august

In no particular order:-

Moving house
A taste of (life) coaching
Feeling tense
Looking to do something selfish with the week after next
Not reading enough
Removing the cat from where he tears papers
Becoming an angler
Enjoying Sherlock
Feeling underwhelmed at the dawn of the football season
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yacoubian

I receive a copy of The Yacoubian Building (Alaa Al Aswany), from a most unexpected source.

This pleases me and is a part-fix to yesterday's foul mood.

Today, I will avoid all television, radio and news print. The fall-out from England's 0-0 draw with Algeria - neither the end of the world, nor the end of the World Cup - will be unnecessarily brutal.

Today is also a day for hosting the parents, and for walking by water.

onion

Derby County 3 - 0 Newcastle United.

Sitting amongst fans of the home team, I was the outsider within. Hoping to see Newcastle play a kind of football that would suggest pomp-approaching-glory, things didn't pan out that way. For all of Newcastle's 'clever' play, and their mazily tripping over of the ball, Derby played genius football - simple and effective. Very Clough. The scoreline did flatter Derby, but the honesty of their play, and the commitment of Robbie Savage, saw my non-partisan status become eroded.

Fumbly phoney photo-work, there. Fair to say, it was cold. The old lady beside me did not share her blanket.

It felt good to be lost in 90 minutes of utter nonsense.

On exiting the stadium - two minutes before the final whistle, I caught a note of burger van fried onions in the chill night air. It was a moment for huddling, for moving briskly, and for missing people.

On leaving Derby, I thought about canal boats and ceramics - traces of an earlier meeting, still occupying my mind.

And so it goes.

pride

It feels like quite a while, since I was 'myself'.

The context for this is simple and clear. It has become the norm, for me to put others' interests ahead of my own. Or to imagine those others' interests to be my own - which, in part, they are. Fine lines. But I've known, for quite some time, that I have to re-take Shane (what foul foul wording), if I'm to content myself. And so, small steps though they are, I've let Emma know that I'll not be joining her and Alex at a festival in late August - a festival that I'm sure would be good, but one that would also become lost to me, as I'd end up being far more occupied with other peoples' children, rather than the much more interesting adults who'd be on hand. So I've said 'Thanks, but no thanks' to that. Alex' Dad will also be around, along with various other friends and relatives, so there'll be no shortage of bodies.

And I've booked in a trip to London, end of the month, when I'll be getting to the Riverside Studios (Fool for Love) and Soho Theatre (A Life in Three Acts).

Oh, and I've not done anything like enough football over the past few months to keep me spiritually right. So tomorrow evening, I'll be at Pride Park, Derby, for the visit of Newcastle United.

And just in case you're wondering, I haven't gone all dip trip fantasia - 'spiritually right?'. I mean happy. It's simple stuff, that just happens to get waylaid sometimes.

boobs

I am being befriended by a DadAtTheEdgeOfThePlayground - only occasionally AtTheEdgeOfThePlayground, truth be told - he works in sales, 'away a lot'. The man's son is Alex' best friend - both boys bright and quirky.

For practical reasons, it's been necessary for DadAtTheEdge' and self to have one another's phone numbers for quite a while. But today, I received a 'comedy text message'. It read:

BREAKING NEWS: John Terry Update - Fabio Capello has released a statement clearing the England captain, 'I don't know what all of the fuss is about... Everyone knows if a full back leaves a hole, it's the job of the centre back to fill it!'

That was it. The comedy text message.

I'm feeling a bit intimidated. Might have to make up some joke about boobs or something, next time I see him. You know, all laddish and that.

Weltanschauung

It was Christmas Eve, babe:

Manc.: (bright-eyed, amused) So? Which Premiership manager d' y' reckon it is, then?

Shane: Is what?

Manc.: Y' haven't heard?

Shane: No.

Manc.: Some Premier League manager has been caught leaving a brothel - hasn't been named, though. When I heard, my heart sank. I just thought 'Pulis'.

A conversation ensues, in which I explain that I can't believe that it would have been the Manc's beloved Pulis, manager of Stoke City.

Manc's Wife: The article said he was wearing branded sportswear as he left the building - which was on an industrial estate.

Shane: Sounds a bit Midlands, could be anywhere, though.

An alternative festive game develops, in which we compare guesswork and thinking. Our collective intellectual might forms a pointless Poirot.

Shane: So from what you tell me, we can identify three characteristics of the punter... he's high profile, with a lot to lose - so he's a risk-taker. We can assume that he's able to be fairly amoral about paying for sex, or the sex economy. And we know that he's the sort of man who's willing to be out in public in branded sportswear.

We narrow the field to six or seven.

Manc.: So if you were a Premiership manager, would you have been ruled out yet?

Shane: Great question. Risk-taker - I can be. Amoral as regards the sex economy - tricky, but yes, I can be that. Out in public in branded sportwear?

Manc's Wife: That's the one, isn't it?

Shane: I wouldn't be out in branded sportswear - no way.

Manc.: That's the measure of a man, isn't it. Who'd be willing to be seen out in branded sportswear.

Shane: It's one measure, that's for sure.

I spend moments through the rest of the day wondering about how the story - such that it is one - will be played out elsewhere. In various football managers' households, in pubs and clubs, and in the 'wider press and public', I imagine many shrugging shoulders. Later, I notice in the Daily Mail coverage, a reference to the brothel as a 'Scene of Disgrace'. 'Disgrace' in what sense, I wonder.

Unremarkable

As the festive period - are we there yet - rapidly approaches, I begin to imagine the brief foray into the Up North. I think of Boxing Day as Up North Day. Tradition has it that the day will be bitterly cold, yet the family will collectively haul frozen ass to some sporting non-event - maybe a football match, possibly a horse racing fixture.

This year, things could be a little different. Boxing Day morning will see me visit the ever-ailing maternal grandmother. As I explained to Birthday Colleague, earlier, a September or October death would have probably been the best thing that could have happened (I think I used the word 'convenient'), but that hasn't been the way.

I'm wondering whether some bracing outdoor walk, maybe a forest, or the coast, would be a better alternative afternoon 'trip out'. I think that would risk the further fragmentation of the clan, though. Siblings, and their plus ones, would likely miss the eleven against eleven, or the chance of a flutter. We also share the quiet humour of how unremarkable our Boxing Day sport can be, and I'd miss that.

This is what I've been wondering about.

Harbour

Seahouses, Northumberland.

Unassuming and lo-fi, a place for the occasional Sunday afternoon out, when I was a kid - (whispers) when Dad was capable.

A couple of decades later, I could see more to Seahouses than I had done as a child. It stood as an invite to slow down, unwind, recharge - not a place of noise or garish colour, full of slateish greys and deep seaweed greens. It was, perhaps, a bit rude of us to go intruding on those who might call the town home.

But then again, if one's freedom can be bought (temporarily) for the small yet alluring sum of a bag of bacon bits, then perhaps the onus should be on a little more fishy self-restraint. Still, no harm done.

From our digging and sand-piling, The Boy and I turned a tad artful. A few days earlier, we'd stopped off in Durham for breakfast, and to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (not quite as dark and doomy as I'd imagined, pleasing for Jim Broadbent's Professor Horace Slughorn and Evanna Lynch's Luna Lovegood, overall quite restrained - a breathing space before the final chapter, the filmically two-parted final chapter). I suspect there were echoes of The Dark Lord, clouding our direction, as we got down to our sand-etching.

The Boy's work (above), and my own (below).

Try as he might, The Boy's sea-beckoning did rather fall a bit flat.

But lo and behold, when that tide turns, it does race in across those sandy Northumberland plains. And thus we did bear witness to the inglorious destruction of our work. It was gradual, it was wet, it was what we'd wait for. Which reminds me of something, well, elsewhere, that I read recently. Each unto his and her own in this wee family of t' 'net. Back in the land of wholesome goodness, and my, see the creation come a-tumbling down:

It turned out to be a more relaxing week than I'd imagined it would be. Emma was with us for much of it, which helped. My family dropped by to join us for some puffin-spotting - not overlooking the razorbills, guillemots, shags, arctic terns, seals and more, about the Farne Islands. It was good.

The Boy and I caught (and were rather pathetically scared by) a pipefish - well how was I to know that the damned thing would wriggle out of the bucket?! The Boy was impressed (and amused) at my delicate flick of said specimen, back into the harbour. And so it goes.

That was all a week ago. The Boy has been with the paternal clan, in Abersoch, this week - he gets about. I miss him. But his Dad timed their trip well, very well indeed... Emma grinds on, with what she must.

So, this week, I have been sustained by Wallander, Taking the Flak, Psychoville, and by the silly silly game that is XpertEleven. Couldn't quite bring myself to write (like, proper big really selfish stuff) or get out much.

As I write this, trickle-down grind reaches me, and so to it must I turn. Must I. I must.

Hope you're catching some summer... relaxation, that your bearing is positive, and that you (the visible, and the quiet ones) are well - simple but effective, seems reasonable enough.
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Lashed

The British Artists' Football Tournament:

Saturday, 23rd May, 2009.

We played well - won 4, drew 0, lost 2, during first phase of the tournament. Both defeats were to the eventual finalists, 0-1 and 0-1. The wins were 3-1, 2-1, 6-3 and 3-2. I scored twice (one back heel, one outrageous first-time lash - following good team play down the left and a quick squared cross). Largely, though, I played a defensive, sweeperish role. In the semi-final, we drew 0-0 against Eastside Projects (Birmingham), then lost on penalties (*whispers* though I scored mine - hard and low). And so we were knocked out. We call that an honourable exit - for self and team (AirSpace). It was pleasing to hear newfound and amusing support from the sidelines. As with all teams and most players, our attitude was good, '...appreciate the effort that others have put in to making the day happen, now get on with it and play fair'. The tournament was won by another Birmingham team, 'Jibbering' - a collective of street artists and DJs - they played well, and used their squad intelligently. As we drove back up the M6, the mood was good - we'd done ourselves justice.

Number of teams who participated: 7
Number of teams who failed to show: 3
Number of instances of dissent / bad attitude: 2
Number of my legs experiencing thigh strain (Sunday - Tuesday): 2
Best kit design of the tournament: AC Tortured Birmingham (white polos, with AC-style logo)
Best team name of the tournament: Real Worcester
Number of natural left-footers in our team: 2
Number of miles to venue: 42.7
Mark out of 10 for satisfaction with the day: 10
Minutes delayed in getting to venue (Bank Holiday traffic): 20
Number of people who've seemed interested in my in-person reportage: 3
Number who haven't...: 3

There was a photographer on site for the whole tournament, though I have yet to get access to their handiwork. Thus, you'll have to imagine it... no no no, more attractive than that, surely.

Embodied by self, Saturday was a good day for north east football(ers in exile).

Sunday wasn't.

[ - Photographs may follow - ]

Left-sided

I'm feeling a bit nervous - got a football tournament tomorrow, which offers three possible outcomes:-

A - Creditable display by self and team (have been trying to pace physical exertion this week, for fittest finest preparation), leading to feelings of contentment.

B - The whole thing is a badly organised shambles (teams from all over England will converge on the West Midlands for it), leading to feelings of frustration.

C - Our team just doesn't gel on the day (we bomb), leading to feelings of frustration (variety II).

Aim: Eat well, sleep well, be sure to take footballing brain as I leave the house in the morning.

If Tuesday's training session was anything to go by, we just might be ok.

Keepin' On

Alex joined his Dad on Tuesday, so I took the opportunity to visit the clan up in County Durham. Meanwhile, Emma continued to fend off the rockets and shells of writing hard stuff, and of herself. County Durham seemed like a safe distance.

The Wexford siblings converged on the parental home and, as ever, I enjoyed the ferocious banter and acidic put-you-downs that we count as love.

As sister and brother discussed music festivals that did and respectively didn't interest them, I recalled something utterly inconsequential that I thought might interest them.

Shane: You know Neil Tennant?

Sister: Mm.

Shane: He's got a house in County Durham.

Sister: How d' you know that?

Shane: He mentioned it in an interview that I listened to. In fact, it's an interview that's upstairs right now - on the iPod that's under my pillow.

Sister: Hold on! You've got an interview with Neil Tennant - from The Pet Shop Boys - under your pillow?

Shane: Yeah. It was from Front -

Sister: Other Brother, Shane's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow!

Brother: I did wonder, like.

Shane: It was from Front Row.

Sister: Mutha, (pointing) that one's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow.

Mother (distractedly): It's 2009 - each unto his own.

Shane: Hold on a minute. I just -

Sister: Fatha - Shane's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow.

Dad: Who's Neil Tennant?

Sister: Never mind.

It amused me.

It was also amusing to hear that an old familiar of brother and I was currently appearing on The Apprentice. Sister crossed paths with (not so) young (any more) Phil, in Durham, at the weekend. A nice lad.

And apart from foregoing Porto versus Manchester United (0 - 1), in order to take in Durham City versus Woodley Sports (5 - 0), the only other item of note concerned maternal grandmother.

I've got used to the further extensions of frailty that the old bird exhibits - each visit presenting new expressions of vulnerability, fallibility, fading - very much reminiscent of her husband's end of life. Entering the second week of a stay at Bishop Auckland's General Hospital, the violence of grandma's Parkinson's Disease - the tics, the strains, the jolts and jerks, they seemed to show no mercy. Memory was playing tricks, too. I felt like I was talking to the echo of a person.

This morning, on the drive back to the Midlands, the subject of jolts and jerks, tics and strains returned. Would I like to join Alex and his Dad at a local theatre, to watch Thriller Live - this evening. It was one of those questions where what the boy wants to hear, is probably the best answer. So here I am, jaded of an early Thursday evening, waiting to Beat It. Meanwhile, I hear another shell fall as Emma grinds on. The theatre seems like a safe distance.

Camp?

This past weekend, Emma and I headed south on a long ago booked trip. In the here and now, the timing wasn't great.

As we made for the station, the city rose to clear blue sky. That afternoon, the Britannia Stadium would bounce to men, women and children singing 'Delilah', a song that features the line 'I put my dick in her hand, and she laughed no more'. Where to begin, where to begin... Perhaps best to not begin at all.

The paltry offerings in the station's Virgin Lounge ensured that we were at the platform well before the 10:12 to Euston rolled in from Manchester.

What would our trip feature. Healthy-living and broadsheet analysis?

Perhaps.

Approaching midday, Tottenham Court Road was as clear as the Potteries had been. We made our way directly towards Monmouth Street, off Shaftsbury Avenue, in the hope of an early check-in. Staying at the Radisson Edwardian Mountbatten ensured that this trip into the capital - my second in three days - could pass without need for bus, tube or taxi - a quiet victory for good planning (and liberal dolings of sterling). In terms of cultural tastes, this was very much World of Emma, just shy of Wince of Shane.

In the thrall of the techno-snacks, I forgot to take pictures of things like the main fixtures and fittings of the gaffe. But instead, I did get a sign on the discreetly located 'Interactive Minibar'.

Touch those Pringles and They Will Know.

Saturday afternoon was spent in and around Neal's Yard - small boutique shops - green teas, sitting in the sun, sauntering. That was after we'd taken lunch in Covent Garden - some bistro in a cellar - good food, but really not the day to be underground.

Back at the hotel, brief lounging, a change, and out for dinner - to Soho's Bocca di Lupo. I'd remembered Matthew Norman's review. This paid dividends.

Sitting at the bar, overlooking the main hubbub of food preparation area, good choreography came to mind. Welcoming the ethos of good, simple food, prepared well, Emma opted for a red prawn risotto.

I chose the grilled sea bream.

And then, the main event:

Priscilla - Queen of the Desert, at the Palace Theatre.

This was our first visit to this theatre. I knew that we were heading for good seats, as we headed up the stairs to Dress Circle Row A.

The curtain hid an incredibly clever, albeit mechanically simple set. Reviews have not made enough of this - despite their generally holding the show in high regard.

Though no further shots can be shared (I'm sorry, I dared to forget myself), all praise for costumes, cast, script-updating and direction is justified - a big successful production. No sneering rejoinder to be added, here. Whereas Abba were heavily referenced in the screen version of Priscilla, Kylie was now the wholly lauded - an entirely bearable shift - especially with Mamma Mia (((shudder))) playing just round the corner.

Overlooked in many of the reviews - something that is easy to understand amid such high campery, has been the matter of Priscilla being underscored by two fairly weighty relationship dramas. Within the first 5 minutes of the show, I was welling up at the clearly signposted Father-Son denouement that we were headed for - Jason Donovan's Tick (Mitzi) is off to meet his son for the first time. His drag act trio's provision of a stage show for his wife's (yes, wife's) resort hotel is the hook for the group's road trip from Sydney to Alice Springs. That's the story. But also, the ageing drag queen - Tony Sheldon's Bernadette - charts a course that is, at its heart, about accepting oneself, showing trust in others and redirecting the lifecourse. As I write this, I'm feeling partisan. For reasons that I can't fully unpick, or neatly clarify, Priscilla is a production that touches me.

During the interval, Emma waxed lyrical about the show - the scale of production, its values, the audience. This was all pleasing - the whole trip was very much a one-off, designed to please. Smiling, she then queried:

'Does it not make you feel even a bit gay?'

Amused, puzzled, appalled, I gently queried.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, the whole thing. It's fairly amazing, isn't it.'

'The costumes, the dancing, the set design, the dialogue, the easy affection and charm, the barbed wit - garish, but all attractive. I'd love to be able to sing and move like some of those people on stage. But as for wanting to put specific bits of my body anywhere near any other men's bodies - even those men's bodies, well, that's a kind of gayness that doesn't appeal. But thanks for asking.'

Seemed a reasonable enough response. She wouldn't have asked if she'd have thought there was the possibility of any other kind of answer.

At the standing ovation, I noticed the four occupants of one of the boxes - two men (in their 30s, together), and two older women (both in their 60s). I gauged a mother and friend, plus son and his partner. The son figure hugged both of the ladies, whilst partner leaned in to ensure that a good evening had been had. It looked like an important moment.

Dodging the boas, the mincing and the people like us, we strolled back to the hotel, and thus turned into the straight that would lead us back to the West Midlands.

Sunday breakfast was as it should have been - hearty, if a little too neat.

Emma's:

Only 5 / 10, for presentation there.

Shane's (Part I):

Square.

I didn't picture the rest - what kind of weirdo goes around taking pictures of his breakfast.

Back out into the streets, Emma managed to turn the short walk back up to Euston into a mini research exercise. Over-riding my disdain for such gross opportunism, I played along as best I could.



Obscene, unsightly, gratuitous and ghastly - the lot of them.

If there is a grindstone, then now, we are very much back at it, but still we may daydream (a link for added non-gayness).

The word from above is that (work) things should get easier in late June, and at such a time, then this kind of trip should occur more casually. If they don't, then I shall just have to bugger naff off on my own.

Effortless

(All images taken with a not-top-of-the-range phone)

I went up north this past weekend.

On Friday morning, on a whim, I decided to take the M6 route - up to Junction 38 (Tebay Services), then across (A66), then Barnard Castle, Raby Castle, the Aucklands, on and in. The A50 > A38 (skimming Derby) > M1 > A1 > A167 alternative just isn't the same without those big industrial chimneys near Sheffield.

Listening to: The Quiet Curse of Demolition, by Everywhere Looks the Same.

It was somewhere in the low 30s junction numbers that the horizon really began to change, and the simple raw beauty of the Pennines caught me by implausible surprise. I'd driven this route dozens of times, albeit not at all in the last few years.

Approaching the westerly-most reaches of Durham, through fog, there they were - snow-flat-capped hills. Had I been holidaying with a lovebird, then maybe a lay-by, a stretch and chill deep breaths would have been on. Instead, the herbal tablets, the CD changer and I cracked on.

Listening to: Somewhere Bound, by Kirk Merrington for Lunch.

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As with Terence Stamp, grey but gorgeous nonetheless.

Not many miles from the family home, I was taken aback in Tindale. Even here, the architectural equivalent of impetigo did its thing.

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Amongst family, I forgot about pictures and blogging and all else. I sat back and laughed along to the sweet ferocious banter of the other Wexford offspring.
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Prior to Saturday's football trip, sister and her copper girlfriend, their dog and me, went for a walk by the rec' in Kirk Merrington - near to where the last grandparent lives.
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Over to the south east - some 30 or so miles away, Roseberry Topping dominated the horizon, just as it had on the Sunday afternoons of my childhood. To my right, a small dog wrestled with a tennis ball at the feet of copper girlfriend.

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Though I'm not really a dog person, I did quite like the hound's mindless zest.

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The playground, where we would compete to see who could jump furthest from the swings.

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And the roundabout, that I always thought seemed a bit dangerous.

Later, there was the football - a nil-nil draw between Middlesbrough and Wigan - not as bad as it might sound. Middlesbrough were light up front, but otherwise fine. Wigan were generally square of shoulder, and blunt in attack.
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Before the game, the ladies settled themselves - Teesside spirit.

After a Saturday evening meal out, at the Duke of Wellington pub, we all returned to the parents' house. The dog - the cute one whose name that I've forgotten - appreciated playful attention. But oh my no my - it posed the pose of a truly mentalist dog - what with its big teeth and glaring eyes.

I wondered how much effort would be called for, in order to contrive an image that would be really spooky.

Really not much effort at all.
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My family are nice people - honest. Not like those people who have crazy dogs that eat people or anything. Besides, sister and the copper and the dog live in Gateshead - I reckon it's probably a bit rough over there.
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On Sunday, I returned south and west for a testing, stretching week.
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Faith - the dog was called Faith.
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Listening to: His Body, by Man En Route to Bed.

Elegiac

I'm going to Middlesbrough on Saturday. It's not punishment or anything. I want to go. It's all part of the broad cultural experience of visiting my family.
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Over the Christmas break, I decided to see more of the blood relatives this year. And so I'm wondering, will brother and his partner seem any more well-matched. Will sister and her copper girlfriend (now she would have been ideal for brother) continue with their appallingly modern charm (they actually take walks on the beach with the dog - bitches*). And on Friday, will I dare to 'go out' in Durham - you know, where people from the past lurk.
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And when it comes to late Saturday afternoon, I know that I'll fancy going out for food that evening. And so I'll mention it to brother and sister, and they'll likely concur. And we could ask our parents. But then I'll want to nudge them in the direction of somewhere that they've not been before, like say, for a Thai or an Indian or Anything At All That is Just a Tiny Bit Different From What They're Used To. But then I'll anticipate their discomfort, and I'll wonder whether it's wrong to try to confer my tastes onto them - like for the few years before they begged me to stop buying them theatre tickets for birthdays and Christmas presents.
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On this occasion, a draw would be welcome,
As welcome as a frustrating home win.
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* affectionate.

Essentials

Not to be taken too seriously, The Culture Show blog mentions that Alfred Brendel has shared his five essentials. This brings to mind the reverse of Room 101, which Stephen Fry posited as 'Room Lovely' - those things that might easily be overlooked, but that are worth celebrating. After a moment's pondering, I arrive at my Five Essentials:-

1. Good conversation. Hence, sitting amongst friends and family, and listening to lots of spoken word radio programmes and some TV too.

2. Learning (related to the above point). I know that I don't know, a lot.

3. Foul weather. Walking in the rain with loved ones, being braced against a chill wind, huddling up against the cold - it all makes the hot chocolate at the end of the road that little bit better.

4. Reading for relaxation. To have time to do this, regularly (I'm a slow-reader), is a luxury of the highest order.

5. Playing football. On occasions, this can be as artful, as evidence of a particular kind of intelligence, and as good a stress-buster as anything. In the world. Ever. Almost.

Maybe take a moment to consider your own essentials. It'll make you glow inside. Sharing welcome.

Lord

A shadow of my former self...
From Saturday, in fact
As the boy ran about*:

* Out of shot, with about 20 other boys. Football. The young 'n earned plaudits for a battling midfield performance - strong in the tackle, determined in his running. Best of all, the attitude was as good as it gets.
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Yesterday (Tuesday), Happy Larry had a couple of pals over after school - we're making this a regular weekly thing (I avoid working on Tuesday afternoons - my favourite half-day of the week). At around 4:30pm, I started to multi-task - knocking about with the boys (playing darts, and baseballing on the Nintendo Wii**) whilst cooking tea.
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** An electronic games console - movement-sensitive. If you're playing tennis on the Wii, then the likelihood is that you're tossing and swinging and jumping about in front of your television, with a small white handset sending a signal to a sensor bar just a few feet in front of you.
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Anyway, back to Tuesday: Stepping into the kitchen for the final push of my culinary assault, I closed the door to gamish noise and junior high jinx. Soon after, I hear a collective cheer, followed by an angelic chorus (with hints of Jerry Springer audience) of 'Go Jesus! Go Jesus, go! Go Jesus! Go Jesus, go!'. Baffled, I step back into the room. Still playing on the Wii, the boys had created a Jesus character, who - in the control of Alex - had just hit a home run.
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'Unorthodox - funny - one to avoid sharing with grandma', I thought, as I returned to the stove.
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Jesus, as recently spotted in the Potteries:

Listing

Y' mean like...

Pre-Christmas:
We coughed, sneezed, some did worse. We drove up to North Yorkshire, spent time in a cabin in the Cropton Forest (cabin fever?), shared germs with some of the Wexford clan, returned to the Midlands ahead of Christmas Day.

Christmas-New Year:
Respite, and recovery time. On Christmas Day afternoon, I drove up to the north east to see the bloods. Boxing Day was excellent. All of the Wexford clan headed for Sedgefield racecourse - a crisp sunny day, undulating hills proffering gorgeous distant silhouettes of horses and riders as they turned from the back straight for home. And some of us were net winners - good thing.

New Year:
Has begun well - I've broken the back of a couple of really finicky tasks that I'd been putting off for a while. Alex is good - a nonchalant return to school, on the back of a good break with the paternal clan (good people), and a rejoinder with the maternal-plus clan. Emma has returned to the coalface, following a month-long break. Her next proper break is expected to be in June.

Work:
Have received communications this week from a couple of people who I'd not heard from in a while. Seems that some old projects have lived longish in the minds of some - pleased about that. Otherwise, otherwise.

Leisure:
Disappointed that Brother Wexford was unable to visit this coming weekend, for a chilly trip to Wolverhampton races. Alex has his birthday next week. A trip to the Tamworth Snowdome will feature as part of the general hurrahness of that. Alex is unambiguously a middle-sized boy, now. His most recently amusing escapade was his devising of a bath-time Water Helmet:-

- Fill jug with water
- Slam it up-turned onto own head
- See how long it takes for all water to drain from the jug - noisy, splashy, funny

The youngster suggested that I wasted yesterday by working - I '...should have gone sledging' - even though I '...would have looked weird' as the lone adult sledger about town. Elsewhere, I may have just fallen out of love with Burton Albion.

Just before Christmas, a pal gave me the graphic novel, 'V for Vendetta'. Before this, I was prejudiced against graphic novels - lots of pictures for nerdy people who can't read proper books. But it's really very good.

Sharing:
I quite miss a few things and people - Ken included. I hope he's ok.
I've got quite a few lines around my eyes, now. I don't mind this.
I really should make time to replace the car. It's beginning to look 'characterful'.

You (highlights):
Just before Christmas, I received a real treat - a Christmas card from Gene - trans-Atlantic wit and wisdom - what more could be wished for.
Thirty years ago, Pat had a date, then made some big decisions.
I'm hoping for good things for LB (recently articulated healthy perspective on stuff that's a bit shit) and The Hen (recently articulated healthy perspective on that posho who's the new Doctor Who).
If I was Prime Minister (which would be a bad thing), then Tim would be my Secretary of State for Provincial Englishness (which would be a good thing). His sole brief would be, 'Get people to see and hear beauty in the taken-for-granted'. I think he'd be good at that.
C had to grim it out a bit through the latter part of 2008. Reading her can be a bit like reading pinball. Brace brace - she's dating.
Zinnia is taking a blog-writing break. I will email her after hitting the 'Publish Post' button.
Huw and Beth have said enough to make me think that I'd really like The Wire (and it's a HBO Series, and they commissioned The Sopranos - so it must be good, mustn't it?). But I haven't got the time...
Meanwhile - that rare thing - a recently spotted blogger who I'm inclined to read. In mid-December, I met Meanwhile, as ladies undressed in the background.
Then there's Esther... or is there.

Blogging and Other Writing:
Some will happen.
Patience is a virtue.
Wagon Wheel is a biscuit.

It's snowing - real proper flakes - like what we used to get, when I was a kid.

Waist

Bumble, fumble, whimsy and flimsy. This month's profile image:

Posted as a discreet blog-post, as the above image was only appearing in miniature through the profile page. A profile page link to this page should get around that.
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#28: Tryers

Grey urban desert
Fracturing pub football calls
Parkland oasis
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#27: Thousands (Overheard #9)

Foul abusive hoards
In the presence of children
That extra twelfth man?