This is going to be a very short post (no cheering at the back, please) because there isn't much to add and the pressures of that which has no place here are such that time is limited.
Post-blog yesterday I got an invitation to the pub from one of the folk I've come to know from I-M.com. Fraser dropped me a text on the way home saying that he would be in Bar Tat (must get the punctuation right on that some day) and was I around? Home, hosed and fed, and with no appetite for watching TV or sitting at the PC, I got royal assent and made tracks down into town.
The pub was crowded and, true to form, he was there and holding forth to two folk I didn't recognise. These turned out to be guys he'd met only the previous week when in with another of the I-M crowd, but the conversation was lively and, as is always the case, apt to take a sudden turn to the left without warning. Did you know, for example, that the Bishop of Bradford used to work out his frustrations by attacking a bramble patch at the end of his garden with a machete, swearing all the time like a submariner with a bad tooth? I didn't, but do now.
The wife of one of these chaps said she thought she knew me from somewhere, but as she is an estate agent and our involvement with the housing market is six-plus years ago, she was either mistaken or has an exceptional memory. The yak-fest continued through the pub quiz and stopped only while the answers were being read out. Suffice to say that the "New Yorkers" - our team name chosen from the legend on my t-shirt - failed to trouble the scorers, but as many of the picture questions were concerned with 'celebrities', of which our collective knowledge was sadly incomplete, that's hardly surprising. Come to think of it, our general knowledge was a bit thin as well...
By this time I'd had enough beer and knew that getting home to bed (via the murderously steep hill out of town) was the best option, so I excused myself and left Fraser & co to it. The ferocious climb was completed in a personal best time and left me gasping for air (and with a pulse of 120 bpm) at the end of it. Lord knows what anyone who heard my graveyard rasps floating out of the darkness thought.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Wednesday 29th April
Isn't it odd how so many of life's little wrinkles, which we all now accept as part of the daily churn, have only come into existence since the advent of the internet? I have done two pieces of business on-line today and neither could be completed without lifting the 'phone and talking to a real person who, on each occasion, turned out to be cheerful, willing to help and ready to share a chuckle.
So, that's Soph and Phez entered for one of the show pony classes at The Great Yorkshire Show in July and four tickets bought for the Rhinos game the following day. The first will be stressful for Soph, who winds herself up to bursting before an event but invariably becomes magnificently composed and focused as soon she nudges her mount into the ring. The rugby is another kettle of testosterone altogether and I suspect her motives (and those of the friend she is bringing with her) are born not out of love for the game but more for the magnificent specimens that take part.
Back to the internet, and the only thing I have left to do is to book Phill's ticket to visit Deb in St Louis in October. Late last night there was an unexpected and pleasant exchange of email with Deb, when the dates were confirmed once and for all.
It'll be a late dinner this evening: Soph and Phill won't get back from the stables until seven-thirty, so with a bit of luck I'll have everything ready by then. There might even be time afterwards to listen to the second half of the Arsenal game - on the internet, of course!
So, that's Soph and Phez entered for one of the show pony classes at The Great Yorkshire Show in July and four tickets bought for the Rhinos game the following day. The first will be stressful for Soph, who winds herself up to bursting before an event but invariably becomes magnificently composed and focused as soon she nudges her mount into the ring. The rugby is another kettle of testosterone altogether and I suspect her motives (and those of the friend she is bringing with her) are born not out of love for the game but more for the magnificent specimens that take part.
Back to the internet, and the only thing I have left to do is to book Phill's ticket to visit Deb in St Louis in October. Late last night there was an unexpected and pleasant exchange of email with Deb, when the dates were confirmed once and for all.
It'll be a late dinner this evening: Soph and Phill won't get back from the stables until seven-thirty, so with a bit of luck I'll have everything ready by then. There might even be time afterwards to listen to the second half of the Arsenal game - on the internet, of course!
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Tuesday 28th April
Missed yesterday's blog because the morning runes, which predicted a lousy day, were bang-on. Awoke gently but then remembered a 7am meeting at work, which sparked a mad-cap dash round the house, shaving in the shower and, finally, putting Phill's lunch as well as my own into my rucksack - something I only discovered at 1pm, with much guilt.
FOIM will never go into detail about work, which has no place here, but the fact that it turned into a bad day was so ill-concealed from Phill that...well, when I got home I had the usual big smile and a hug (she was sitting on the couch), then wandered off alone into the kitchen to make tea. There, waiting for me, was a bottle of Laphroaig fifteen-year-old single malt. A small note, finished with a smiley face, neatly summarised my objections to this extravagance, and finished with the instruction to "shut up and drink it." She came and joined me and we chatted happily for a while.
There are times when I can scarcely believe how lucky I am, but on occasions like this I can't help but recall a moment when we were sitting in Prime Burger, a diner in upper mid-town, New York. The three of us were eating in a recess near the front of the restaurant, where the only other occupant was a neat lady of perhaps seventy years. We exchanged smiles from time to time but otherwise kept to ourselves, enjoying an excellent lunch. The lady finished first, then joined the line for the till that stretched past my right shoulder and down the restaurant. As she passed, she leant down, smiled and said quietly "Sir, you have a lovely family".
Things like that really get your attention, and I remember her words every time the going gets tough.
http://www.primeburger.com/
FOIM will never go into detail about work, which has no place here, but the fact that it turned into a bad day was so ill-concealed from Phill that...well, when I got home I had the usual big smile and a hug (she was sitting on the couch), then wandered off alone into the kitchen to make tea. There, waiting for me, was a bottle of Laphroaig fifteen-year-old single malt. A small note, finished with a smiley face, neatly summarised my objections to this extravagance, and finished with the instruction to "shut up and drink it." She came and joined me and we chatted happily for a while.
There are times when I can scarcely believe how lucky I am, but on occasions like this I can't help but recall a moment when we were sitting in Prime Burger, a diner in upper mid-town, New York. The three of us were eating in a recess near the front of the restaurant, where the only other occupant was a neat lady of perhaps seventy years. We exchanged smiles from time to time but otherwise kept to ourselves, enjoying an excellent lunch. The lady finished first, then joined the line for the till that stretched past my right shoulder and down the restaurant. As she passed, she leant down, smiled and said quietly "Sir, you have a lovely family".
Things like that really get your attention, and I remember her words every time the going gets tough.
http://www.primeburger.com/
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Sunday 26th April
A clear, blue morning at TEOIM. The trees are almost all in leaf now and our lovely green world is back with us; thank goodness. Although we don't have to cope with the semi-permanent darkness of more northerly lattitiudes the dank awfulness of a sodden British winter, where there is no warmth and dead leaves turn gradually to slush, becomes more difficult to stomach as each year passes. Thinking ahead to our upcoming Spanish holiday - sixteen weeks away - underlines just how short is our summertime. We will step off the 'plane at the end of August, when the season will begin to change.
The last few months have involved a great deal of self-discipline. Having gained weight at an alarming - if not surprising - rate it became clear that it was time to do something about it. Twenty-odd pounds later I can once again fit into clothes last worn a couple of years ago and have a fighting chance of not nauseating the world and his senorita when the trunks go on. That is why this moring's fried egg sandwich (on buttered white bread with the yolk heavily salted) was an exquisite, decadent treat. Don't get me wrong: this is by no means a joyless regime, but pushing the boat out once in a while is appreciated for what it is.
Haven't seen much of Phill today. She drove into Leeds to buy a birthday present for a friend and dropped Soph off at the stables on her way, so I was left to my own devices which, inevitably, involved spending time on the internet looking, amongst other things, at the Wikipedia page dealing with tripe, a northern delicacy and one which I haven't tasted for about forty years. Not difficult to understand why once you know what it is...but the Italians in particular seem to have a fondness for it, which surprised me.
Solitude meant that, for once, I was on my own at 1pm. Why is this special? Well, anyone who knows us understands that Phill and I are usually glued to the TV at this time on grand prix weekends, waiting for the lights to go out and the mad dash to the first corner. This year's new rules have injected much-needed excitement into the races and the driver's table has a topsy-turvy look as a result. Britisher Jenson Button managed another win today - his third in four races - but there is plenty of evidence that the other teams are pushing hard to catch up, so the rest of the season should be at least as interesting as it has been so far.
Phill got back in tome for the second half of the race and, afterwards, once we had collected Soph from the stables, we went and sat for an hour in an almost deserted Bar Tat.
The last few months have involved a great deal of self-discipline. Having gained weight at an alarming - if not surprising - rate it became clear that it was time to do something about it. Twenty-odd pounds later I can once again fit into clothes last worn a couple of years ago and have a fighting chance of not nauseating the world and his senorita when the trunks go on. That is why this moring's fried egg sandwich (on buttered white bread with the yolk heavily salted) was an exquisite, decadent treat. Don't get me wrong: this is by no means a joyless regime, but pushing the boat out once in a while is appreciated for what it is.
Haven't seen much of Phill today. She drove into Leeds to buy a birthday present for a friend and dropped Soph off at the stables on her way, so I was left to my own devices which, inevitably, involved spending time on the internet looking, amongst other things, at the Wikipedia page dealing with tripe, a northern delicacy and one which I haven't tasted for about forty years. Not difficult to understand why once you know what it is...but the Italians in particular seem to have a fondness for it, which surprised me.
Solitude meant that, for once, I was on my own at 1pm. Why is this special? Well, anyone who knows us understands that Phill and I are usually glued to the TV at this time on grand prix weekends, waiting for the lights to go out and the mad dash to the first corner. This year's new rules have injected much-needed excitement into the races and the driver's table has a topsy-turvy look as a result. Britisher Jenson Button managed another win today - his third in four races - but there is plenty of evidence that the other teams are pushing hard to catch up, so the rest of the season should be at least as interesting as it has been so far.
Phill got back in tome for the second half of the race and, afterwards, once we had collected Soph from the stables, we went and sat for an hour in an almost deserted Bar Tat.
Saturday 25th April
The day began at seven (the legacy of early work-day mornings) with a spell on the computer re-hashing yesterday's blog and having a glance at http://www.ilkley-more.com/, where there isn't much going on.
Mum and dad were coming for dinner, so there was an AM dash to Tesco for the bits and pieces, with an unplanned diversion to Booth's for the main ingredient (lamb shanks) which Tesco didn't have!
The recipe is a one-pot affair, so once it was in the oven and the components for the pud - Eton Mess - were combined, there wasn't much to do. Drove over to Baildon with Phill, picked up M&D (after admiring their new central heating boiler - the old one finally gave up after forty-five years) and brought them back to TEOIM. Mum doesn't drive and dad is less comfortable behind the wheel these days, so we do the chaffeuring.
Dad pronounced himself well pleased with his gin and tonic, made with Spanish gin, then, after the usual last minute scramble to bring everything together hot and on time, we cracked open some wine and sat down to the lamb, which had spent the last couple of hours cooking in a mixture of red wine & balsamic vinegar. It was teriffic, and dad surprised us all by saying that it was the first time in his eighty-plus years that he'd tasted lamb! No wonder he looked nonplussed when we set his plate down. Sophie showed him the way though, reducing her piece to the bone in what seemed like nothing flat!
After the meal we sat and watched a DVD of Sophie's performance with her pony, Phez, at last weekend's Ilkley show, the first of the season. The pair did well and there was much happy chatter.
Dad was worried about Phill having to drive them home in the dark so we set off back to Baildon, where we said our goodbyes. A pleasant, sunny day.
Mum and dad were coming for dinner, so there was an AM dash to Tesco for the bits and pieces, with an unplanned diversion to Booth's for the main ingredient (lamb shanks) which Tesco didn't have!
The recipe is a one-pot affair, so once it was in the oven and the components for the pud - Eton Mess - were combined, there wasn't much to do. Drove over to Baildon with Phill, picked up M&D (after admiring their new central heating boiler - the old one finally gave up after forty-five years) and brought them back to TEOIM. Mum doesn't drive and dad is less comfortable behind the wheel these days, so we do the chaffeuring.
Dad pronounced himself well pleased with his gin and tonic, made with Spanish gin, then, after the usual last minute scramble to bring everything together hot and on time, we cracked open some wine and sat down to the lamb, which had spent the last couple of hours cooking in a mixture of red wine & balsamic vinegar. It was teriffic, and dad surprised us all by saying that it was the first time in his eighty-plus years that he'd tasted lamb! No wonder he looked nonplussed when we set his plate down. Sophie showed him the way though, reducing her piece to the bone in what seemed like nothing flat!
After the meal we sat and watched a DVD of Sophie's performance with her pony, Phez, at last weekend's Ilkley show, the first of the season. The pair did well and there was much happy chatter.
Dad was worried about Phill having to drive them home in the dark so we set off back to Baildon, where we said our goodbyes. A pleasant, sunny day.
Friday, 24 April 2009
That's three hours we'll never get back!
Having seen only bits of other Nicholas Cage movies I was looking forward to seeing all of "Knowing", his latest effort. Internet reviews were, however, not exactly promising and seemed to indicate (not always politely) that this film is a piece of cheese.
The premise is that a young oddball girl (she hears voices) fills a sheet of paper with apparrently random numbers. This, along with her classmates' more conventional efforts at artwork, is buried in a time capsule in front of her newly-established school. 50 years on, when the capsule is opened, Cage's son acquires the sheet and brings it home.
A stroke of great fortune sees Cage, an MIT scientist and lecturer, recognise that within the apparently random clutch of figures lie clues to the last fifity-years' worth of disasters, their location and number of people killed in each. The fortune comes not in the discovery itself, but that it took place at all, given that he was outside of the best part of half a bottle of scotch when the penny dropped. Equally astonishing, he drives several children to school early the following morning, a few short hours after having been clattered. A little later, similarly soaked, he realises that the left over numbers (whose meaning has so far escaped him) set out upcoming terminal events.
From this point on a fairly unremarkable story unfolds: plenty of bangs, crashes, shouting and running about, all propped up by some rather good special effects, but the last third of the film comes straight out of left field and is left incomplete only by the absence of Chico Marx and his bulb-horn.
There are all sorts of little allegories running round loose here, but they are so light-weight that it is probably only the air-crash sequence (and whoever CGI'd that has spent too much time on You Tube) and some New York subway carnage that earns this film its '15' certificate.
Two-thirds of this film are OK and, despite everything, I'm glad we forked out to see it (but only because it will be interesting to hear the views of colleague, who is going tomorrow).
The premise is that a young oddball girl (she hears voices) fills a sheet of paper with apparrently random numbers. This, along with her classmates' more conventional efforts at artwork, is buried in a time capsule in front of her newly-established school. 50 years on, when the capsule is opened, Cage's son acquires the sheet and brings it home.
A stroke of great fortune sees Cage, an MIT scientist and lecturer, recognise that within the apparently random clutch of figures lie clues to the last fifity-years' worth of disasters, their location and number of people killed in each. The fortune comes not in the discovery itself, but that it took place at all, given that he was outside of the best part of half a bottle of scotch when the penny dropped. Equally astonishing, he drives several children to school early the following morning, a few short hours after having been clattered. A little later, similarly soaked, he realises that the left over numbers (whose meaning has so far escaped him) set out upcoming terminal events.
From this point on a fairly unremarkable story unfolds: plenty of bangs, crashes, shouting and running about, all propped up by some rather good special effects, but the last third of the film comes straight out of left field and is left incomplete only by the absence of Chico Marx and his bulb-horn.
There are all sorts of little allegories running round loose here, but they are so light-weight that it is probably only the air-crash sequence (and whoever CGI'd that has spent too much time on You Tube) and some New York subway carnage that earns this film its '15' certificate.
Two-thirds of this film are OK and, despite everything, I'm glad we forked out to see it (but only because it will be interesting to hear the views of colleague, who is going tomorrow).
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