5-7-5 re: 3x3x3

Haiku written at 1am this morning after desperately trying to complete the second side of Rubiks Cube for nearly six hours…

Rubik’s Cube is fun.
But it also drives you mad.
It’s a toy from Hell.

RC 30-6-11

3x3x3

I may have found something to stop me obsessing about my shoulder…
There’s a girl at work called Natalie, who is a bit like custard, in that she’s sweet and very simple. Our breaks have been coinciding this week, so we’ve been chatting every day over a cup of tea and a cookie or two in the canteen. Natalie’s conversation mostly seems to be about nail varnish and tooth decay, and whether or not she’s going to be successful at the auditions for next years “X Factor”
Yesterday though, we ended up taking about childhood toys, as her father is a collector of rare action figures, and Transformers merchandise. (from the original cartoon series, by the way, not from the recent movie franchise)
After telling me she owned more than 300 Barbie dolls, and then painfully proving she could remember all their names, she started telling me about Rubik’s Cubes. This is an invention that I was somehow unfamiliar with, but which Mr Google tells me is probably the best-selling toy of all time. Natalie couldn’t believe I’d never played with one as a child, so today she brought me one in as ‘a present.’
It struck me as a bit of a weird gesture, and I promised myself I’d make sure her breaks and mine are hours apart from now on, but then I picked the bloody thing up, and now I can’t leave the bloody thing alone. WHAT an invention, and what a great way to spend time in my lunch break (and, let’s be honest, when I’m in the Manager’s Office ’catching up on paperwork’) I’m determined to complete it by the weekend. There are online guides to help you solve it, but I’m trying to do it the way they would have done it back in pre-internet days when it was invented, so I’m using my own dexterity and mathematical nous.
And if that doesn’t work I’ll twat it with a hammer and rebuild it.

RC 29-6-11

Squirty Bertie

One of my ‘crew members’ at work asked to speak to me in private today. Being someone who always expects the worst of people, I was waiting for him to complain about backache and ask to change duties, or possibly to claim a relative had died and beg me for six months compassionate leave. As usual with life though, I didn’t get what I was expecting.
I took him to a quiet corner of the warehouse, where he nervously said “I took a football in the nuts last week and now when I go for a piss it just comes out in small dribbles.”
I stood there, stunned, blinking at him.
“That’s not normal is it boss?”
Part of me desperately wanted to say ‘The thing is, Bob, when I said you can always come to me with your problems, I actually meant work-related ones..’ but I managed to maintain a bit of professionalism. I told him to call his doctor first thing in the morning, and just come in late if he needs to go for an appointment.
Either the workforce are trying to wind me up, or I’ve just become a surrogate father to a 50-year-old.

RC 28-6-11

Sunburn is the feeling of Summer..

Finally, after what feels like months of wet, dull weather, Summer has one again exploded over the skies of North Norfolk. Yesterday was 28Celsius, today was 31. I’ve been locked away in an air-conditioned supermarket today, but I certainly got to enjoy it yesterday. Philippa’s badminton friends did one of their impromptu excursions to the beach, so we got a phone call at 11am, grabbed some grub and a blanket and headed down to the sand.
It was great fun, but I spent most of the day trapped in the horns of a dilemma - do I keep my shirt on and risk over-heating, or take my shirt off and reveal my traumatically mis-spelt tattoo to the world?
Philippa couldn’t get her kit off quick enough. She was skipping around in an orange bikini, showing off her shoulder to all and sundry. I did feel very proud, I have to say, watching this sexy woman with my name emblazoned on her skin, knowing it would be there forever. But then people started asking me “Why didn’t you get one done?” I smiled, declined to comment, and walked away, feeling my shoulder burn with a combination of embarrassment, shame and heat rash.
The afternoon was a blur of beach games, tinnies, and plunges, and I yet again had to explain to people that my refusal to swim in the sea was down to allergies and health rather than fear and inability.
Just before 5pm, as a plethora of instant barbecues seemed to appear from nowhere, I was chatting to an athletic-looking Londoner called Todd. The conversation was going along happily, then he suddenly said “Can I ask you something mate? We’re on the beach in thirty-degree heat. Why are you wearing an office shirt?”

We stayed until almost nine. I think Norfolk will be sold out of sunburn cream for a fortnight.

RC 27-6-11

TEN ASSORTED HAIKU

Wet weather in June
and Winter will be here soon.
What a shitty year.

My name is Rory
and my surname is Chesworth.
That’s lazy haiku.

Don’t get a tattoo.
They will ask you what you want
and then spell it wrong

Dark clouds in the sky.
When you see God ask him why.
And then kick his arse.

Supermarket life
has turned out to be okay.
So far, so good, eh?

“Christmas Carol”’s good
But my fave Yuletide read is
“The Box of Delights”

When I am a dad
I shall treat my children well
and hide them from school

Norfolk June is wet.
Wetter than the bloody sea,
or a fishes piss

Cameron and Clegg
Make me laugh even more than
Laurel and Hardy

Wimbledon fortnight:
A chance to watch great tennis…
…and sexy women.

RC 25-6-11

Andy who?

I had a revelation about Wimbledon today. I sat down to watch Andy Murray and thought “Why am I doing this?” Every year the British public go mad supporting him and getting in trouble at work for watching online, and leaving things early or cancelling things to watch him, then after the inevitable defeat in the semis or final they say ‘It was pointless watching all those early matches as he hasn’t won it anyway. Why did we bother?”
So I decided to cut the middle bit out completely, and I turned off the telly and I went for a walk. And I feel much better for it.

RC 24-6-11

Gender surrender

I had a 10-minute conversation with a customer today and I genuinely cannot tell you which sex they belong to. He/she/it was about six feet tall, with long, skanky, unkempt hair, a face that could have been male-and-recently-shaved or female-and-horribly-pitted, and a voice that sounded somewhere between Mick Hucknall with a cold and Sarah Lancashire on steroids. They were overweight and dressed in loose black clothing, and there were definitely boob shapes, but whether they were unsupported titties or fulsome manfat, I‘m not sure.
I didn’t know if I was talking to a man, or a woman, or a Meat Loaf tribute act.

RC 23-6-11

Don't mention the unmentionable

Good to have women’s tennis back again. I turned the telly on when I got in from work to catch up with happenings in SW19, and it was raining. I thought “Yep - it’s Wimbledon time.”
The weather has really been getting me down. Rain and wind most days, with just occasional bursts of sunshine, which always seem to coincide with me arriving at work. I don’t know what I expect really. After more than a quarter-of-a-century in this country, you would think I’d know what English summers are like by now, and yet still I walk into June each year expecting scorching, dry weather and cloudless skies. It’s an example of blind hope, I suppose, like the middle-aged men in nightclubs hoping to pull a stunner, or tennis fans expecting a Brit to win Wimbledon.
Philippa has banned me from ever mentioning my tattoo again. It’s still bothering me, you see. Even when I’m wearing a shirt so it can’t be seen, I can feel it burning away like a distress beacon. I can almost hear it screaming “I’M SPELT WRONG! AND I ALWAYS WILL BE!”
I’ve walked past The Inkmans’ premises twice in the last week, and both times I had to stop myself racing in and stabbing him to death with his own needles. Sophie tells me that some NHS hospitals will pay for tattoo removals if it’s particularly ugly or causing you undue stress. But she also said ‘they normally don’t expect to hear from people who have only just had them done.’ It’s a conspiracy, I tells you.
I spent three days trying to persuade Philippa to change her name by deed poll, but she wouldn’t do it. Selfish cow. I think my only hope may be an expensive course of intense psychotherapy, because as things stand it’s making me insane.

RC 22-6-11

"Ted, My Hero" - a story by Rory

Once upon a time, there was an unhappy little boy called Rory. He had grown up living all alone in a world of darkness, and had only recently started noticing the beautiful scenery outside. He spent his days with his thoughts in imaginary forests, while his body carried out mundane tasks in a supermarket.
One weekend, while watching the rain fall down against the window, Rory spotted two well-dressed men approaching his front door. From another room in the house his friend Philippa shouted “Don’t open the door for f**ks sake, it’s the f**king Jehovahs Witnesses.” Rory smiled to himself and continued playing Internet Scrabble, while the visitors outside tapped against the door and stood patiently in dampening socks.
After a few futile seconds, the visitors strode away from Rory’s door, and ventured instead to the path of Rory’s friend Ted.
Now Ted was a soldier, a man to be respected; a man in possession of several medals for bravery, and a furious temper as well.
When the Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked at his door he didn’t hide and cower like Rory had, he reacted in a very different way. Stepping out into the rain adorned only in slippers and a vest, he chased the visitors back down his path, waving a ceremonial curtain pole above his head and shouting obscenities in three different languages. One of the visitors was so startled that he fell over backwards in a large puddle, and soaked himself from the waist down like an evangelical Dr Foster.
As the two misguided colleagues took off round the corner like a couple of rabbits with a dog behind them, Ted waved goodbye with a curiously abusive hand gesture, then walked back to his door, where his wife Beryl met him with a kiss and a towel.
Watching from his bedroom window as his hero retreated indoors, Rory desperately wanted to cheer loudly, but couldn’t, as he was too busy pissing himself.

THE END

Brighter (in spirit, if not meteorologically)

You may not have noticed, but my blogs have been a bit negative and glum this week….
After posting my ‘things I’m fed up with’ list the other night, I picked up a notepad and pen and continued to write down what’s annoying me. I ended up with about 275 of them, and although I felt a lot better for it, I felt slightly embarrassed. None of them were exactly awful, and some were so petty I deserve to have the list rolled into a ball and stuffed into my windpipe to put me out of my ‘misery.’
In the interest of fair play, and in a desperate attempt to restore positivity to my postings, I present for you a LIST OF THINGS THAT MAKE ME FEEL GOOD RIGHT NOW:

It’s June, so it’s summer (although you wouldn’t believe it to look outside today)
I’m in love.
The person I’m in love with loves me too.
I have a good relationship with both my sisters.
I am in ‘gainful employment’ (never really have understood what that meant)
My work does not involve strenuous physical movements or taxing mental undertakings (or being whipped by a hateful, burly taskmaster.)
I am healthy, and much lighter than I used to be.
I have at least two people that I class as true friends.
I am not in debt.
I am not addicted to any liquid or solid substance.
It’s light until 10pm.
I’m not one of Jamie Oliver’s testicles.

That’s twelve things, and I only did six ‘fed up’ ones the other day, so hopefully balance is restored, and hopefully now I can persuade Philippa to stop calling me a moody git and come and spend the weekend with me…

RC 16-6-11

Fed. Up.

Every morning I wake up hoping it’s still Saturday, so that I still have a chance to call off the appointment with The Inkman. (or ‘The Bastard’ as I’ve started calling him)

Philippa refused to come round tonight. She said she’s sick of me going on about the tattoo and she doesn’t want to see me until I ‘grow up and get over it.’ She said lots of people have scars and traumas they have to deal with; I have no real issue for complaint.

They used to tell me that writing poetry or an angry letter can help to vent feelings and unhappiness, so here’s a list of things I’m really fed up with at the moment (not including the obvious)…
…seeing Jamie Oliver’s smug face on telly every week
…the price of petrol, even though I haven’t started buying it yet.
…our neighbours dog, that keeps yapping every seven seconds 24-hours-a-day
…being constantly asked ‘where’s the bread, love?’ by old people in the supermarket.
…having a girlfriend who expects me to act with a certain amount of consideration for her and her feelings, rather than doing whatever I like.
…being away from that girlfriend tonight, when I feel I really need her company

RC 14-6-11

There is no tattoo tippex..

So I am now indelibly marked with something completely irrelevant and meaningless, and I am not happy. I’ve contacted my GP, my MP, my MEP, BUPA, NHS Direct, seven different injury claims lawyers and my sister, but with no help. I am now seriously considering hiring a hitman. Either for ‘The Inkman’ to get my revenge, or for myself to put me out of my misery.
It still bloody hurts as well. This ‘painless procedure’ that I was promised is about as painless as a root canal or a haemorrhoid. Which, by the way, I seem to have developed from all the buttock-clenching I did while that bastard held me down and forced a needle repeatedly into my shoulder. What was I thinking? I knew, deep down, that it was not a good idea, and I still allowed myself to be swept along to the inevitable unhappy ending. Love is a bad thing, and Philippa (or PHILLIPA as I have to call her now to make my sodding shoulder accurate) owes me big now.
HE SPELT HER NAME WRONG.. AND IT’s PERMANENT..
I’ve lasted four years without swearing in this blog but FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!!!

RC 13-6-11

The nightmare goes on..

I woke up to find Philippa looking at my shoulder.
She said “I love it, you know. Even if it’s not perfect. And I bet you no-one will notice.”
At lunchtime I showed it to Hannah.
She said “It’s really sweet. But it’s spelt wrong.”
I’ve decided to invest in a burka.

RC 12-6-11

What's in a name?

We had our tattoos done today.
Philippa went first and was very brave. She laid face down on the table while the ‘artist’ embroidered the word RORY and a red heart on the back of her left shoulder. I foolishly decided to watch, so I knew exactly what was coming when it was my turn. What I should have done is sat in the chair near her head and stroked her hair while it was happening, then maybe she would have done the same for me. As it was, she just sat there and laughed while I shook with fear and had tears of pain rolling down my face.
When it was over, he wiped away the blood (don’t ask) and held up a mirror so I could see his handiwork. I stared in disbelief for about thirty seconds while the shock sank in before saying “Erm - is it my imagination, or have you spelt her name wrong?”
He took a quick look and said “No, mate, it’s fine.”
I said “No it isn’t fine. You’ve spelt it with two L’s and one P”
He said “Yes mate. Two L’s and one P. Phillipa. That’s how you spell it.”
I felt like throwing up. My head was spinning and I heard myself mumble tearfully “It’s the other way round… It’s the other way round…” My head sank onto the table as Philippa burst out laughing. Thankfully, she found it highly amusing, unless it was just the trauma and adrenalin affecting her.
Anyway, after much anger, negotiation and noise, I got an apology, and my money back. But what’s the point? It’s not her name is it? I might as well have got a tattoo that says ‘STEPHANIE’ or ‘JEFF’
Next time Philippa wants us to ‘express our depth of love’ I’m buying T-shirts that say “I’m With Her” (and “Him”)
I hope this posting makes some kind of sense, as I am rather in shock, and in pain, and intoxicated.

RC 11-6-11

Weird, wired and worried

What a strange week.
The insanity of everyday life in a supermarket has seen me baffled to the point of defeat, drinking too much coffee, or hiding in the toilet in the throes of a cataclysmic panic attack.
My standing as a ‘respected manager’ took a dive somewhat when I nearly choked to death on a flapjack. It happened yesterday afternoon in the staff canteen. I inhaled at the wrong point of chewing and got some oats caught in my windpipe. A quick-thinking warehouse chap punched me full force between the shoulder blades, and I covered the till girl sitting opposite in spit and crumbs. My first week on the job has not, to say the very least, been glorious.

One thing work has done, though, is distract me from thinking about tomorrow’s tattoo appointment, which I’d forgotten right up to the point that Philippa walked in, tapping her shoulder and saying “this time tomorrow your name will be here.”
There I was, relieved to have survived to Friday and switching off for a relaxing weekend, and now I can’t stop thinking about needles and ink.
What the HELL am I doing?

RC 10-6-11

I don't often praise religion, but..

You know churches sometimes have signs outside, and put catchy slogans on to try and tempt you in?
I saw a great one today on my way to work. There was a big picture of the Bible, and it said:

We don't need FACEBOOK,
We've got our FAITHBOOK

Brilliant!!

Haiku....

….about the therapeutic effects of sunlight:

Summer sun on skin
Helps to ease the pain within
Makes me think of sin

….about Cheryl Cole:

She can’t sing or dance
She can’t even talk proper
Why is she admired?

….about being a deputy department manager in a supermarket:

My new job is strange
Will I stay here and succeed?
Or should I just quit?

RC 7-6-11

Bad start

Oops. They threw me in at the deep end a bit. Why do they think you can instantly do everything associated with a job 5 seconds after you take over the position? I’m not thick, and I paid attention during training, but it’s still going to take a while to get in the swing of it and understand what I’m doing. And I had to point that out a few times today, both to the underlings in my department looking to me for guidance and to the lazy bum kissers above me looking for instant results. And I’m proud of myself for doing it. And if they don’t like it, they can kiss my hairy management ringer and call me a taxi while they do it.
Sorry, I’m a bit tired….

RC 6-6-11

Taking the Plunge

We spent the afternoon on the beach. Philippa and her mates played with a childrens badminton set; I drank lots of water and sat in the shade. At one point I got chatting to a nice couple in their sixties who live in a cottage behind the dunes. At about three o’clock, they walked off holding hands and strolled straight into the sea up to their necks. I thought they were some kind of suicide pact but they just had a swim and then came out again. I was impressed, but couldn’t help asking “are you mad?”
“Oh, we’ve done it every day since the first week of May,” the man said, “it’s good for the circulation and is very refreshing.”
You know when someone says something and it seems like a really good idea?
I walked into the sea myself, at about quarter past five last night, and I wouldn’t call it refreshing.
I would call it ****ing freezing.

New job very nearly here then. I start in just 14 hours. That’s 840 minutes away, or only 50,400 seconds of freedom remaining. Sounds very OCD and anal, I know, but it’s an old habit of mine that I can’t shake off - counting down time until I start work. The difference this time though is that I have a lovely Monday evening with Philippa to look forward to, and that’s only 23 hours away, which equates to 1,380 minutes, or 82,800 seconds, so it doesn’t feel as if my life stops at 10am tomorrow.
Love changes everything.

RC 5-6-11

My skin is a canvas, apparently

We had the ‘informal chat’ with the tattoo man today. Philippa says he’s like a kindly uncle. I think he looks more like a downbeat alcoholic who’s had several bits of metal forced into his face by muggers.
“They’re piercings, they‘re just adornments,” Philippa told me, “It’s no different to me wearing ear-rings, and if he was in an Amazon tribe he’d be considered a work of art.”
That’s as maybe, but I’m worried that the six bolts through his eyebrow might affect his sight, and he’ll accidentally stab me in the jugular while ‘inking’ me.
When he asked if I had any questions, I inquired how many deaths he’s caused by being clumsy, but he declined to answer and Philippa punched me in the stomach.
“Ignore him” she said, “he’s just nervous.”
“Don’t worry, lots of people are nervous on their first visit” he said, “mostly the teenage girls, but don’t feel bad. You’re in good hands.”
Actually his hands look like they’ve been hit with bricks several times and then sewn back together by a blind plastic surgeon having a sneezing fit.
Anyway, for better or worse, we’ve picked our gothic lettering and our colour scheme, and we’re booked in for next Saturday morning at 10am. If anyone can think of a way out of this, you have six-and-a-half days to contact me…..

RC 4-6-11 (evening)

Home and happy

I’m half-an-hour late with a blog for 3rd June, so that’s my ‘One Post Every Day For A Month’ challenge blown until July.

Good to be back in Norfolk, and with Philippa.
She’s had a busy week and is tired, so I let her fall asleep in my arms and now I am catching up on blogging while watching her sleep and breathe in my bed. Who would have thought it could be so great to just watch someone peacefully resting? God, I love her.
I got all weepy when we saw each other. It’s only been three days, but it’s the longest we’ve been apart and it was painful. She buried her head in my chest and said ‘I missed your smell’ which seems a little weird in retrospect but at the time was lovely.
I start work fully on Monday and it’s quite exciting. It’s only a week ago that I felt near-suicidal and almost quit. I thanked Philippa again tonight for talking me through it, and for all the other improvements she seems to have made in my life and said ‘how can I ever thank you?’
She said ‘Just be here for a cuddle when I need one. And promise me never to lie to me. That’s all I ask. Oh, and get my name tattooed on your shoulder…”
Ah, yes, the tattoo. The thing I had forgotten while busily learning supermarket management skills. We are seeing ‘The Inkman’ tomorrow, to discuss our joint appointment and to finalise our designs. I am still not fully convinced, but he says we can ask any questions and he’s happy to allay our fears. I’m now resisting the urge to put “infections resulting from tattoo needles” into Google…

RC 4-6-11 (early)

Absense makes the thingy whatsit

I might try and post a blog every day in June. If you remember, I set myself the challenge of writing every day in February but failed miserably, even though it’s the shortest month. I may try again now, as there’s loads going on this month so I should have plenty to write about.
Shadowing is fun. Adam took me out for a three-hour lunch break today, and told me lots of ‘shortcuts and cheats’ that should make my life a lot easier. What a star. He says that the best tip he can give me is ‘don’t have an affair with one of the till girls if her husband is a member of the warehouse staff’ The scar above his lip is testament to that tip, apparently.

My last night as a Travelodge resident tonight. I’m quite fond of this little room, and this lovely mattress. I think I’ll spend part of my first months wages on a new bed, as mine at home is the one I’ve had since I was eleven, and it’s pretty worn. It had to deal with my unclean teenage years, my overweight early twenties, and whatever horrible things my mum and her assorted sordid lovers might have done to it while I was away at uni. I shudder at the thought, really. Plus, Philippa stays over a lot now and it would nice to have a bigger bed, and one that I haven’t been in with other partners. Fresh start and all that. And once we move in together, the bed can come with us to the new place! How exciting! Twenty-four hours now and I’ll be back in her arms, staring into her beautiful pool-like eyes and kissing her thin yet inviting lips.
Can’t wait.
　
RC 2-6-11

A way away

Greetings from sunny Suffolk. I am over-the-border, ensconced in a Travelodge and taking advantage of WiFi.
Work was actually fun today. I am shadowing a 35-year-old lunatic called Adam, who seems to have maintained a decade-long career in supermarket management despite being lazy, rude and incompetent. He drinks even more tea than Ron and Ginger Graham, which is amazing. Maybe it’s a psychological requirement of this company - to fit in and succeed you have to ingest six hundred gallons of Assam every morning. I couldn’t keep up. I was off for a piss every thirty minutes and I’d only had one ‘Pot for One’ with my breakfast. Orange juice for me from now on, or I’ll be getting one of my heads.
I have to speak to Graham at the end of every day and give him a ‘progress report’ which is thrilling. He’s the most enthusiastic person in Norfolk. Either he was born with unnatural levels of optimism, or it’s all a big front and he’s trying to cover the fact that his life is full of darkness, pain and self-loathing. Either way, he’s just given me yet more good news - my first four weeks on the job I’ll be working 10-6 Monday-Friday, which means I’ll be doing similar hours to Philippa! Then I go onto something called ‘management shifts’ which I don’t understand yet but I’ll worry about it when I get there.
I’m going to call Philippa now then drink a four-pack of lager from the garage.

RC 1-6-11