always thought it'd be quite cool to learn piano too. Stevie Wonder, Elton John, Barry Manilow, Rowlf the Dog, they'd all mastered the art before me. If a blind guy, a rocket with glasses, a grinning mannequin and a dog could do it, so could I.
Of course, I never did. Colin managed to teach me one song on the bass but that was about as far as my contribution to music went. I'm far better off merely listening.
Anyway, after seriously considering the prospects of buying the Yamaha for around five seconds I decided against it. I realised that if I brought that massive keyboard home to my one bedroom flat, Ka would probably take it and batter me over the head with it. The last thing she needs at the moment is me setting up a Yamaha in the middle of the living room, switching off all the lights, standing in my tie and going all Kraftwerk on her.
It's more like Kraft Foods in our house, the amount of cheese on crackers we're putting away. Great to have in the house for guests but not so great when your looking for nibbles whilst watching the telly. The calories I'm piling on must be immense!
Yes, the passing of Baby Lucy has left the two of us feeling at a loss and looking for more meaningful things to do to keep our minds busy, but I doubt bringing home a second hand Yamaha keyboard is an answer.
A break somewhere would be more worthwhile, probably not a trip to Africa though.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Waterstones and the wishlist
On Sunday I pulled up in the rain, parking the car under the drooping trees in one corner of Blythswood Square. Before you think it, no, I was not kerb crawling, Blythswood Square being one of Glasgow's old hooker haunts(I don't think they hang around there anymore). Ka had been out shopping all day with her Mum, so I was heading into the city centre to meet her for the cinema. Escaping the rain in the streets, I dived into Sauchiehall Street's Waterstones and headed for the design books. The best way to escape the bad weather - Waterstones. Not only is there shelf upon shelf of wonderful, colourful, story and picture filled books aplenty to browse, but there are even comfy chairs, toilets and, if it's a big branch and you've done your homework, a coffee shop. Not sure if the one in Sauchiehall Street has a coffee shop though, I wasn't there quite as long as I'd usually hang about bookshops what with having to meet the wife with her shopping bags.
You are also sometimes lucky enough to meet famous people in these quiet, calm surroundings, usually after waiting in horrendous queues, undoubtedly behind a smelly person. Being a geek, (but an unsmelly geek I should point out), I've waited in more than one queue in the past decade or so. Michael Palin, Tom Baker and Terry Pratchett are among the luminaries I've queued to meet, hanging around bookshops.
There's also been a few failed attempts. A year or so ago I almost met The Mighty Boosh, but had to escape, running out into the rain soaked street, grimacing in pain. After fifteen minutes of waiting in their queue my eardrums exploded from the noise of the screaming girls surrounding me. Screaming girls surrounding me is not something I'm entirely used to (violins please!).
More than a few years ago my Mum sent me into John Menzies to get Paul Young's autograph. Unfortunately she was most disappointed when I cam back informing her that it wasn't the young, quiffed eighties singer, signing autographs, but the Scottish fisherman with the cap and tash who usually sat on a boat, in a Loch somewhere, talking to a camera.
Simon Pegg's going to be in Sauchiehall Street tomorrow. Unfortunately I'm working. I would have hung around Waterstones to meet him, though I suspect there'd be more ear drum risk.
These large bookshops are great for hanging about in. Loads of people do it. Picking up large books they'd love to read, but have absolutely no intention of buying, probably because it's way too big and expensive to actually take home. Too big even for their coffee table. I'm sure some of the books people look at in these stores come in the form of coffee tables. Anyway, the 'customers' will then settle down on a large comfy, leather chair and enjoy a good, quiet read, probably a far quieter read than they'd get sitting at home. After a while, the time depending on the person and their objectives for the day, they'll set the giant book back on it's perch and then move on their way, back out into the rain and miserable shop strewn streets.
While I was browsing the tomes of the design section I searched for anything that was on my amazon wish list. My new tool that I'd just discovered a few weeks ago. Your amazon wish list, a tool I'm probably ridiculously late in using and one that's actually fairly fun to use, for a while at least. You can click away at products online to your hearts content, pretending your spending money, when in fact your not. Your account is just taking a note of all the products you'd like to buy but for one reason or another, you can't.
It's quite cruel really, doing that to yourself. Like the end of Bullseye when Jim Bowen shows you what you could have won. Even if it was a speedboat, it was still horrendously cruel. I wonder how many people actually wanted to punch him when they rolled out that speedboat? Even if they had lived in a one bedroom flat in the middle of EK, they hadn't realised how much they'd wanted that speedboat until that moment. Jim Bowen, you sick b****rd!
Anyway, torturing yourself for not being able to afford things is the big minus of the wish list. Spending hours wistfully staring at it's contents with that Scottish Power bill waving at you from the hall. "Yoohoo! Over here!"
Whilst browsing, in the actual shop, I came across a new hardcover by the name of 'Just My type', a book by author, Simon Garfield, about fonts.
Ahh, fonts. Those were the days. The days when I spent hours looking over books about fonts and actually caring about what fonts I used. Working on newspaper adverts you spend as little time as possible doing that kind of thing.
Helvetica? That'll do.
Something bold? Helvetica Black. It even sounds bold.
Something fancy? Times.
Something fancier? Time New Roman.
Something even fancier. Bloody hell. Palatino then.
No, let's really roll out the barrel.
Roll out the font barrel, are you nuts? Okay then, Zapf Chancery.
Nah, that's just too fancy. How about this one? I like this one?
But that's Courier..?
Corbusier Stencil. Apparently if I were a font I'd be Corbusier Stencil. According to Pantagram's website anyway... Balanced, geometrical, imposing but with good reason and impeccable judgement... hmmm. Not sure about the 'impeccable'. Looks a bit boring to me... I'd better go and pay that Scottish Power bill.
You are also sometimes lucky enough to meet famous people in these quiet, calm surroundings, usually after waiting in horrendous queues, undoubtedly behind a smelly person. Being a geek, (but an unsmelly geek I should point out), I've waited in more than one queue in the past decade or so. Michael Palin, Tom Baker and Terry Pratchett are among the luminaries I've queued to meet, hanging around bookshops.
There's also been a few failed attempts. A year or so ago I almost met The Mighty Boosh, but had to escape, running out into the rain soaked street, grimacing in pain. After fifteen minutes of waiting in their queue my eardrums exploded from the noise of the screaming girls surrounding me. Screaming girls surrounding me is not something I'm entirely used to (violins please!).
More than a few years ago my Mum sent me into John Menzies to get Paul Young's autograph. Unfortunately she was most disappointed when I cam back informing her that it wasn't the young, quiffed eighties singer, signing autographs, but the Scottish fisherman with the cap and tash who usually sat on a boat, in a Loch somewhere, talking to a camera.
Simon Pegg's going to be in Sauchiehall Street tomorrow. Unfortunately I'm working. I would have hung around Waterstones to meet him, though I suspect there'd be more ear drum risk.
These large bookshops are great for hanging about in. Loads of people do it. Picking up large books they'd love to read, but have absolutely no intention of buying, probably because it's way too big and expensive to actually take home. Too big even for their coffee table. I'm sure some of the books people look at in these stores come in the form of coffee tables. Anyway, the 'customers' will then settle down on a large comfy, leather chair and enjoy a good, quiet read, probably a far quieter read than they'd get sitting at home. After a while, the time depending on the person and their objectives for the day, they'll set the giant book back on it's perch and then move on their way, back out into the rain and miserable shop strewn streets.
While I was browsing the tomes of the design section I searched for anything that was on my amazon wish list. My new tool that I'd just discovered a few weeks ago. Your amazon wish list, a tool I'm probably ridiculously late in using and one that's actually fairly fun to use, for a while at least. You can click away at products online to your hearts content, pretending your spending money, when in fact your not. Your account is just taking a note of all the products you'd like to buy but for one reason or another, you can't.
It's quite cruel really, doing that to yourself. Like the end of Bullseye when Jim Bowen shows you what you could have won. Even if it was a speedboat, it was still horrendously cruel. I wonder how many people actually wanted to punch him when they rolled out that speedboat? Even if they had lived in a one bedroom flat in the middle of EK, they hadn't realised how much they'd wanted that speedboat until that moment. Jim Bowen, you sick b****rd!
Anyway, torturing yourself for not being able to afford things is the big minus of the wish list. Spending hours wistfully staring at it's contents with that Scottish Power bill waving at you from the hall. "Yoohoo! Over here!"
Whilst browsing, in the actual shop, I came across a new hardcover by the name of 'Just My type', a book by author, Simon Garfield, about fonts.
Ahh, fonts. Those were the days. The days when I spent hours looking over books about fonts and actually caring about what fonts I used. Working on newspaper adverts you spend as little time as possible doing that kind of thing.
Helvetica? That'll do.
Something bold? Helvetica Black. It even sounds bold.
Something fancy? Times.
Something fancier? Time New Roman.
Something even fancier. Bloody hell. Palatino then.
No, let's really roll out the barrel.
Roll out the font barrel, are you nuts? Okay then, Zapf Chancery.
Nah, that's just too fancy. How about this one? I like this one?
But that's Courier..?
Corbusier Stencil. Apparently if I were a font I'd be Corbusier Stencil. According to Pantagram's website anyway... Balanced, geometrical, imposing but with good reason and impeccable judgement... hmmm. Not sure about the 'impeccable'. Looks a bit boring to me... I'd better go and pay that Scottish Power bill.
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Who needs Valentines?
Valentines Day. Again. Hate it. Especially this year as it has somehow become a Valentines Weekend?! Woke up yesterday morning to Edith on Radio 1 wishing us all a Happy Valentines Weekend. Give us a break, I thought, it 's bad enough we've got to put up with one day a year of forced romantic nonsense. I've nothing much against romantic nonsense but when it's forced upon you by the shops and birthday card corporations it becomes severely unromantic in my opinion. Ka gets flowers at least once a month anyway and I feel stubbornly against rushing out and buying flowers just because some card corporation or the posh lady in the M&S ads tells me to.
Ka got a nice purple Orchid this year. No roses. The Orchid is an effort to help her look after her very own plant life. She is always bemoaning her lack of plant caring skills so in an effort to address this I decided upon a nice Orchid for her Valentines present alongside the usual card. Unfortunately she found the Orchid early, on Friday night, in the shadows behind the cupboard door. A place I put it safe in the knowledge that she'd never for one second go in behind the cupboard door before Sunday. She did. Women. Typical.
I also put together a photo book for her on the Kodak Gallery website uploading various photographs from the past year and making a sort of year book in fetching red, linen hardback form. Ka loved it and I got the sense it made up for any lack of roses. Of course she also got breakfast in bed, consisting of a cheese Omelette and toast accompanied by a giant mug of coffee. Again, like the flowers, she get's an omelette in bed at least once a month too. Maybe I just spoil her or maybe I'm just a fantastic husband... I'd better stop now before I sound too smug with myself.
Who needs Valentines Day?
Ka got a nice purple Orchid this year. No roses. The Orchid is an effort to help her look after her very own plant life. She is always bemoaning her lack of plant caring skills so in an effort to address this I decided upon a nice Orchid for her Valentines present alongside the usual card. Unfortunately she found the Orchid early, on Friday night, in the shadows behind the cupboard door. A place I put it safe in the knowledge that she'd never for one second go in behind the cupboard door before Sunday. She did. Women. Typical.
I also put together a photo book for her on the Kodak Gallery website uploading various photographs from the past year and making a sort of year book in fetching red, linen hardback form. Ka loved it and I got the sense it made up for any lack of roses. Of course she also got breakfast in bed, consisting of a cheese Omelette and toast accompanied by a giant mug of coffee. Again, like the flowers, she get's an omelette in bed at least once a month too. Maybe I just spoil her or maybe I'm just a fantastic husband... I'd better stop now before I sound too smug with myself.
Who needs Valentines Day?
Saturday, 7 March 2009
I've been called a lot of things, but never funny
Ignored the miserable weather today and headed into Glasgow for a wee walk around and a few odd jobs. The picking up of a Wedding ring, the buying of a birthday present and a quick look in the camera shops. Jessops is apparently closing down, so I ventured up Sauchiehall street to see if I could grab a bargain. Jessops being Jessops, of course, I could not. Large posters advertising some kind of Spring clearance sale inside adorned the windows. On venturing inside I discovered one basket at the till filled with dusty, old discounted camera bags. That was it. The Spring Clearance Sale apparently only applying to dusty old camera bags I gave up and wandered back down to the chaotic Buchanan Galleries to meet up with Ka. After some shopping, (I say some but I mean, as little as possible), we decided to go for a bite. We opted for some cheap and cheerful pub grub.
Why is it some folk find it so difficult washing their hands after using the toilet. Especially blokes. After eating some fairly nice pub grub in The Maltman on Renfield Street I visited the loo and as I stood drying my hands at a particularly powerful drying machine after washing I could not help notice some bloke leave the wall urinal and head straight out through the door. I'd just like to make it clear I was not, in any way, watching the guy do the toilet but was merely aware of the dismal fact that he left without so much as a spray of cold water from the taps. Why is this? Do blokes find it unmanly to wash their hands after freeing themselves from a full bladder? Surely washing after pi**ing should be mandatory for blokes?! Are they in that much of a hurry to get back to their beloved pints? Is the conversation with their mates THAT good that they have to go back to a busy bar with their hands reeking? Maybe it was the chef rushing back to his kitchen? No, I don't want to even go there. The thought, not the kitchen. I'm sure the kitchen is very hygienic...
After our meal we seen the excellent Gran Torino. Fantastic. Clint Eastwood is just a genius. A true Hollywood great. He seems to be just getting better with age (he must be ancient now?!). He not only starred in Gran Torino, but directed, produced and contributed to the music. Just as the excellent Changeling before it. Eastwood basically plays a miserable old, Korean war veteran with a grudge against his life and himself who slowly, and inadvertantly, turns himself into a neighbourhood hero. Brilliant.
Why is it some folk find it so difficult washing their hands after using the toilet. Especially blokes. After eating some fairly nice pub grub in The Maltman on Renfield Street I visited the loo and as I stood drying my hands at a particularly powerful drying machine after washing I could not help notice some bloke leave the wall urinal and head straight out through the door. I'd just like to make it clear I was not, in any way, watching the guy do the toilet but was merely aware of the dismal fact that he left without so much as a spray of cold water from the taps. Why is this? Do blokes find it unmanly to wash their hands after freeing themselves from a full bladder? Surely washing after pi**ing should be mandatory for blokes?! Are they in that much of a hurry to get back to their beloved pints? Is the conversation with their mates THAT good that they have to go back to a busy bar with their hands reeking? Maybe it was the chef rushing back to his kitchen? No, I don't want to even go there. The thought, not the kitchen. I'm sure the kitchen is very hygienic...
After our meal we seen the excellent Gran Torino. Fantastic. Clint Eastwood is just a genius. A true Hollywood great. He seems to be just getting better with age (he must be ancient now?!). He not only starred in Gran Torino, but directed, produced and contributed to the music. Just as the excellent Changeling before it. Eastwood basically plays a miserable old, Korean war veteran with a grudge against his life and himself who slowly, and inadvertantly, turns himself into a neighbourhood hero. Brilliant.
Friday, 19 December 2008
Road rageous
After an early morning call from a Virgin Television man yesterday (we have more than 5 channels again) we drove out to the Silverburn shopping Centre in Pollockshaws. Our mission, which we chose to accept, was to complete the Christmas shopping. On arriving at Silverburn I was surprised to find it quite posh. I had been expecting yet another run-of-the-mill shopping centre but ended up quite impressed by it's enormous high ceilings, nicely designed walking areas, seating and designer shop fronts. There certainly was not going to be any Bargain Books or Poundlands in here. There was, however, the usual discorteous shoppers, elbowing, shoving, and marching without any form of consideration or the ability of moving slightly to the side to evade a collision. That job seemed solely down to me. It was like a game of chicken, except instead of sitting in the front of a car, or tractor if you've had the pleasure of seeing Footloose, you were on foot and up against either a woman with a pram, a yuppy dressed for the catwalk or just one of the many ignorant people that flock these department stores. Later in the day, after leaving the joys of Silverburn for the local EK centre, I had a near miss with an old women in one of those mobility scooters. Honestly, they have been the worst thing introduced to the pensioner race in a long time. Sure, great for the less able to get about in but when it comes to the older woman i think the power goes to some of their heads. They get completely road rageous (a new term, in case you had not guessed). They seem to have it in for those of us that still walk on two feet. Some of these older folk belt up through the shops, with little use of the brakes like a speeding Davros, assuming everyone will simply move out of their way. Which, of course, people do, but not before annoying some other pedestrian behind them or accidentally nudging into someone at their side. After my encounter this particular old woman sped by and nearly ran over two little girls who were between two parents. The old woman fought the urge to press her brake but in the end just had to surrender. The two girls frozen on the spot and merely inches from her front wheels once the scooter had ceased skidding. The old woman sat for those few moments glaring at the girls testily, as the parents were forced to split their unit and rejoin on the other side of the scooter.
Anyway, after fighting the Chrimbo crowds we managed to finish the present buying and returned to base and that should be that. We are now organised for Christmas... In a week's time it will all be over again. Looking forward to seeing slightly distant members of the clan again and doing some catching up with friends.
Anyway, after fighting the Chrimbo crowds we managed to finish the present buying and returned to base and that should be that. We are now organised for Christmas... In a week's time it will all be over again. Looking forward to seeing slightly distant members of the clan again and doing some catching up with friends.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Mallowy goodness
Back in Glasgow last night for The Mighty Boosh at the Clyde Auditorium. Parked the car in a street filled with young girls in tutus with glow sticks. We had been wandering what the crowd would be like at a Mighty Boosh gig and were rather surprised to find the street filled with under agers in tutus, jabbering excitedly whilst buying glow sticks from various vendors set up at different points over the street. We entered the large red tunnel red tunnel, which crosses the Clydeside Expressway, amongst loitering policemen, in throngs of younger folk who looked slightly inebriated. I had not expected such a young mental looking crowd but it wasn't until we got to the lights at the end of the tunnel that we seen the signs for Clubland 2008 in the main SECC building. This accounted for the glow sticks at least, not sure about the tutus. After a brief run around inside the Armidillo trying to find our way we eventually took our seats. Vince and Howard both swept on to the stage singing about sailors from the future with the help of The Boosh Band who hid behind the main stage back drop for a good fraction of the whole night. The comedy was great and at it's best when Vince and Howard were out on the front section of the stage, infront of the closed curtain, squabbling and trading both thoughts and insults. The internal monologues of Howard's mind were particulary hilairious. Plus the inclusion of the infamous Hitcher. The strange green creation of Noel Fielding with green skin, a big nose and thumb, dressed in black with a top hat and voiced with a gnarly cockney accent. A brilliant show if your into the Boosh.
Woke up late this morning after having a wee glass of wine once we arrived home last night. Wine accompanied by a bit of Editors and Roxy Music. Today, here has not seemed to have broke yet as a thick white mist has hung over the streets of EK all morning and afternoon. I can barely see the opposite end of the street from the window. I'm half expecting a long line of mysterious shapes to emerge slowly from the mist and drag me away into the fog to a sorry, icy fate.
Evening now. Had to go and so the shopping there. Curse those money hungry supermarkets! Coaxing us in with their 2 for 1s only to get us to spend the saved money on other things. Other things such as Tunnocks Teacakes. Just had one with my tea. The first in years. Full of chocolatey mallowy goodness. Brilliant.
Woke up late this morning after having a wee glass of wine once we arrived home last night. Wine accompanied by a bit of Editors and Roxy Music. Today, here has not seemed to have broke yet as a thick white mist has hung over the streets of EK all morning and afternoon. I can barely see the opposite end of the street from the window. I'm half expecting a long line of mysterious shapes to emerge slowly from the mist and drag me away into the fog to a sorry, icy fate.
Evening now. Had to go and so the shopping there. Curse those money hungry supermarkets! Coaxing us in with their 2 for 1s only to get us to spend the saved money on other things. Other things such as Tunnocks Teacakes. Just had one with my tea. The first in years. Full of chocolatey mallowy goodness. Brilliant.
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
A ransoms worth
Autumn and today the sky was as clear as a bell. The trees around us glinting yellows, browns and golds under the clear blue sky. With Autumn, however, comes the sharp drop in temperature, especially in Scotland as it's bloody freezing up here. We put some washing out this morning to dry in the sunshine and brought it in with icicles hanging from it. We are also desperately trying to refrain from switching the heating on in our wee flat as it costs so much. Unfortunately our flat has some ancient form of underfloor heating which is not at all easy on the electric bills. We always get a large late unwelcome Christmas gift from Scottish Power every January in the form of a fat bill so we're holding off for as long as we possibly can. I'm wearing three layers as I write.
On our day off today we done the monthly shop. Exciting way to spend your Tuesday holiday eh? Wandering around a supermarket looking for 2 for 1s, skillfully negotiating the aisles and the growling pensioners with your trolley and arguing over which passata to buy. Apparently Ka is inviting her sister round for dinner soon so we had to buy organic. I'm not one to begrudge accommodating other peoples likes and dislikes and usually this would be fine, but organic passata is £1.20 more than the usual brand we get?! £1.20! Okay, it's not a ransom's worth but still - it all adds up!
Talking of ransoms, we then had a trip to the cinema to see 'Taken' starring Liam Neeson. An exciting revenge thriller which sees Neeson in a hard man type role, running round the city of Paris, cracking,chopping, knifing and shooting all the bad guys involved in his daughter's kidnapping. She went to Paris as the first stop of a U2 european tour and gets kidnapped to be used in the sex traffic trade which Mr Neeson, as a former spy, has to throw himself into to rescue her. Neeson does well in the role whilst the film edges on over the top at times it was still a good, gripping thriller with some brilliant, sometimes surprisingly, shocking violence.
Talking of surprising, I can't believe Adam is dead? Spooks is back with a bang. A fairly big bang which seen yet another main character written out. The Spooks writers keep doing it, but it does make it all the more exciting and, dare I say it, realistic.
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