w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

Albino rainbow. Clean start. Blank canvas.

Mrs.D. stepped back from glossing the kitchen woodwork, exclaimed that the new coloration wasn’t entirely to her satisfaction (except she used only one word, the naughty girl) and declared that it had to come off.

So it’ll have had 4 x undercoats plus the rubbed-off gloss.

In years to come, mankind will come to look at the pile of rubble, bricks and mortar which was our house, and marvel at the still-standing skirting and architrave framework of the kitchen, which has survived nuclear assault and the natural ravages of time. And "I'm a celebrity" wood-gatherers.

A testament to patient sanding and sugar-soaping between coats.

It’s like watching paint dry..

Oh - and thanks to everyone who called by this month. For some strange reason, I've registered the biggest number of unique hits for a month since I started this nonsense. Cheers, guys!

I can’t remember how long ago it was, but the Beeb’s first digital radio broadcast was Jean-Michel Jarre’s live light show “Rendezvous Houston”.

As I’m now working my way through my old audio tape collection, burning what I believe to be irreplaceable recordings onto CD, I was finally able to delete what must have been a deliberate spoiler in the middle of the show.

Suddenly, the music cut to an unheard interviewer in the crowd, whose unrecorded question to a female spectator with a full-on Texas accent elicited the response “Ah didn’t know there was a light show. Kids! Get off my carrrrr.”

After all this time, I’ve finally silenced her.

Shame I can't do the same with other Texans...

When I was six, I earned myself a 10-day stay in an E.N.T. hospital, because of poor communication.

Suffering from the usual childhood ear problems, I was sent for a hearing test. Instead of saying:
“Tell us when you hear this noise”
* demonstrates noise *
before clamping huge NHS headphones onto my head, they just said:
“Tell us when you hear the noise”.

So there I am, a terrified six year old in a huge hospital, muffled by massive bakelite, dustbin-sized cans and waiting for whatever sort of noise a six-year old might expect from huge etc.

While the intermittent beeping in my ears went unrecognized and unreported...

This being very pre-MRSA, the only thing I came out of hospital with was a pathological hatred of spinach.

So yesterday, I‘m sat in a virtually empty carriage and a woman plonks herself down immediately opposite me. It’s an empty carriage?

For the next twenty five minutes, in the nanoseconds between making and receiving calls on her mobile, she proceeded to stuff her face with junk. Crisps. Ribena. Apples. Very crunchy apples. It's 9.00 a.m. ffs.

‘If she says once more “No, I’m on the train” I’m going to make her swallow her own Siemens’ I vowed.

Then, when she said “Rachel? I want to go through these fifteen points with you” I walked. 25 minutes of relentless chomping and chatting. It was too much.

And six seats down, with Stephen Hawkings’s voiceover on Pink Floyd’s “Keep Talking” (see “Today’s Lyric”) ringing in my ears, I could still hear her.

* tries on Victor Meldrew cap *

Off to the deepest wilds of an Eastern county, to impart some nuggets of wisdom to lesser mortals.

Nah, it's just that I'm the last dinosaur of the legacy system and they want to drain my brain before I go (completely) gaga.

The uncontrollable music volume at Friday’s blogmeet venue made me think about the future of The Pub as a place for social discourse.

My Dad worked for a major brewer, which believed that if you gave your employees free drink, they wouldn’t steal the stuff. But as Dad always preferred (and still does) to drink in the pub, there was always a beer lake in our house, only ever reduced by the occasional party rather than dedicated binges.

And when Mrs.D. and I were courting (always felt that was such a quaint term?) we would ‘escape’ to the pub, because there was an adult feeling about being in one (as well as the ability to be out from under the eyes of our parents, of course). Yet now, it’s a very rare event that we go into one – it’s more than likely that we’ll use a restaurant for that kind of entertainment.

When Witchy was trying to put the frighteners on the pub manager (to get him to turn the sound down a bit) by demanding to see his work permit, all he could reply with was “It’s Friday and every other pub around here will have music on”.

But when you’re trying to listen to people you’re meeting for the first time and there’s an inescapable speaker in every corner, playing someone else’s choice of music, out of an amp which has bu99er all means of controlling the balance of sound, it doesn’t make it a particularly social place to be.

I don’t think this constitutes a rant – but do you have an opinion about it.

Friday’s Lyric was prescient, insofar as the “loud, loud music” was concerned.

Even Witchy (when she finally made it), was unable to get the volume kept down to a conversationable level by demanding to see the manager’s work permit!

But it was great to meet some of the regular links – and a shame I didn’t get round to talking to some previously un-clicked ones. Although Nic’s non-blogging wife was charming (despite dribbling sauce-laden natchos down my black jeans - you were right though – it did scrub off {8¬)

She has the same attitude as Mrs.D. to the medium – “I just let him get on with it – it keeps him amused”.

I was also glad that Nigel made it – even though he’d downed two beers before we sussed him out and got him to our table. Well, it’s very difficult to see spot someone who’s invisible.

And the things DG does to children – well, it borders on the criminal…

So the linklist is going to get a well-overdue overhaul, and some, none or all of the thoroughly likeable reprobates may get added to my humble Hall of Fame.

Others will remain firmly and permanently cemented in position.

I have been magnaminously invited to sup with a few of my regular links.

The last time I met with someone I'd previously only corresponded with was when I was at school, but I'm really looking forward to the meet.

So - see you there, guys.

The fact that I’m posting this morning means that today’s boat fishing trip has been scuppered. To say I’m a tad disappointed would be the wildest understatement…

Buddy1 rang last night (go ratchet up his site-meter. Tell him I sent you and leave an ‘encouragement’ in the Comments to get him started blogging).

Anyway, he rang to say that the skipper had to curtail yesterday’s trip, because the oggin was getting too confused for comfortable fishing, and today was only going to get worse.

So I’m a desk jockey again today – I really am pi55ed off.

(Asterisks relate to Today's Lyric)

* Let's hope that's all it is.

(Wind is the angler's curse.)

Stop sniggering at the back, there.

** Stuff that, I'm taking the Cooper!

*** As long as her name's "Shogun" and Skip's is "Colin"

I may not be as lucky as this handsome devil, but here's hoping I get a big one.

Ooh, er, Missis.

No, not a grey composer, but the vivid green encrustings and concretions that metal acquires when it’s left unused for ages.

So, in readiness and anticipation of Thursday’s boat fishing trip, I took down a tackle box and rod bag which haven’t seen the light of day for several years.

And “several” does mean 7+.

It was therefore with huge delight that I found the rods to be virtually unblemished, with previously WD-40’d rollers* in fine working order, and reels with no signs of rust or corrosion.

Even hook traces were clean and ready for action.

Good omens for the trip, eh?

* proper boat rods have metal rollers instead of rings

"Woman stabbed at Barbican Awards"

So - they're giving out prizes for that sort of thing, now, are they?

Cold, crisp, clear City start to the day. A fresh breeze blowing up the Thames, blowing away post-sleep muzziness and the too-hot train ride.

So, I’m not the only one who’s noticed a certain lethargy, ennui even, about Blogworld?

Previously regular Bloggers (in the posting sense, not bowel movement-related) are not exactly on hiatus, but regularly posting sporadically.

Almost an oxymoron there.

Has the medium run its course? I sincerely hope not – there are lots of very interesting people out there, even if their virtual discourses do only concern the doings of their days. And some are selflessly helpful.

You know who you are.

The first posting of this skewed my template, so here's V2...

I’ve recently switched from a ten year period of car commuting (around England’s glorious M25 motorway – the world’s Most Expensive Carpark) to commuting by train into London, which has enabled me to get back into reading.

I’ve missed so much…

So here’s a list of what I’ve waded through in recent months - utterly predictably in order by author - with the briefest of critiques (well, you’re all busy people, aren’t you?). I’ve not included links – if you’re interested, you’ll hunt them down – and I wouldn’t dream of promoting the dreadful “Stonehenge”. If you’re given it as a present, burn it immediately. The fewer copies there are, the better it will be for the future of mankind.

Stonehenge – Bernard Cornwell
I had to list it, but I don’t have to recommend it.
The Stranglers:Song by Song
The Stranglers - from the throttling front man's perspective.
The Barrytown Trilogy – Roddy Doyle
I read it in Ireland, on a fishing week. I cried with laughter.
High Society – Ben Elton
A contemporary take on drug abuse in today’s culture.
Dead Famous – Ben Elton
Reality tv torn apart and re-assembled
Captain Scott – Ran Fiennes
No holds barred ‘clarification’ of events
The Collector – John Fowles
Terrifying in its calm, stalking way…
The curious incident of the dog in the nighttime – Mark Haddon
Bizarre – but then, so is Asperger’s
Into the Blue – Tony Horwitz
Poignant – because I’ve scuba dived where Captain Cook was slain
To Kill A Mockingbird – Harper Lee
Long overdue in the reading of. There is a site called Tequilamockingbird (no connection)
Thinks – David Lodge
Makes you
Ginger, You’re Barmy – David Lodge
Not his best (or funniest), but …
The Penguin Compendium – George Orwell
Some old favourites. Some – appallingly – I’d never read at all before now.
Man and Boy – Tony Parsons
I hate the adjective “bittersweet”, but…
Man and Wife – Tony Parsons
Slightly milking it, but as funny in parts as part one
A Child called It – David Pelzer
You want to kill all abusers – slowly
The Lost Boy – David Pelzer
And it’s still happening – how can that be?
The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold
Suspend belief and it’s a decent read
A Few Kind Words (and a loaded gun) - Razor Smith
I’d like to have him to dinner – but hand-cuffed to the dining chair
Billy – Pamela Stephenson
Now I can see where the humour came from – and why
The Little Friend – Donna Tartt
Slightly disappointing conclusion, but a very good read, nonetheless

Back from a weekend in Sherborne visiting friends.

The fireworks display on Saturday night went well, apart from a spectator's heart attack, just as they were about to light the bonfire.

The paramedics' ministrations delayed the kick-off by half a hour and it was odd to see the locals' grimaced faces, wanting desperately to complain about the hold-up, but constrained not to speak ill of the possibly dead.

And I won the 70th MBWLA Woo-hoo!

Still my favourite Spoonerism.

Doing a spot of international guest-blogging in wonderful (resists the temptation to repeat) Copenhagen, for the incomparable Tinka.

But hope to catch an early flight back, to be in time for the usual cocktail here.

Enjoy your fireworks and play safely.

The shenanigans over at Uncle Sam’s this week served only to remind me of the unworldlineness of much of its populace – something we experienced first-hand when we holidayed recently in their back garden – Hawai’i.

We spent a goodly part of the fortnight trying to convince enquirers that we really weren’t Australian – not that I have anything against Ozzies, but Brits spawned many of the émigrés to both continents and must surely be entitled to be recognised as different?

“So, you’ve flown across two ponds, then?”

“Well, you’ve allegedly flown to the Moon and back, so we’ve hardly over-exerted ourselves” we replied.

At the luau (public feast) there was much back-slapping over events in Iraq and, whether or not we believed in the validity or legality of the ‘war’, we felt obliged to remind the other tourists of the part played by the coalition forces. “Oh yeah” they conceded, “there’s a bunch of your SAS guys wandrin’ around too”.

Thanks for that grateful and heartfelt acknowledgement.

Returning from a scuba dive, I was routinely washing out my ears to prevent infection, using a bottle of water pressed to the side of my head, and glancing sideways noticed a woman wearing a bikini with its volume turned full up, nervously watching my antics.

“It’s quite Ok” I explained, “we’re British – we drink differently to you guys”.

Stunned and uncomprehending turning away.

Her partner then wandered over and, once we’d established that our lineage wasn’t Antipodean, asked us about hiring caravans in Ingerland. As you do.

“I s’pose you can”, I ventured (well, I was never going to meet him again, was I?) “or if you dislike hotels that much, you could stay in Bed & Breakfasts”.

It took a full ten minutes to explain just what that diversion entailed.

They had a chance to correct the horrors of the last four years, and blew it.

God Help America (and us)

I love looking down a hill at low-lying mist. It presages a day’s fishing on the river, after lugging down an Arctic expedition-sized quantity of kit and paraphernalia; wishing I’d asked for a pack-horse for Christmas, instead of a pack of hooks.

And knowing that, at the end of the day, you’ve got to haul it all back up the hill, lighter only by your sandwiches and the Thermos’ contents. It’s been too long since I did that. I miss it.

Now – does anyone know how I can shrink the horizontal shading to fit the new banner?

Or how to expand the new banner (without distorting the text) to eclipse the shading?

Answers on a Comment, please.

Ithangyew.

Well, a day, anyway.

Spurred on by our distinct lack of success at coarse fishing in Ireland recently, we’ve decided to dust down the boat rods and see if we can catch a few cod for the pot.

So we’ve booked a day with our favourite skipper (he hates being called that, so we say it all the more, to wind him up) on board his new boat “Shogun” – a fast cat that’ll have you near France before you’ve got the top off of your thermos.

The last time we were with him, I had a near 60lb conger, which I may re-blog about when I guest here at the end of this week.

It’s a target to aim at?