The End of May (a poem)

Another month has come and gone

Tomorrow will be June

I sit alone, forlornly hope

That things will warm up soon

RC 31-5-19

Competitive spirit

There was a bit of a punch-up in the supermarket last night, they tell me. Someone in an Arsenal shirt confronted two teenagers in Chelsea kit and it all got a bit pushy/shovey. I would like to say that this form of tribalistic violence is beyond my understanding, but bearing in mind the way the Brexit negotiations have been conducted, it’s hard not to feel a bit of sympathy.

I’m not even sure what I mean by that.

I never realised Arsenal and Chelsea were at opposite ends of a pool of animosity, but someone told me today that they were involved in an important match of some kind last night, so that may have helped instigate the silliness. I thought football was all done and dusted for another Summer? Didn’t Manchester City win everything, including best of breed at Crufts? And didn’t Manchester United make the worst managerial appointment since the Nazi Party circa 1935? How come they’re still playing each other at the end of May?

RC 30-5-19

Some random scribblings

In five months time, it will nearly be Hallowe’en…

There seem to be a lot of empty seats at the French Open, especially for the morning matches. I’m really tempted to book a couple of days off work and pop over to Paris for some live tennis action.

RORY PREDICTS – a Conservative leadership election, then a General Election, then a hung parliament, then a botched Brexit, then a massive recession. Basically another 3 years of absolute mayhem as a few hundred Westminster elitists flush our country down the toilet while bashing their egos against each other in a pointless points-scoring exercise.

I love having Autumns that feel like Summers, but then having Springs that feel like Winters is too high a price to pay.

Boris Johnson looks like the result of a mating between Donald Trump and a boiled egg.

Theresa May looks like the result of a mating between Ann Widdicombe and a scarecrow.
And to think I used to fancy her….

RC 29-5-19

Annual moan

We wade through seven months of damp darkness and dark dampness, looking forward to Spring walks and Summer cycling, only to have the end of May feel like the end of pissing November.

How heavy have these rain showers been? A lady came into the garage today who had almost had a nervous breakdown because she couldn’t see the road she was driving on. There was even a bit of hail earlier. HAIL! In May! No wonder I feel like emigrating or killing myself.

RC 28-5-19

2203 BST

Confession, and Coffee

I’m sitting in my office at work watching French Open tennis on my computer. Not entirely sure that Head Office would see this as a constructive use of my Monday morning, but there we are. I see it as me relaxing into another working week without overburdening myself too quickly, so there.

The café at the supermarket has taken delivery of a couple of new, expensive coffee machines. And when I say expensive, I mean expensive. They should be almost three times as quick as the ones they’re getting rid of, which is good, because a pet hate of mine is how much time it takes to get a cup of pissing coffee nowadays. You put in your order then stand around for ten minutes while they fanny about with beans and grinders and milk-heaters and sprinkles.  They look very space-age, these new machines. Very shiny silver and very sleek black, and some impressive glowing green buttons. Inside, however, they’re just a messy collection of pipes and a few packets of cheap pre-mixed powder that just gets hot water pumped through it. It’s an amazing difference – the outer beauty and the inner turmoil – and I wonder how many people would still be happy to pay £3.50 for a latte if we left the front of the machine open so they could see how it’s being made. I guess that’s what we’re paying all the money for – the deception.

RC 28-5-19

Hideaway

Another Sunday, another influx of friends and relatives swept up in the joys of being around a baby. I didn’t mind at first, but it seems to have become a regular thing for Philippa’s cousins, work colleagues and childless acquaintances to just drop in as they see fit and use young Mathew as a surrogate.

I might start charging an entrance fee.

It was mostly females today so I took myself off to the bedroom with a pair of headphones for a season of Madden NFL ’19. It’s not nice to be hiding in your own house, but when you can take the Tampa Bay Buccaneers to the play-offs, it kind of makes it okay.

RC 26-5-19

Ingratitude

I slaved in the kitchen for hours today, only to have Philippa turn her back on my food because it was ‘too spicy.’

Bloody Hell.

I shouldn’t moan really – I got to eat three times as much stir fry as should be deemed physically safe for a human man to ingest, and she was delighted when I rustled up a quick salmon-and-rice combo for her as a last-minute replacement. So it was all good. It’s just that I could have saved myself all the pissing about by just doing something simple in the first place. But there we are – she appreciated the effort I’d put in, even if she didn’t indulge in the outcome.

It does surprise me sometimes how picky people get about food presentation. It’s fun sometimes to have your starter arranged in the shape of a certain country, but it’s grub, for ****’s sake, not art. I’m paying to enjoy the taste, not the arrangement. It all looks the same on the way out, what difference does it make what it looks like on the way in? (A point I often make to food buffs, much to their disgust.)

I enjoy a good meal as much as the next man, but why the Hell would I care what pattern my tea appears in on a plate? I’m not five.

RC 25-5-19

2325 BST

Internal date night

I’m cooking a candlelit supper thing tonight. Apparently it’s something I promised to do for Valentine’s Day, and it seems I’m running out of reasons to postpone it. I don’t mind really. I like cooking and I like cooking for Philippa, so it shouldn’t be a chore. But at some point this week I had got it into my head that I would be allowed to have the evening out watching a local band that I like. The drummer is far too good to be wasting his time with a covers group from Suffolk, and I imagine he’ll notice that soon and allow himself to be poached by a better band, so I like to go and watch them whenever they’re on, while I still can. I’d quite like to have a chat with him, as one sticks-man to another, but me talking to him would be a bit like a local village cricketer having a chat with Ian Botham about the mechanics of bowling. He really is terribly good.

I’ve got back into the skins recently, and I’ve been trying to use some of the many free online YouTube lessons to learn a few things, but I’ve noticed something about them. They’re normally recorded by people who work for a company that provides instruments, so most of the video is basically an extended sales pitch, and they also overestimate the abilities of the average person viewing and trying to play along. They’ll start by saying ‘this is a really simple pattern, with a cross-over in the fourth bar” and then proceed to do something that requires at least three elbow dislocations to achieve. At which point I give up, and go back to watching comedy.

RC 25-5-19

Disturbing

I found an unusual phone app thing today. You take a photo of your baby using your camera phone, and this thing automatically ages it so you can see what your offspring will look like when they’re older. I hope it isn’t very accurate, because according to the outcome of today’s efforts, when Rory reaches 30 he’ll look like a cross between Ralph Fiennes and Amanda Holden.

RC 23-5-19

3 for the price of 1 today

“Frame up”

You know how I said we were getting some photographs done for free, because the girl with the camera wanted to use our shots for publicity? It turns out we DID pay her – I found the receipt today in a pile of Philippa’s stuff I was going through.  It was only a small amount, but still, it was an outgoing that I hadn’t been made aware of. In fact, my wife had deliberately lied to me about it.

So I had a bit of a go at Philippa about it (justifiably so, in my opinion). She gave a little shrug of the shoulders and said “I knew you’d only say yes if it was free so I lied a little”

Now I’m not sure what annoys me more - the lie itself, or me being so predictable and so easy to manipulate.

I don’t suppose I can blame her for taking advantage of me when I make it so easy to do….

“A relic of a broken past”

Hannah came round today with a photograph she had unearthed from the back of a drawer somewhere. It was an unusual one because it had all three of us siblings together, with our mother, and we all looked fairly happy.

We looked at it in silence and then talked about something else.

“Quirky personality thing”

This is a bit strange, but when I eat bags of crisps now I like to tip them out into a bowl, rather than eat them from the packet.

RC 22-5-19

Framed

Yesterday was good fun, in the end. We were there for four hours, and I suppose I relaxed for the last six minutes or so….

Mathew had a whale of a time. He enjoyed the brightness of the studio setting, and the lady photographer woman had laid out loads of cuddly toys for him to grab onto and loads of colourful things for him to be distracted by. She was very professional and it was hard to believe that she’s new at this. We were basically her first customers (even though we’re not paying her) so everything was shiny. Some of her equipment had to be unwrapped before she could even use it. We were done and dusted by early afternoon, and Mathew was exhausted from all the posing so he slept for a long time, so I got to bugger off on the Velociped for a while. I came home to find Philippa cooking a very delightful-smelling meat and potato pie (she still seems to be having weird cravings, even after giving birth in December) which went down very well indeed, after a shower. We then confirmed our holiday details for the Summer, and cuddled up to watch Woody Allen’s masterpiece “Annie Hall.”

All in all, a damn good day.

RC 19-5-19

Fri-ku about the next 24 hours

Our Saturday plans?

Last week’s photoshoot was moved

It’s now tomorrow

RC 17-5-19

muito cansado

Been another strange week, punctuated by hours of insomnia and days of non-blogging. I’m starting to notice in myself something I’ve noticed in other parents of young children – a curious state of mind where you’re not quite asleep but also nowhere near full consciousness. There seems to be a permanent mist of unfocus in front of my eyes, so I’m guessing I’m either over-tired or developing cataracts. Babies are marvellous but by Christ they can wear you out.

RC 16-5-19

Snap (un)happy

I suppose this is the good part of having a Bank Holiday weekend – you get to Friday and suddenly think ‘Wow! Another week gone! That was quick!’

We’re getting some family photos taken tomorrow. Nothing makes me unhappier than having to pose for photos, and nothing makes me cringe harder than those terrible ‘meet the baby’ pictures that people pay hundreds of pounds for and then pollute social media with, BUT – a friend of Philippa’s has recently completed an expensive photography course, and is desperately trying to make a name for herself and get some paid gigs in so she can tell her boss to feck off and work for herself full-time, so she’s doing us some freebies on the agreement that she can use them for her own publicity. I have no intention of letting her stick us on the homepage of her website, but if showing her efforts with us to prospective clients helps her get herself up and running, then I suppose that’s not too bad.

I can absolutely, positively, 100% guarantee you, however, that I will not be attaching even one of the photos to any future blog postings. If that ever happens you can a) assume my account has been hacked and b) hunt me down and kill me with a kebab skewer.

RC 10-5-19

16:50 BST

Beating the Blues

Drums are the answer, I find. Philippa took Mathew out for an evening with her friends, or family, or other mums, or something, so I was able to bash the shit out of some skins without fear of disturbing either of them. Marvellous. I do find it very therapeutic – locking myself in the garage and locking myself into a repetitive drum pattern that becomes the only thing I’m concentrating on for an hour or so. Everything else just seems to drift away and disappear as I focus on the next few beats. It’s a meditation of sorts. Just not one that’s compatible with some other forms of meditation. I can’t imagine a group of Zen Buddhists seated in a circle would enjoy me bashing out the solo from ‘Kashmir’

RC 10-5-19

Staycation, and classroom despair

Philippa and I are looking to book a little holiday. We’re not going to drag Mathew halfway around Europe on a shitty plane, but there are plenty of decent little places within driving distance of Suffolk. It will just be nice to have a change of scenery, and to change nappies in a different location for a change. God – I used the word ‘change’ a lot in that sentence; good job I don’t have an A-level English teacher marking my blog postings the way they used to mark my essays. I still get a shudder of hatred and despair whenever I see someone writing with a red pen – it takes me back to several unpleasant encounters with Mr Hardiman, a sadistic {naughty word deleted} who took great delight in handing out ‘D’ grades, and who wielded his cheap BIC pen like a gladiator wielded a broadsword.

Now I’m in a terrible mood again.

Why is it that thinking of a teacher you didn’t get on with decades ago makes you feel like an unhappy 11-year-old all over again? I guess it’s all down to the lack of control. In my day, if a teacher was a bastard to you then you just had to put up with it for another four years or so. They held great power over you, and you knew it and felt helpless. Maybe that’s why it still rankles me twenty-five years later. Still – he was close to retiring then, and he smoked about 60 a day, so the chances are he’s dead by now.

I feel better now.

RC 8-5-19

Hard to be back

Struggling for motivation today. Lots to do and very little energy to do any of it with. Disappointed that the snooker has finished, even though I wasn’t that bothered about it (I think it just gave me a nice distraction whenever I wanted to switch off in the office for a spell.) Feeling a bit mopey about the continuing lack of nice weather.

Generally, all in all, I’m just a bit fed up.

Being a parent can be exhausting, I think that needs to be acknowledged. I talk to people who have no children and they say, ‘well, when I’m overtired I go to bed early!’ which is great for them. But when you have a nearly-but-not-quite-five-month-old son, going to bed early doesn’t mean anything because your sleep patterns are so messed up anyway. Even on the nights when he sleeps right through, I find it hard to relax enough to enjoy a good rest, as I think my subconscious is geared up and ready just in case he gets us up at 3 or 4am.

Plus, I have a touch of the ‘Back to School Blues’ after having the long weekend. It hurts more than it should, because Mondays are the days where I sometimes work from home for a while anyway, so being here yesterday didn’t feel like bonus time off. It felt like a normal Monday. So in a way, I’ve had less of a break than the rest of you. It would be a damn sight better for me if the extra day was plopped on the start of the weekend, rather than the end.

I wonder if I can persuade the government to instigate ‘Bank Holiday Fridays’?

RC 7-5-19

A May Day (a poem)

A fun Bank Holiday

Lazing at home

In my mind, I am swimming in the sea

In reality?

The wind is too chilly to step outside

So in the house, we hide

A gurgling child

Birds in the garden

Each reliant on us for sustenance

Milk enough for one

The others require seed, nuts, fat balls

(Or is it ‘fatballs’ as one word?)

See how my brain wanders?

Last night I dreamt

I was The Tin Man, in Wizard of Oz

Everyone called me ‘Tinny’

And the scarecrow chased me, armed with a can opener.

What does it mean?.......

Never drink tequila on a Sunday.

RC 6-5-19

Sleep, and my stomach

Ted seemed very tired today, which is worrying. I mean – he’s bloody old, so it shouldn’t be surprising if he has a Sunday nap every now and then, but even when he was awake, he didn’t seem with it. I tried to engage him in snooker chat but he wasn’t really bothered. I brought up the subject of Norwich City Football Club winning promotion to the Premier League, but it fell flat. (Mind you – he knows full well that I have very little interest in football so he may have seen through my ruse and decided not to indulge me.)

Anyway, it was a jolly enjoyable afternoon, even with Mr Snoozy snoring his way through most of it. Beryl may be losing mobility with age but she sure as Hell isn’t losing her culinary skills. We had the most succulent cut of beef I have ever tasted, adorned with some Marmite-covered roast potatoes (don’t knock ‘em til you’ve tried ‘em) and my all-time Beryl-made favourite – cauliflower cheese.

Needless to say, Beryl served up enough for 72 people and then refused any attempts to avoid second helpings, so I now feel as if a pool of methane the size of South Sudan is making its way towards my southmost orifice.

Philippa could be in for a rough night.

RC 5-4-19

Sci-fi and unenli-wi

Awful weather today, but we had a pleasant enough day, topped off with a viewing of “2001: A Space Odyssey” which is even barmier, battier and more brilliant than I remembered. Philippa said she felt ‘a bit lost’ but that’s nothing new. I advised her to treat the whole movie like a music video designed for a classical album, which had been put together by genius students who had taken a lot of drugs. She said she wished we had just watched ‘Dirty Dancing’ again instead and I called her an unenlightened heathen.

I love her, and she has her good points (great body; disarming giggle; brilliant mother) but sometimes her lack of appreciation for the cinematic greats leaves me reeling. I have tried to fuel her passion, I swear I have, but she’d still be happier watching some poorly-written rom-com trash-filth than she would be watching a David Lean film. It’s just not right. But what can I do about it? If you think ‘Pretty Woman’ is better than ‘Citizen Kane’ then you’re far beyond the scope of what help I can give you, so I have to accept it and give up. Even if you’re my wife.

At least she reads proper books, instead of shitty magazines or ‘Fifty Shades’ novels, like some women in my life I could poke a finger at. Looking over to her bedside table as I type, I see that her latest novel-of-choice is a dark emotional thriller set in a 19^th-Century Dutch brothel, so she’s not all bad.

RC 4-5-19

What a week

May has not started nicely. Professionally, it’s been full of firefighting, problem solving and clearing up other people’s messes. You know you sometimes go for a walk and spend most of your time stepping around piles of dog shit that owners haven’t bothered bagging up? That’s what most of this week has felt like.

Anyhow, let us not dwell upon it, as the weekend has arrived and we are planning to take Mathew out and about – (meeting up with his Aunty Sophie tomorrow; then swimming and a nice cooked lunch with Ted and Beryl on Sunday.)

RC 3-5-19