I went to the doctors last week, to sort out my rash. It flares up in red blotches over my chest, shoulders and arms when it’s hot. Yes I know it’s winter. But you dress for winter, go out to work or somewhere and the heating is up full blast.
I sweat easily. It’s a running joke at work. I ride into work and when I get there I usually have quite a sweat going on.
“He can’t help it, he’s a very sweaty person,” a colleague of mine always used to call out to me first thing. He wasn’t best pleased when one day my response was “Yeah that’s what your mum said when I banged her last night.”
Quite possibly the first time I had used a your mum joke since school. He hasn’t said it since.
So I go to the doctors I tell him about the rash and take off my shirt to show him. He looks at it curiously and for some reason asks if he can take a picture of it. For his studies and teachings I guess. He goes on his computer and does a bit of research. I see him typing stuff into Google, then he has a look at Google images and there are pictures that look similar to the one that he took of me.
“Yes this looks like it,” he says and tells me the name of the condition which is some long name that I wouldn’t be able to pronounce if held at gun point.
He reads a bit more about it and tells me that it’s usually occurs in hot climates.
Maybe I should move to Siberia.
It takes years to get the qualifications to be a doctor. Or just search around a bit on Goole. Still, I’m not complaining as the cream he prescribed to me sorted out the rash in a couple of days.
Friday 22 January 2010
Tuesday 19 January 2010
Play Count OCD
I think that I got to take a step back. I’m getting a bit over familiar with the play count of my iTunes library. If I click on play count the songs arrange in order of how many times they’ve been played. It’s getting to the stage when I notice when a song has moved up in the top twenty.
To register a song being played the song must end. Which means if I’m out somewhere, lets say going to the pub and I’m listening to my ipod on the way there, and I’m almost there but the song hasn’t finished, then I will start to walk real slow so the song ends and it will count as being played.
And I’m often in a dilemma about skipping songs. Some songs, the song in itself has really ended but there’s two minutes of feedback which sometimes becomes boring after a minute or so. I can either ride through and see it to the end, or fast forward until there's a second or two left so the song counts as being played.
Sometimes I’m listening to something and feel like listening to something else. The rule I’ve set myself is that if it’s about two thirds through I can skip to the end. Under that and it’s okay to skip to another song and not count as a play.
When I bought a new laptop last May the play count was reset. This did kind of distress my for a moment I must admit. The top ten songs were almost hitting a hundred.
The play count doesn’t resister all the music I listen to because a lot of the time I listen to music on a small stereo next to my bed. I did think about noting down what I had listened to and then the day later click on the songs on iTunes and then skip to the end to register a play.
But then I realised that would just be fuckin’ insane.
To register a song being played the song must end. Which means if I’m out somewhere, lets say going to the pub and I’m listening to my ipod on the way there, and I’m almost there but the song hasn’t finished, then I will start to walk real slow so the song ends and it will count as being played.
And I’m often in a dilemma about skipping songs. Some songs, the song in itself has really ended but there’s two minutes of feedback which sometimes becomes boring after a minute or so. I can either ride through and see it to the end, or fast forward until there's a second or two left so the song counts as being played.
Sometimes I’m listening to something and feel like listening to something else. The rule I’ve set myself is that if it’s about two thirds through I can skip to the end. Under that and it’s okay to skip to another song and not count as a play.
When I bought a new laptop last May the play count was reset. This did kind of distress my for a moment I must admit. The top ten songs were almost hitting a hundred.
The play count doesn’t resister all the music I listen to because a lot of the time I listen to music on a small stereo next to my bed. I did think about noting down what I had listened to and then the day later click on the songs on iTunes and then skip to the end to register a play.
But then I realised that would just be fuckin’ insane.
Sunday 3 January 2010
Why I hate Coventry
So it was FA cup weekend. And yet somehow I managed to avoided hearing all the usual cliques that get churned out every FA cup weekend like- ‘The Romance of the FA cup’ and ‘that’s the magic of the FA cup.'
My best and worst FA cup memories- The best is no doubt being at Wemberly stadium in 1991 seeing Tottenham beat the scum 3-1.
The worst was a game that I didn’t see live or even watch live on TV. 1987 I was ten years old, Tottenham got to the FA cup final against Coventry City. I remember my dad calling up to me in my room. I went to the top of the staircase and looked down to my dad at the bottom of the stairs. He had the biggest smile on his face.
“We got them, we got them!” He shouts with joy as he waves a pair of tickets.
I couldn’t believe it, I was going to the FA cup final!
But me and my dads joy was to be short lived.
“When is it?” my mum asked.
“16th of May,” my dad said.
“Well you can’t go then.”
We look at her like she’s mad. Like the last sentence that came from her mouth was in some alien language.
“Well that’s the day we’re going on holiday isn’t it?.” she says.
A feeling went through the pit of my stomach, a similar feeling in my stomach that I would feel a few years later when my first girlfriend dumped me.
Our pleas to change the flight for the day later fell flat.
“Sorry can’t change it, non refundable,” were the words my mum kept saying.
I was gutted.
Come the day of the final and of course the day of the holiday to Spain. The match kicked off when we were flying somewhere over France.
“What do you think the score is?” I kept asking my dad.
When we landed the match was over but we had no idea what the score was.
On the coach to the hotel we still didn’t know.
When we got to the hotel, checked in and took the bags up to the room the suspense was killing us. I went for a wander around the hotel in the hope of somehow finding out the score [it might seem weird now to let a ten year old just wander around a hotel but I guess it wasn’t back then].
So I walk around, then in the lobby I see a group of blokes walking towards me. They’re cheering and singing and I notice what shirts a couple of them are wearing. I check again as I don’t believe it. No, no please no! They spot me in my Tottenham shirt and a loud roar goes up. “Losers,! 3-2, 3-2, aargggrhhh,” and they point at me. I walk past them, run up to the hotel room, lie face down on the bed and burst into tears.
“The holiday is ruined, it's ruined. They might of won if me and dad were there,” I cried.
The holiday wasn’t ruined, I soon got over it. But when Coventry got relegated a few years back I laughed. I laughed as I remembered them blokes laughing at the ten year old me.
Bitter, me? Yes, yes I am.
My best and worst FA cup memories- The best is no doubt being at Wemberly stadium in 1991 seeing Tottenham beat the scum 3-1.
The worst was a game that I didn’t see live or even watch live on TV. 1987 I was ten years old, Tottenham got to the FA cup final against Coventry City. I remember my dad calling up to me in my room. I went to the top of the staircase and looked down to my dad at the bottom of the stairs. He had the biggest smile on his face.
“We got them, we got them!” He shouts with joy as he waves a pair of tickets.
I couldn’t believe it, I was going to the FA cup final!
But me and my dads joy was to be short lived.
“When is it?” my mum asked.
“16th of May,” my dad said.
“Well you can’t go then.”
We look at her like she’s mad. Like the last sentence that came from her mouth was in some alien language.
“Well that’s the day we’re going on holiday isn’t it?.” she says.
A feeling went through the pit of my stomach, a similar feeling in my stomach that I would feel a few years later when my first girlfriend dumped me.
Our pleas to change the flight for the day later fell flat.
“Sorry can’t change it, non refundable,” were the words my mum kept saying.
I was gutted.
Come the day of the final and of course the day of the holiday to Spain. The match kicked off when we were flying somewhere over France.
“What do you think the score is?” I kept asking my dad.
When we landed the match was over but we had no idea what the score was.
On the coach to the hotel we still didn’t know.
When we got to the hotel, checked in and took the bags up to the room the suspense was killing us. I went for a wander around the hotel in the hope of somehow finding out the score [it might seem weird now to let a ten year old just wander around a hotel but I guess it wasn’t back then].
So I walk around, then in the lobby I see a group of blokes walking towards me. They’re cheering and singing and I notice what shirts a couple of them are wearing. I check again as I don’t believe it. No, no please no! They spot me in my Tottenham shirt and a loud roar goes up. “Losers,! 3-2, 3-2, aargggrhhh,” and they point at me. I walk past them, run up to the hotel room, lie face down on the bed and burst into tears.
“The holiday is ruined, it's ruined. They might of won if me and dad were there,” I cried.
The holiday wasn’t ruined, I soon got over it. But when Coventry got relegated a few years back I laughed. I laughed as I remembered them blokes laughing at the ten year old me.
Bitter, me? Yes, yes I am.
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