Heaven!

Dans la Farm.

I'm back up at the farm at the moment and our lives take on a very pleasant rhythm and routine of their own. Our friends are away, diving and walking, separately rather than simultaneously, so they've asked Em and I to look after their growing menagerie of animals for the weekend.

It works out quite well as I'm an earlier riser and Em can actually sleep past eight without Catholic style guilt forcing her up in case she 'wastes' the day. I can't get past 8:10 without an internal voice that sounds like a stereotypical Jewish mother. "You should be up by now. Are you ill, would you like me to call your friends in case they've got the sniffles? I can make some soup if you're not well? Why else wouldn't you be up?"

This goes on until I begrudgingly shuffle out of the warm duvet and into the cold cruel world with Jewish Mom's final words echoing in my ears,"and put on a sweater!"

(I should point out my actual Mum is completely different to the Jewish Mom voice!)

First job is to feed the three cats, otherwise they wouldn't let you get anything else done. By the time I've made it to the front door they are usually waiting for me. I know their real names of course but I find it hard not to think of them as Ackbar, Bateman and Pavarotti (See previous posts).

I have to fill and place the three bowls of cat chow simultaneously or the cats will start pushing and shoving each other for first dibs on the tender morsels within. I usual place a bowl for Ackbar slightly away from the younger, more rambunctious cats for which she always gives me a look that says;

"A quiet table away from the kitchen? Thank you Maitre D! If I had a wallet I'd leave a tip," before ploughing into the food.

Next up is letting the hens out. This has become a bit more tricky of late as our hosts have adopted another few birds some of which aren't accepted by the rest of the hens. The original six were battery hens and are that dun colour shape we know from egg boxes. At least they became that colour once their feathers grew through and they stopped being the cowed pathetic creatures that came form the farm.

I understand the pressures and the need for a good egg supply but if you experienced the tortuous conditions these animals had to go through you'd pay an extra 10p for free range eggs as well.

However two of the new batch of chickens are more show chickens with a much darker colouring and a comb that flops over the head like an eighties new wave fringe. Unfortunately these haven't really been embraced by the rest of the chickens.

I don't know how you'd say "You ain't from 'round here, are ya boy?!" in chicken speak but the poor creatures did get quite picked on when they were part of the main group. They were forced out of the feeding troughs and would get attacked at regular intervals.

The term hen-pecked has a very substantial source you know.

So an annex at the other end of the farm was built, almost like a quiet retirement village for the two new animals away from the raucous Hen party at the other end. I can almost imagine them together in their quiet little roost.

"Well Phyllis, isn't it lovely and quiet away from those clucking fools?"

"Yes Mabel its nice to have a bit of our own space, ooh pass the tea won't you?"

So once I've let both sets of chickens out, cleared up any damp sawdust and stored the precious eggs I have to grab the empty porridge bowls and head back to the kitchen to make some more.

The porridge is a very simple affair just oats and dessicated worms added to hot water and left to cool but all the hens go crazy for it. It's as if they'd found some way of putting crack in breakfast cereal. As I head back out the cats have usually finished their breakfast and two of them disappear to wherever cats go when you're not watching them. Not Bateman though. From this point she will follow me around the farm wherever I go, not from curiosity you understand as that can be fatal for cats, but to make sure I'm doing everything right and to help out if the horses attack me. Help the horses or me I'm not sure.

As I go into the Hens area you can hear their anticipation over their morning dose of crack, I mean porridge, two will start pecking at my boot, mistaking footwear for cereal in their frenzy, another two will start dashing around my feet and another will have already hopped the fence into the field behind and will now be frantically trying to scramble back so she too can have some food.

Bateman will be sitting slightly behind me watching in quiet amusement.

"My humans don't make this much fuss."

"Mmmm," I say, trying to find a place to lay the first bowl which won't involve me loosing a few fingers to over eager beaks. In the end I adopt the tactic of running in one direction for a bit with the hens chasing after me like they're running a carpet bagger out of town, and then I stop suddenly and place the bowl behind me whilst the hens are still being propelled forward by their own momentum.

Once one bowl is down I can saunter over to the area by the gate and as the hens form a scrum around the first bowl, I can put the second one down in relative peace just by the waiting cat.

"See Bateman? I've got this covered."

"Hmmm," she replies, not convinced.

Next up feeding the sheep. The fields surrounding the farm have a number of horses and sheep in them.

I've never really got horses. I can't really say why, My wife has a theory that nothing that powerful should have a brain the size of a walnut. Most of the domestic animals we have kept as a species were at one time used for something. Cats for mousing, Dogs for hunting and Horses for transport. All have been replaced but yet we keep them on for their affection and our tendency to anthropomorphise them. As soon as we can get an egg out of a machine I imagine Hens will fall into that same category too.

"The horses aren't ours you know," Interjects Bateman," they're just renting the space."

The four sheep are the most recent acquisitions and they are very very dumb animals, but they're pretty harmless and unlike the horses not big enough to be dangerous. Bateman barely pays them a glance as I fill their trough and they mill around repelled by me but attracted to the feed.

We move on towards the chicken retirement annex with their bowl of crack porridge in hand. I might mock the hens reaction to it but the combination of good food and stress free living around here creates some fabulously golden yolked eggs.

The path from the sheep takes in the soon to be occupied pig sty and past the two bee hives.

Bateman stops.

"Those are the bees. I don't think you're qualified to look after them. Besides which you're not dressed up like Neil Armstrong."

I look at her.

"How do you know about astronauts?"

She smiles an unsettling superior smirk and begins to preen her coat.

"My humans do occasionally watch some very educational TV," She replies whilst licked her back leg.

From there it's a short journey back to the front door. Bateman stops outside.

"You did a tolerable job, you can come again," and without another word, she pads off to torment whatever unfortunate small animal she can find.

Then and only then do I take my boots off sit down, have a cup of coffee and feel the world come alive.

Dave's retirement cake.

My wife is a cakey genius!

Part 1 of Poncy Baking and You : The Garlic and Rosemary loaf.

Atlantic Drift.

Why is that that even if I know a deadline is looming I‘ll just ignore it until it’s snuck up on me, jumped on my back and started beating me around the head with its shoe whilst screaming down my ear?

I don’t even work better under pressure, I WORK under pressure sure, but that only because the alternative is giving up on the ridiculous dream of ever being a writer and burying myself in spilt cheesy Doritos crumbs whilst I vegetate on the couch watching yet another tedious US drama* purely from having nothing else to do.

I just need to organise my free time a bit better and spend more time writing reading and playing the flute and less time on the XBOX/internet/yawning through detritus brought over on the Atlantic drift.


(Please note The Wire, Mad Men, Justified, HIMYM and Burn Notice, amongst others, do not constitute tedious US drama being imaginative, superbly written and filmed with the kind of care and attention usually only given to new born babies. Basically if it involved some form of contrived elite crime fighting team, hired for their looks rather than acting ability, whose cases rarely last longer than an hour minus time for advert breaks it’s not going to be worthwhile watching. You may enjoy it, you may even like it but it won’t be good for you in the long run. It’s Junk Food TV.)

Lightsaber chopsticks baby!

I can't belive my little sister is THIRTY!

Had a stunning weekend down south with Jane and Wez. We drove straight
from Wrexham on the Thursday pausing only to buy a ridiculously priced
burger from a chain I'd never heard of but seemed to be copying the
Burger King style to the point that I'm sure lawyers should be
involved. Sorry to go a bit 'Daily mail' but why do we put up with this
indigestible overpriced crap at our motorway service stations? When you
have to be trapped in a car with my digestive system for the next
number of hours it's hardly fun.

Anyways we arrived at Bluewater shopping centre a mere four hours after
setting off. The complex itself is set into a crater in the Kent clay
and looks for all the world like an alien spacecraft settled into a
hole its bored in the earth, allowing, rather graciously for alien
overlords, ample parking. I celebrated the conclusion of our journey by
not crashing into the car that veered right in front of us. Perhaps he
was blinded by the dazzling lights crisscrossing the surface spelling
out weird alien names like John Lewis and TGI Friday.

We met everyone in the restaurant for Wez's birthday obviously too late
for the meal but in time enough to feel a part of the celebration.
After catching up we headed back into Gravesend.

Friday was a day of blissful nothing. We walked to the shop for beer
and then spent the day reading and watching dvds/tv. After the
hecticness of the last couple of weeks it was, frankly, awesome.

Saturday we drove to Wez's parents got our glad rags on and headed to
the 02. We had decided to posh it up and were wearing suits and evening
dresses and I have to say catching a bus through some of the less
touristy areas of London was intriguing to say the least. Every major
city has areas where the poverty is obvious but for me seeing that area
in New York or Paris is almost a shield from the reality of it. It's
foreign so it doesn't really count. But when you can see it in your own
country it sort of brings it home.

Now if you're of a certain age you'll remember the White elephant that
the Millennium Dome was on its construction and first few years of
being. Now, however, it seems to be the most popular evening location
for dining out at least by the hordes of people queuing for the chain
restaurants and bars. Ours however was a different sort of night being
Jane's 30th.

We were lead by the door manager out of the bustling crowds and into a
sparsely populated dimly lit lounge with dark wallpaper, massive
chandeliers and tastefully discrete jazz. It was how you'd imagine the
most exclusive of bordellos to be. The cocktails were varied and
delicious, although pretty expensive and uber-strong.

After we'd all assembled and I'd switched from pricey delicious
cocktails to pricey delicious beers, the twenty two of us headed
upstairs in a cow skin covered lift to our private dining room. The
food when it arrived was delicious including one of the best steaks
I've ever had in the UK. But the food however good, played second
fiddle to the bonhomie and atmosphere from the wide assortment of
friends and family that filled the room.

It was lovely to see all these people come to send Jane's thirtieth off
with a bang and it reminds me of how well she's settled down there. She
has friends and family that love and adore her and I couldn't wish for
anything more for my sister.

On a selfish note its always great to see the boys from Wez's stag do,
we all bonded on that day/night and its just great to catch up with
good friends.

One final point about the meal. It was without a doubt one of the
nicest three courses I've ever had but its the first time I've been at
a table and been presented with a bill that runs into four figures.
Quite a culture shock I have to say.

However when we presented ourself at the bus to go home the driver
asked if we'd been to a wedding and we explained it was Janes b'day.
Contary to everything you may have heard about grumpy bus drivers or
London transport in general he smiled widely and waved us onto the bus
for no fee! Awesome!

Sunday we all felt remarkably fine which was fortuitous as the Horan-
Healy clan were gathering for one of Paula and Joan's legendary
barbeques. Sadly no one had thought to mention this to the weather
which then felt duty bound to bucket with rain for the next few hours.
Paula and Joan, of course, had a backup plan which involved some
serious catering-standard George Foreman grills and the food was served
deliciously and on time.

All in all I think we counted over forty people there to wish Wez and
Jane happy birthday and I've met the family enough times now that I
feel comfortable with everyone. I'll freely admit its a little
unnerving at first but that's only my own apprehension nothing to do
with how warmly myself and the rest of the Welsh lot are greeted. The
beer helps of course.

Monday we rose late and recovered through careful application of bacon
butties and coffee and all too soon we were waving goodbye to everyone
and heading back north.

Roll on our next southerly visit for the August costume BBQ!

Cornwall 2011 day 3

I was woken at just gone midnight by a nightclub a few building across for ours and the thumping dush-dush noise kept me awake until one when it subsided into the random drunken shouts of revelers finding their way home. I think last time when I got so irate at the cricketers arms it was because I knew that when I went home I'd have the exact same thing to content with and this was after all meant to be a holiday. So once I'd dropped off I slept until the seagulls decided to start their own party with the dawn. Bloody things are just vermin plain and simple of and gave my sister in law whiplash (Long story).

Once I decided to rise I found it was another gorgeous morning, which is becoming a habit for Cornwall but one I remain very happy with. We had an excellent breakfast whilst the couple on the table behind had an intense but very quiet domestic about his mother. (Side note: is it still called a domestic if you have it in a hotel?) The argument reminded me of a theory I've heard many many times. It goes something along the lines of 'It doesn't matter where you go on holiday Llandudno or Borneo you will still be there. You're not a different person when you go on holiday you'll still be the same grumpy/happy personal you always are, you'll just be on holiday."

Anyway we packed up and headed out through what I thought were the narrowest roads you could find on mainland Britain... I was soon to learn my elementary mistake as we headed for the most southwesterly point of the UK.

In every way that the Eden Project succeeds in being educational without being money grabbing, Lands End fails. It is by some margin one of the most over commercialised tourist traps I've ever encountered.

The Good:
A short list but the views are spectacular,the cliffs poised as if they were divers frozen in time before plunging into the oceans. There is a artist's galley that has some stunning works in it and the pasty I had was rather tasty.

The Bad:
Overcrowded with the kind of people who wear t-shirts saying "The drinks are on me as I'll be on you later." screaming kids being dragged to see something they don't understand by parents who feel they should be going to these kind of educational places but not knowing why. The Landsend brand is available on everything from sweatshirts to jewellery to fudge but not one piece of tat shows the real beauty of the place.

The Ugly:
Those bloody seagulls followed us from Fowey I swear!! I'm sure I saw one with a tattoo saying 'Big Steve'.


Luckily Landsend-land is on the south coast path (yes that again) so we walked a fair ways along it away from the unwashed masses and it felt like a holiday again.

It was Ems turn to drive so we pointed the prow towards Zennor and found that in the same way that major arteries lead to blood vessels lead to capillaries the further south you go the smaller the lanes become until you reach the tip of the country and you can barely squeeze one car through!

Luckily it was only a few miles to the next resting spot The Guarnards Head named for the spit of land that juts out in the ocean. its a beautiful spot, really quiet and serene. Quite pricey but this was after all a holiday.

We took a wander down to the coast past near inaccessible houses to the end of the world or so it seemed the sunlight streamed down casting glittering reflections on a royal blue sea. This was the Cornwall we had come for. it felt like we were the only people for miles around in the baking afternoon of an endless summers day. We meandered back to the pub which featured four excellent ales including the by now ubiquitous tribute and had a rather masterchef style meal of delicious PLATES OF FOOD which were nevertheless a touch small.

The room was also on the small side but very comfy and with a sea view to die for. even the cupboard converted to an en suite couldn't ruin it, especially as there were books in every nook and cranny of this superbly literary pub.

We settled in for a night of reading and alcohol with a song in our hearts. Its the only pub we've stayed in so far that doesn't seem to have a telly anywhere. WOOT!

The day again dawned bright and clear. I wandered out with a coffee to the pubs beer garden to write for a bit with the blue sheen of the Atlantic in the middle distance. Quite an inspiring view I have to say. When we went in to see about breakfast we discovered we were the only residents that night which says something for the popularity of the pub seeing how the bar was chock full of people last night. Em noticed a symbol etched into the stone entryway floor. It was a circle with a cross through it which apparently is the symbol showing that pilgrims were more than welcome here.

If Kent is the garden of England (which it well can lay claim to be) then Cornwall has to be its nursery. I lost count of the number of signs I saw for Gardens, nursery's even herberys on our road. Everywhere is lunch and green and it give great pleasure to the eye to see all this lovely countryside.

Well, not all of it is quite so lovely.

We loaded up the car and headed south along windy twisty roads until we passed through an unpleasant little village called Bugle. The architecture has nothing to recommend it and the gardens were less than lovely but if I'm honest it was probably the millions of tonnes of spoil from the china clay mines pilled up in man-made muddy mountains that really spoilt the view. The industry has wrecked the countryside here but kept people in jobs by gouging out great craters of the countryside. In one such crater someone had the brilliant idea of creating a garden the like of which had never been seen before. The Eden project is a series of enormous geodesic domes which, along with the surrounding external gardens one of the widest collection of plants in the world all whilst being super-eco conscious. Its like looking into the future where the ecologists have risen up and burnt Jeremy Clarkson at the stake. Well, they'd probably mulch him down to compost over the alliums on the nursery slopes but you get the general idea.

Em being a keen amature botanist was in what I can only describe as a state of constant over-enthusiasm, bouncing from one plant to the next with such unmeasured glee it was simply a joy to be with her. Now I like plants. I like them lightly steamed, deep fried or otherwise. But Em's obvious excitement was nothing if not infectious. You walk around the sides of this deep bowl through meadowfield plants and industrial style crops to the bottom where you can go into one of their temperature controlled domes housing tropical or Mediterranean plants. Their focus on ecology is everywhere and their hope and optimism for a more ecologically conscious future is inspiring.

After five hours on our feet we were ready for a sit down and a cuppa/pinta something so we headed to our stopping point for the night Fowey (pronouced FOY). The car parks are clearly indicated on the edges of the town and once you head inland you find out why. The narrow turning streets are barely wide enough for three people to pass abreast, god help any cars that are foolish enough to trundle through these back streets. In fact you can tell the locals who drive as they effortlessly whip through the tortuous alleys whilst Toroids creep forward at a pace a snail would scoff at. Also the locals have more scratches on their cars.

We wandered the pleasant streets for a while seeing the boats sail through the harbour with enough breeze just to use sails. Watching a small boat catch a breeze and zip forward through the waves is a thrilling sight even to a complete land lubber like myself. We stopped at our pub located on the waterfront, where I believe we were promised a sea view. Well, if you crane your neck out of the window , avoid the roosting seagulls you can make out the barest sliver of deep blue so I suppose technically they're correct.

We headed out onto the pubs verenda which hangs over the bay and watched the comings and goings of this small town. The table behind us was occupied with the worst sort of English upper class twat stereotype. Making fun of the people their were moored next to who happened to be french so would 'stink of garlic' but would be 'bound to have a decent bit of plonk'.

You hear twaddle like that and you just feel sorry for everyone. from the person the lazy stereotyping is aimed at to the stereotype who clearly hasn't pulled his head out of his own arse long enough to experience the wonder and riches that other cultures can offer. How ever sorry I may feel for him he's still a twat though.

Finding the company a little off putting we headed along the bay and wound up in a tiny bar/bistro with a bunch of bohemian eccentrics drinking Budvar and eating tapas from fifties formic tables whilst listening to David Bowie and John Coltrane. And I'm ashamed to say I thought 'This is exactly the experience that the little englander is making himself miss out on.' Czech beer, Spanish food and American music in the Cornish sea air. Now that's a truly pan cultural experience!

Cornwall 2011 day 1

day 1


The day dawned sunny and clear which I am sure was a mistake as Em and I were embarking on Bimble 2 Son of bimble! We loaded the car up, said goodbye to the cat and started to drive due south. Once we'd apologised to the neighbours for ploughing up their flower bed with the car we decided to use the roads instead. We scudded through the sunny Welsh countryside with the temperature creeping up as the mileometer ticked over. Soon we were crossing the border into Eng-ger-land, that dark and fabled place full of mythical beasts and other pop factor idol rejects.

We turned south and met with my Uncle peter for lunch in his place in Bristol. Full of homemade bread and delicious pork pies we headed back out just in time for the weather to turn dark and wet but against all prior experience and the laws of God and man it stayed at what I can only describe as oven-interior levels.

We headed through Devon and then onto Cornwall where our first nights stay was located which is a 13th century inn that had previously been a chapel and many other things. I could be wrong but I think they might have decorated it since then. The upstairs bedrooms are light and airy and feel a couple of years old at most. However the downstairs two rooms are slate floored with nooks and alcoves for drinkers a distinct lack of jukeboxes and alcopops. Beer snob heaven in fact.

We took a walk out to the coastal path that loops around Cornwall and heads down along most of the south coast. I'm thinking about trying to walk the whole distance someday but I think that might be a daydream like walking up Everest or watersking behind two tame killer whales. i.e. fun to think about but the logistics would be a nightmare.

The road past the pub heads to a vicarage and teamrooms and stops dead. That's it. There's no through road, it ends appropriately enough just before the rolling countryside plunges about two hundred foot directly into the sea. The cliffs and sand are satanic,... sorry volcanic, black but apparently only few miles further towards the tip they turn a lovely golden yellow and are therefore more popular.

I found them very striking and incredibly visually arresting. I obviously wasn't the only one as this was where Hawkers hut was located. It's the smallest property in national trust hands and is essential a series of small steps down what would be a nigh-on sheer cliff. when you've dropped a handful of feet the steps level out into a small area and there's a small hut made of a driftwood that you can sit in in all weather and gaze out to see. The original priestly resident of the vicarage I mentioned was a poet and a friend of Coleridges and every day after attending to his vicarly duties he'd walk from the church to the edge of the cliff and sit in the hut he'd made and write poetry. Oh and smoke opium. I'm pretty sure the smoking of opium was important in the whole writing poetry side of things.

By now the pangs of hunger for Em and the my thirst demon had kicked in so we wandered over the gorgeous meadows and little country lane back to our pub. The guidebook states that with no jukebox conversation is the main form of entertainment in the pub and damn were they right! We chatted to one guy about his dog and how the cafe on top of Snowdon had been tastefully changed from the portocabin he remembered another guy at the bar chimed in about how Bugle is the armpit of Cornwall and should be avoided at all cost, and then we chatted for a couple of hours to a mother from Sheffield who was on holiday with her university student daughter about all the stuff they've seen while they've been down here.

A simple meal of bread and olives, fish/scampi and chips and cheese platter/brownie followed washed down with a few pints of excellent St Austell Ale, their 'Tribute' being my personal favourite. after a few more hours and random conversations we descended into the arms of Morpheus to see what spectacular sights he would bid us hold. (I think there might have been some residual opium left in that hut!

Its the end of the world, as we knew it.

Mid Wales Shows

Went to a small holders show on Saturday at the Royal Welsh showground'
s in Bwyth Wells All though the word Small shouldn't come into it, it
was a huge collection of stalls and displays and a much larger
audience. It's strange that we sometimes need reminding that Wales is a
very rural country with a large proportion of its ground given over to
agriculture. The endless green fields I drive past on my commute
everyday aren't just there to look tranquil and pretty but they at the
heart of what appears to be a thriving industry.

There were thousands of exhibitors showing everything from gas turbine
driven post holers (Very handy in event of Vampire attack BTW) to
speciality cheese makers. One of the cheesemakers have a product
called Chedderella which is a mozzarella/cheddar hybrid, the taste of
which was so distinctive it split our party into the "So vile its
putrid" camp comprising of Em, Caz and Rob P. and the "Mmmmm Delicious
camp", featuring, urm, just Me.

Sadly although there were brewers at the show there was no 'Beer tent'
so we bought a couple of bottles from a few select brewers , after
sampling all their wares of course. We then had a beer break every hour
or so where we shared a bottle between the four of us whilst having a
five minute sit down. Gosh darn civilised I have to say.

The livestock exhibitions were really interesting, there were turkeys
that looked so hideous they seemed to be unused characters from the
Dark Crystal, rabbits the size of Dobermans, and llamas. Now I love a
llama but I did hear a couple of heavily accented farmers referring to
them using the Ll sound which really made me chuckle.

After we'd sampled the delights of the fair, and the Parry's had
decided on the type of pigs and sheep they wanted for their small
holding we headed to the glittering metropolis that is Llandrindod
Wells. The hotel was cheap and Fawlty Towers old school but the sheets
were clean the rooms were large and quiet and everything worked so I
can have no complaints at all.

The bathroom window had a beautiful view of the surrounding hills and
greenery which was unsettled slightly by the way the toilet basin faced
out upon it. So whilst you were in a situation that demands the utmost
privacy you were all the time facing all the mountains and valleys of
the region. Slightly disconcerting to say the least.

We headed out to a pub I'd found in the good beer guide (Undoubtedly
one of my best purchases) and whilst the beer and atmosphere were
superb and convivial the menu lacked a certain something. I suppose
we'd been spoilt by the wide variety of produce this greenest of lands
can offer and frozen Scampi and Oven Chips just wasn't going to cut
it.

We walked out into the pouring rain (there's a reason why Wales is so
green) and after a brief saunter we decided upon the Indian restaurant
that Caroline had spotted on our way in. To say to was delicious is to
do it a disservice. It was one of the very best Indian meals I have
ever had and being that I've eaten in Brick Lane in London and the
Curry Mile in both Birmingham and Manchester that's high praise
indeed.

Not quite ready to face the hotel yet we stopped at a bar and had a
pint in a underground bar. That is to say, a bar below the surface
level of the street rather than an illegal boozer. Although it did feel
a bit shady being the four of us outnumbered the regulars and bar
staff. We talked music for an hour or two and then headed to bed
Saturday well and truly done.

The breakfast next morning was chaotically organised by the staff but
highly pleasant and we headed back to North Wales in the sunshine.

Who shot the cat?

A great weekend.

So, I started playing the flute again this weekend. I was a bit nervous about it as I hadn't really played properly since I was sixteen but I was reminded by a close friend this week that we have very little to fear but fear itself (And spiders of course). But if we actually put ourselves in situations that we are not entirely comfortable with we can find out a lot about ourselves that we didn't know.

It was actually a very positive experience, I'd forgotten far less than I thought and it all came flooding back! Maz chose some really great pieces to get started with and once Em's up and about I think I might give them a quick practice.

Anyway its a good excuse as any to reprint a story I wrote about starting to play the flute which I wrote a good number of years ago. I haven't altered or edited anything in it as its a good reflection of what I was writing at the time. But looking back on it now I see where the cracks and creaks are and wince a touch. but thats what growth it about I suppose.







Origins of a flautist




As most male endeavours have been over the span of human history, I started playing the flute to impress girls, sort of. Well one girl in particular, lets call her F.

F. was everything to me as most school yard first crushes are. Even though I knew little of the ways of love I knew that it must be that feeling she gave me every time she smiled. What else could this exquisite burning in my chest be?

She was in the year above me and my sun rose and set with her coming and goings. In the multiplex of my mind I saw every time I had past her in the corridor and in slow motion got to replay that one sweet time I queued behind her in the canteen, close enough to smell the coconut shampoo she used, whilst she giggled in front of me with her friends.

I should point out I didn't spend my time running from one side of the school to another just to catch a glimpse of her like some kind of hormonally charged stalker. There were other considerations in my school life at the time including football, sweet shops and bunking off.

When I saw her it was a rare treat I savoured rather than trying to gorge myself on an excess of her.

I listened to a lot of music even then, my friends and I would always be discussing albums and bands swapping copied tapes back and forth like we're meant to believe the kids today are swapping STD's. Eventually talk came around to starting our own band and I was given the task of both buying and learning the bass.

I rushed home sure that Mum and Dad, both being musical, would be overjoyed that I was going to become a famous rock star. To say they were under whelmed would be an understatement. I think they were afraid one of two things would happen;
I would buy a bass, get bored and leave it to gather dust in a corner, or I would play it so much and at such a volume that the structure of our house would age prematurely and bring the roof down on our heads.

A compromise was sought in that if I could play a non-offensive (non-guitar) instrument for a year they would think about buying a bass. Unhappy but unable to afford the bass myself I agreed to their terms. After some internal parental debate they presented me with a flute.

I was shocked. I couldn't even conceive of an instrument less bass like. Instead of striding the world like a rock behemoth, making the foundations of the world itself tremble, I would be playing a poncy version of a recorder, sideways, with my cheeks all bunched up and my lower lip sticking out like some kind of wanton child.

However, knowing my parents well enough that once a decision was reached, however stupid or ill advised, that would be the course of action that would be taken I kept to our bargain.

So I took the metal stick and started taking the regulation lessons in school as was stipulated in my contract with the parental unit. Imagine my surprise when I attended the first band practice, was directed to a seat in the flute section and F. sat down right next to me.

My panicking heart didn't even have time to recover from the sheer nearness of her before she turned to me smiled and said "Hi, you new?"

The burdensome flute changed in that instant to a key unlocking that which I truly most desired, contact with F.

Less than 2 months later, my friends abandoned the idea of forming a band and I had no need to stay in the band, as my bass playing skills or lack thereof were no longer required. But I kept at the flute so I could stay in the band and stay near to F.

Twice a week at lunch for 6 years I played the flute and had fun with F. My near obsession for her mellowed into something deeper more tangible and more adult. We became really good friends and apart from the odd half joking half serious valentines card my ardour was happily quenched.

A succession of boyfriends came and went but I was always there before during and after. I got to share so much more with her than I ever could have done as a potential suitor.

When she left school, a year ahead of me I simply stopped going to band. I started avoiding the confused music teacher, to whom I gave no warning of my musical defection, cleaned out my flute and placed it at the back of my wardrobe.

There it staid, wrapped in its red faux-velvet lining, until another group of friends decided to form a band and this time I already knew the instrument I was going to play.









There. That wasn't so bad was it? *shiver*

Anyway so friday we had dinner as payment for a very enjoyable flute lesson feature a one two whammy of Cottage pie and Cheesecake. We introduced Maz to the world of Dirty Word Scrabble. Extra points are awarded for the rude words. (In one game we still discuss Em got Quim on a triple word score!)

Saturday I biked up to Llandernog and back which was really rewarding/knackering but I'm not so bad today, it'll be tomorrow when the aches really come! We had a housekeeping day and went for a two hour wander around town finding all these really lovely od streets and quiet spots in town. The sun was just fabulously warming. And we finished off the day with the first barbeque of the season back at Rob and carolines helping them finish off some homemade burgers! Yay!

When the sun shines the world feels like a different place. I love how green this part of the country is and I wouldn't change it for the world but its nice to get some proper sun now and again.

So, a cat then.

Having been a dog person most of my life it may come as a surprise
that Em and I adopted a cat on Friday. Even more of a surprise if you
know Em's allergic to most things with hair (She assures me this has
nothing to do with her initial attraction to me and my shaven pate.)

We were told that adult cats (he's five) very rarely get adopted as
there's always a glut of unwanted pets and everyone wants the kittens.
Which I find really sad. I don't intend on ghost writing a blog in the
name of my cat or making every post about him but I think he's worthy
of a mention here.

An actual cats' blog would be quite dull I'd imagine.

April 4th;

Slept.

Slept.

Slept.

Got up, ate some biscuits and played with my humans for a while to keep
them happy.

Slept.

Planned global domination through the cunning use of catnip.

Slept.

Batted a cloth mouse around for a bit and pretended it was pleading for
its life. I showed no mercy.

Slept.

April 5th

etc etc etc

He's meant to leap out of his cage when he first arrives and find a
hiding place in a small room and not move for a day or so. The books
say not to force him to do anything too soon but rather to let him get
comfortable with the new environment.

Instead of the timid feline we were expecting this guy was straight out
and prowling his territory within seconds. Ballsy as you like coming
over to Em and I for a fuss and to leave us with clumps of fine white
hair.

He's quite a big lad as you can see above and having had the snip he's
leaving hairs rather than scent to mark his territory. I've hoovered
about five times this weekend already.

The only downside so far (aside from the extra hoovering) is that he's
mewling in the night as he's possibly bored or just uncertain of his
new routine. We can't let him in the bedroom as I don't think there's
an Anti-histamine strong enough for Em to actually sleep in the same
space as the cat.

The books say to make sure he's got everything he needs before you go
to bed and then ignore his meowing until the morning. Having finally
moved into a house that's quiet at night I seem to have invited my own
disturbance in with me. Hopefully this behaviour will change once he
realises;

a) We're not going anywhere.

b) However much noise he makes we won't be getting up

c) He'll be able to go out of the house in a week or so.

I've also realised that petting is not the same as playing and that I
actually need to play with the cat to make sure he's not getting bored.
The lovely cats on the farm I've mentioned before have 10 acres to run
around and play on. Our cat has a small bungalow full of other peoples
stuff. It's just not the same amount of stimulation.

So tonight my shopping list includes toys, catnip, a scratching post,
kitty litter and a scooper. The less said about the last couple of
items the better.

The family seemed to like him as he's quite a placid cat (when its not
4AM) and quite frankly gorgeous.

As soon as I can stop him from mewling we'll be best friends (Or I'll
get better earplugs.)

And the name?

Well its a combination of things, The 'Hero' of my favourite book "The
Dreamquest of Unknown Kaddath" By H.P.Lovecraft (Which is available as
a free download from the Gutenberg project Google 'em , you'll be glad
you did) is called Carter and he is very friendly with the cats in that
strange world. Also 'Get Carter' is one of my favourite films and I can
now quote it every time he leaves the room.

But most I think because it suits him very well.

I shall not to mention him too much here unless he does something
spectacular. Like win the Nobel prize for Physics or something. In
which case I might get a mention on HIS blog.

Carter the cat. (Actual size.)

Firdays!

Bikes hurt when you cycle for a couple of miles uphill. Just so you
know.

Moved back into our house last weekend and celebrated by making my
first batch of beer for a while. its a standard Bitter brew but I'm
going to try and couple of bottle conditioning styles using the basic
brew as the template. (And also brew up the rest of it for the Not-The
Royal Wedding)

We're having our official housewarming on the day of the wedding not
through any anti-royalist republican feeling. I actually thing the
Royals give good value for money (Duchy royal biscuit anyone?)and wish
William and whatsherface all the best but I don't need eight hours of
the bloody thing. If you're reading this blog then you're more than
welcome to join us, bring something to drink and something to throw on
the Barbeque. Plastic crowns and sceptres will be confiscated at the
door.

Been reading the Johnathon Barnbrook Bible which is all about Graphic
design and art. For an art book its surprisingly accessible and it make
you think about how fonts are used and how the shape of the letters
used subconsciously works on you.

Doing a mothering Sunday dinner for both respective mothers at the old
homestead this weekend. Be a chance to flex my culinary muscles. Only
ever done one roast before so I'm looking forward to the challenge. I
might do a chicken roasted on a tray of veg and mini sausages or I
might do a nice rump of beef with some Yorkshires. Mmmmmm How long is
it till lunch?

Farm Holiday 2011!

Staying at our friends farm this week and last, which has been a breath
of clean fresh air. The cats are still lovely and crazy by turns
although they seem to have warmed to both Em and I even more so than
last time. I think two weeks of constant feeding has softened Bateman
to the point where she doesn't actively despise me. Ackbar is very
affectionate when she gets to know you to the point she's actually a
little aggressive about it. she'll jump up and you'll pet her whilst
you're watching TV or whatever and she gradually climb up on you until
she's nose to nose with you all the time purring as if to say "PAY ME
ATTENTION!". It's really sweet.

I have actually decided on a nickname for the other supersweet cat. her
nightly serenades to us behind a closed door have earnt her the moniker
Pavarotti, not that she is overweight in any way but the singers most
famous recording "Nessun Dorma" is Italian for "None shall sleep". (I
told you my nicknames were cruel!) Actually just a few reassuring words
and she quietens down fine.

We're having a very relaxing time of it but we had Phil Amanda Jack and
Hugh visit us a couple of times on this trip. It was fabulous to see
them and to see how happy the two boys are and how similar they are in
personality and temperament to Phil and I, or at least how we were when
we were their age.

They came up to the farm and had great fun running around on the lawn
and up and down the drive. Also it turns out that Bateman, who's at
best indifferent to adults LOVES kids. She had a great time chasing
around with them! Just goes to show never judge a psycho by its black,
white and orange fur.

We went on the steam train in Porthmadog with them as well which was
good fun. I had a little moment when Jack was sitting next to me and
Phil and I tried to switch places and Jack said "I want to sit next to
Uncle Rob!". Awwwwwwwwww. (Maybe its the American accent that's just
too cute for words!)

Anyway all is well and I pick up my bike tonight so I'm very much
looking forward to getting some proper biking done. It would be a
travesty to live this close to the mountains and not do some proper
biking.

You don't get fog like this in Rhyl!

do you?

Sons and Lovers

Just finished reading 'Sons and lovers' by D.H. Lawrence. I'm working
my way through a book on 'how to read a novel' and this is the second
of the two required texts. The first one "Waverley" by Walter Scott I
rather enjoyed even if it was a touch on the slow side. Sons and
lovers, thought beautifully written had a totally different effect. The
first part of the novel follows the Morel family as the straight laced
mother deals with the disappointment of marring a miner who is
incapable of loving her as she deserves they had four kids and Paul the
youngest is the focus of the second half of the book as he is torn
between two women, the ethereal and saintly Miriam and the earthly
Clara. Clara has already been married and is separated but not divorced
from her husband who lurks like an evil shadow around their
relationship. As his mothers health fails he doubts his own choices and
reunites Clara with her husband and leaves Miriam.

I don't know if studying without benefit of a teacher is skewing my
view but I did spend the second half of the book internally shouting
"OH, GET OVER YOURSELF!" at the main character. He doesn't know what he
wants, he can't find a girl that has all the qualities of his mother
and he spends a lot of time comparing the two girls to aspects of his
mother. He can find the intellectual Sustenance with Miriam and the
earthly desire with Clara but cannot combine the two in one person he
can settle down with.

He is sometime wilfully cruel in the way he strings along the women,
instead of manning up, finishing with them and seeking his fortune and
love further a field.

The writing is beautiful and descriptive passages that leave you
breathless especially of the natural world surrounding the village
which Paul spends a lot of time in.

The book doesn't so much conclude as just end after his mother falling
ill and passing on Paul is plunged into even more despair and ennui and
comes to no resolve or resolution.

Pretty bleak stuff.

The next book though is Mansfield Park one I haven't read by Jane
Austen (Whom I adore) so I'm hoping for a bit more

"Why, Mr Darcy! Won't you take a turn around the gazebo? " and a bit
less

" Ain't 't grim oop North!".

moving

Moved into a new house on a quiet estate, in a quiet town. It's some
kind of heaven. Victoria Road was convenient for the Rhyl Town
centre

its true. But it was more convenient for the string of deadbeats and

wasters on the way to and from the corner shop to throw used papers

crisp packets and on one memorable occasion a full open yoghurt into
our

front yard. Perhaps he wanted strawberry but all they had was
raspberry.

This is to say nothing of the car vandalism, noise from the club/pub

over the road and angry men, in angry cars with angry exhausts. Our

neighbour went from being a sweet old lady who we never heard a peep

from to an aging tom with an abusive boyfriend to a single mother
whose

idea of housework would have made Stig of the dump blush. Oh and a

tendency to drag unsuspecting men back to her lair and play 'I want it

that way' By the Backstreet Boys on loop whilst ritually slaughtering
a

pig. At least from the noises coming through the wall that's what it

sounded like.

On the one occasion , 3AM on a Tuesday morning, I went around to ask
her

to turn it down she answered the door in jeans and a bra. That was

enough to scare me off. I've lived as a student, watched open heart

surgery in an operating room and nothing has turned my stomach as much

as that cheap denim and poor quality cotton framing a deeply unlovely

person. Luckily she showed the same care and consideration to her

neighbours as she did her rent check and so was forcibly evicted by
the

police. And on that day we had a party.

The new house has had problems too although up to now the biggest
thing

has been that the orange food waste bin has decided to roam the world

freed of its earthly burden. Or in English its disappeared. The
Council

are sending another one around.

However something has happened to spoil this elysian paradise. The

central heating packed in yesterday and I have zero experience of an

actual proper central heating system. My Mums house had the novelty of
a

warm air system where as far as I could see a team of asthmatic
badgers

would wheeze tepid air around the flues. It was kind of a homeopathic

heating system, air that had once been warm was diluted and passed

around a space that was too large and it had all the warming ability
of

clustering around a picture of a fire clipped from a magazine.

I poked the clock a few times, relit the pilot light on the boiler and

then, aware that my manly credentials were taking a downwards
direction

declared it 'broken' and 'We should get a man in.'

There are things I can do and things I can't and frankly if it doesn't

have a GUI then I'm screwed.

Chaos defrost!

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Wales v England 6 nations.