February 2004 Archives

Went I went to bed, there was only Vicki and myself in the house. This morning it is awash with Irish. There are at least eight of them. It's like a box of Lucky Charms exploded in the house. Where do they all come from?

Well, I know where they come from. They shag like rabbits, the little buggers. Two of them are banging away even as I write this. Tomorrow, no doubt, there'll be 16 of the freckle-faced midgets dancing jigs around the kitchen, making tea.

Oh well, at least they're a charming race (for the most part) and don't take up too much room.

I forgot my towel this morning. I didn't realise it until I had finished showering. All I had were my cycling clothes and my clean clothes. Now, obviously, I couldn't dry myself with my clean clothes because I needed to wear them. And, equally, I couldn't dry myself with my cycling clothes because, well, because they're made out of some high tech fabric that isn't actually of this Earth. They're not the least bit absorbent. They're kind of like some kind of alien plastic pretending to be cloth.

And so I stood there, dripping, and swearing quietly to myself. I tried shaking the water off and waving my limbs about, but it was pretty humid in the shower cubicle and it didn't seem to make much difference.

I thought maybe if I waited a bit I would dry off enough to put my clothes on but there are only two shower cubicles in the building and they're in high demand so it wasn't long before someone was banging on the door asking what the hell I was doing in there. It was obvious they wouldn't wait much longer. Soon there would be an angry mob and they might start throwing leeches over the door and trying to take the shower by force.

I rummaged through my pack looking for salvation and I thought I'd found it - a lighter! This should speed things up, I said to myself. Unfortunately, I held it a bit too near my skin and burnt myself. Which caused me to drop the lighter on to my alien plastic clothes. Which, being made of alien plastic, immediately burst into flames. And that, of course, caused the damn sprinklers to go off, so I got all wet again.

I stood there peering up at the sprinkler wondering "why me?" and somebody started banging on the door again. This time it was one of the fire wardens and he dragged me out of the building buck naked.

But now, at least, I had a good excuse so it didn't bother me too much. I mean there was a fire and everything. And what with the wind and all I dried off pretty quickly once I got outside.

And, not only that, but I caught some of the girls from the office checking me out. I think they were very favourably impressed.

Ha! Dave Gorman has a typo on page 287 of his fancy-ass book -- "too" instead of "to"!

Other reasons to see the morning as half full:

There's a guy wearing a purple suit and a porkpie hat on my bus.

I recognise the book the girl in front of me is reading. It's "Bridget Jones Diary". I like knowing what other people are reading. I feel reassured. How could anyone who reads the same kind of books I do be a terrorist or a knife-wielding madwoman?

I've decided I'm a "morning half empty" person. My landlord is a "morning half full" kind of person. He wakes up every morning thinking "Woo Hoo! I didn't die in my sleep last night! More air to breathe! More fun to have! More wine to drink!"

I, on the other hand, wake up slightly disappointed that I didn't expire the night before. "Bugger," I think, "another day to struggle through. What if I get hit by a bus today? What if I stub my toe? What if I develop an allergy to the colour orange? I love orange."

The worst part of this discrepancy is the singing.

My landlord sings in the morning. I stumble downstairs wary of everything around me and ready to flee back to the duvet at a moment's provocation. He bounces around the kitchen like Tigger on speed.

"Hello! Welcome! Bienvenue! How are you?"

"Fine," I grunt. "Must drink tea. Stand away from the kettle."

He then giggles and skips out of the room singing some obscure Eighties punk band track.

You'd think his cheerfulness would cause me to perk up a bit. It does not. It just makes me even more depressed. Not only do I have to worry about the colour orange, but now I have to worry about the fact I'm a grumpy old man.

Fortunately, my mood dissipates once I get on my bike and I'm usually quite chipper by the time I arrive at work. I think it's the traffic. I find chaos soothing. Or it may just be all the bus exhaust I end up breathing. Whatever. By the time I put my bike away and sit at my desk there is a smile on my lips and glee in my heart.

My Charming Spouse and I went up to Birmingham yesterday to sign the lease on her new place. She's teaching at the University of Wolverhampton, which as you may guess, is not actually in Birmingham. It's not in Wolverhampton either. It's in Walsall. But she couldn't find anywhere reasonably priced and unhellish in Walsall. Thus, the place in Birmingham.

Foolishly, I bought a book for the train journey and it turned out to be quite good. Whenever this happens, I am plunged into a mid-life crisis. It may sound odd to have repeated mid-life crises, but who among us really knows how long they are going to live? I have been having mid-life crises since I was seven years old. Hopefully, I'll go on having them until I'm well over a hundred.

Anyway, the crux of my frequent mid-life crises is that I haven't written a book myself yet. And the books I'm reading lately are the kind of books I could actually imagine myself writing: “Round Ireland with a Fridge”, “Playing the Moldovans at Tennis”, “French Revolutions”, “Do Not Pass Go”, and now, “Dave Gorman's Googlewack Adventure”. This last was especially painful as it is about a guy (Dave Gorman) who has a mid-life crisis because he hasn't written a novel yet, and then proceeds to go off on an adventure and write a really funny book about it which I end up buying and reading on a train.

All these books are about guys about my age going on weirdass adventures (usually involving some kind of drunken bet and a great deal of travelling) and then writing a book about it -- a funny book.

I started a book once, not really a novel because it was based on a true story. Basically, I went on a blind date which involved buying a car and driving all the way across Canada with a friend to meet a woman who was unfortunately in a mental institution when I arrived. Bit sad really, but with a touch of Movie of the Week bounce-backness at the end. We did have that date -- two in fact. The first one was in the patient's lounge. We played pool. I kicked her ass. No doubt because she was heavily medicated at the time. Then we had another date once she was back home. This one was far more pleasant: a picnic by the ocean and then a movie. The movie was Barton Fink, which perhaps was the best choice for someone recently released from a mental institution, but it worked out all right.

Anyway, that was a pretty good adventure. I could have churned out something from that with a bit of effort. It could have been ME that sparked off this genre instead of that gangly bastard Tony Hawks. Although, thinking about it, the genre may have begun somewhat earlier. “'Round the World in 80 days” is kind of like “'Round Ireland with a Fridge”. Not quite as funny perhaps, but still based on a stupid bet.

Maybe that's what I need -- a stupid bet. If only someone would bet me a pint to do something stupid. That seems an appropriate way to deal with a mid-life crisis: booze, gambling, and idiocy.