The Big Issues

There are many issues and conflicts in the world that after years and years are unresolved. Such as the Israel and Palestine conflict. But for me the issue that I’ve been trying to figure out over many years is whether I prefer tea or coffee.

But I’ve finally made a decision that I’ll never be able to choose. I’ve excepted that it depends where I am and what time of day it is.
Of instance, the first and last drink o the day has to be tea but mid to late afternoon coffee usually takes over.
When I’m out somewhere I would never grab a cup of tea because it will never taste as good as when I make one at home.

Because everyone thinks that they make the best cup of tea. Sure that the length of time they leave it to brew and at what point the milk goes in is the right way

Well not everyone. I was having this conversation at work when one of my colleagues. He said that one time he offered his father-in-law a cup of tea and asked him if he takes sugar he had to pause and think.
“Eerr… well I’m not sure. I’ve not made a cup o tea in over forty years. The wife always does it.”

That's taking old school to a new level.

Whatever way you wake your tea it doesn't matter. Whatever works for you.
But if you dunk biscuits into it then you are just plain wrong.

Anti-Social Eaters

I read today that food and drink in the London Olympic venues is going to be expensive. Really, you don’t say. Of course it will be. That’s a given.
But people will still be queuing up to get a seven quid burger to wash down with their five quid coke. Some people just love stuffing their faces with junk food at sporting events, the cinema and theme parks. Its like everything else going on is a backdrop to the main attraction of food.

But if they want to spend a fortune fine, it doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is the anti-social eaters. I’m talking about the people that think that its perfectly acceptable to eat their lunch on the tube.
A sandwich is bad enough but the people who bring on stinking junk food are a breed apart. I’ve been annoyed with people on the tube many a time. Who hasn’t. What with being squashed against someone with too much perfume or aftershave on. Or bad body odour. Or someone who keeps sniffing or coughs without putting their hand over their mouth.
But Never have I been more annoyed with the person who sat next to me with a Big Mac and fries.
Or the woman who sat down opposite me on a near empty carriage and chomped away on fish and chips. The stink of it.
These people must have no self awareness about what cunts they are.

Smash The Ukulele

On catch up I just watched the Channel 4 ‘documentary’ When Keith Allen Meets Nick Griffin. I use the quotation marks because it was a documentary in the loosest terms. Keith Allen has been doing a few of these vanity project documentary’s lately. Louis Theroux he aint.
In the programmes introduction Allen explained how the meeting had been called off as Griffin called it off at the last minute. Allen persisted, and armed with a ukulele goes to Brussels and tries to speak to him anyway. Which he does.
The first brief interview went nowhere, Allen asking easy questions familiar questions to secure a proper second interview. The second interview was pointless and a third even more so. We know Griffin is a racist twat and this told the viewer nothing more.

My main grip with the programme was Keith Allen and his ukulele. Playing it on the Euro star, in the hotel lobby, in the European parliament, while he’s intervening Griffin in his office. If the thinking was that the ukulele is a jolly fun like instrument that’s the polar opposite to Griffin then it didn’t come over like that. It just appeared pointless and annoying.
Which is how I would describe the ukulele. Sales of the instrument have risen dramatically in the last few years. They have apparently become cool (though I would say more hipster ironic cool, which makes it not cool at all) and are popping up all over the place, like on that annoying match.com TV advert which makes me want to smash the ukulele over the blokes head every time I see it.
Enough, it sounds shit. Play a guitar instead.

Catholic Priest House Visit

I caught some of the BBC documentary Catholics. It was the first in a series and it started with priests. Due to declining numbers there are only three places left in the UK where priests do their training.
Its hardly surprising, I mean who would want to become a priest? You’re not allowed to have sex and people think that you probably mess about with alter boys.

When I was a kid my mum would sometimes drag me along to church. God it was boring (shit pun, sorry). And I really didn’t care for the priest at all. Don’t worry he didn’t tell me to touch him in a special holy place or anything, but he was one of them old hard line humourless types that droned on and on in an Irish accent that people from Cork would have trouble understanding.

When I was about nine or ten he made an unexpected visit to our house and invited himself in. My mum was not best pleased as she was in the middle of cooking dinner. He didn’t care about that as he took a seat and dug my mum out about us not always turning up for church on Sunday's. She made her excuses, like how I play football on a Sunday Mornings.
“Church is more important,” he said sharply. “you won’t get into heaven by kicking a football around a field.”
“Well we will try to go this Sunday,” my mum said in a defensive manner.
As he left he said, “Going to church is like washing behind your ears, you don’t think about doing it you just do it.”
I remember thinking at the time: I’ve never washed behind my ears in my life.

My mum was so pissed off at his visit that I never got dragged along to church again, and she soon stopped going altogether.

Casino Sabbat

I’ve never been much of a gambler. When I say not much I mean I’ve put on a couple of bets and that’s it. Put money on a horse once and it didn’t finish. Put a fiver on Gabriel Batistuta to be the top scorer in the 1998 World Cup, he did well in getting five goals, but Davor Suker banged in six. I might have bought a lottery ticket once. When traveling around America I passed through Las Vegas for a couple of days and only wandered in a casino for a few minutes.
You get the picture, its not a vice that I partake in.
Though I did visit the new casino in Westfield’s shopping centre in Stratford the other Saturday. I think that by the end of the night I worked out how to play blackjack.

From the limited time that I’ve spent in casinos I’ve noticed that they’re the biggest cultural melting pot there is. No other place compares. Old, young, black, white, Asian, all together under the same roof desperately trying to claw back some money that the house has taken from them.
And it is the only place where a you’ll find a Hasidic Jew out and about on a Saturday night. Isn’t a Saturday the Shabbat? I didn’t think they were even allowed to turn on a light switch. God apparently goes mental when that happens.
After looking at what you’re not allowed to do on the Shabbat there is no mention of gambling. Though you can’t do things like plough, gather, plant, slaughter, bake, write and extinguish a fire. That’s right, you can’t put out a fire even if property is being damaged. Only if a life is at risk.
So I guess that in Israel even firemen get the Saturday off work.

Braille Porn

Well now there’s a relatively new topic to rival that and its: “If you were on Dragons Den what would your idea be?”
I’ve been asked what my idea would be a coupe f times. On the first occasion I had nothing but on the second I came up with what I thought was a pretty good idea. Braille porn.
Porn is so easily available, boot up your computer, click, click, click and its all there. Soft, medium hardcore or just plain weird porn. The choice is yours.
But if you’re blind its just you and your imagination and that’s just way too much effort. -Even more so if you’ve been blind since birth. How would you know what sex even attracts you if you’ve never seen a man or woman? Maybe it’s the smell and touch? But if so then you can’t go around smelling and touching people when you reach puberty. Its instinct I guess, but still, it must be confusing. Especially if your not sure what sex you like.

But it turns out that someone has already come up with Braille porn. Never mind.

Another Ghost Story

What with it almost being Halloween I would just like to say that I’ve never seen a ghost. I’ve felt some kind of presence and been scared and then seen faces in the curtain and unknown noises. But I have an explanation for that, I was young and thought there might be a ghost in the room so my senses were heightened. There weren’t any faces in the curtain, it was my mind playing tricks on me.

Not all people come to this conclusion. There are some who claim to see ghosts regularly. The kind of people who don’t know the meaning of the word coincidence and claim to ‘be a bit psychic’.
Then there are others that are reasonably well adjusted people but have claimed to have seen a ghost. I know some of these people kind and when they explain the story they never say that it could have been a ghost, but that it defiantly was. And they get annoyed when I show scepticism. “Why would I l lie?” they say. I tell them that its not that they’re lying but that it could’ve been some other explanation. Or that maybe it’s the caretaker like in Scooby Do.

Why is it that only really old houses are supposed to be haunted? Why are there never any modern ghosts?
Because one thing that remains constant in the stories that I’ve herd is that the ghost is always dressed like it’s from the eighteenth century. Why does no-one claim to see ghosts from different periods in history?
Billions of people have died before then and billions after so why no ghosts from the 70s with long hair, dressed in flares with a big collared shirt and a tank top?

Racist Undertone Buiscuits

I saw these Oreo type biscuits in a Turkish supermarket called Negro. Now I know that the Spanish word for black is negro but in Turkish it’s siyah (yes I did just look the up on Google translate as my Turkish isn’t so great) so why the name? To have them in England does seem a bit off, but they do taste good.

Dogs Green Cross Code

Two weeks ago I was walking down the road when a dog charged out from an alleyway, ran past me and into the road. Luckily an approaching car braked just in time. Then a woman comes running out of the alley and shouts at the dog to come back to her. The driver of the car is making a gesture at her in the manner of, “What the fuck are you doing woman? Put your dog on a fucking lead you idiot!”
She grabs the dog by the scruff of the neck and drags him back to the pavement.
“What’s he moaning like that for? He can’t help it, he’s only a puppy,” she says as she turns to me, looking for me to respond. The dog then runs around and gets underneath my feet. My thoughts echo that of the driver, “Put it on a lead you fucking idiot!”
She grabs him again and guides him to the curb.
“Wait, wait,” she says as they look to cross the road. I walk on and she calls to me “Bless him, he’s only four months old so he doesn’t know his left and right yet.”
I’m sure she was being serious.
A week later the same dog ran out into a much busier road. A car breaks but still clips the dog, it barks and runs into the forest. The woman runs after it. The car then pulls up to the side of the road and the driver gets out.
“Did you see that?” he asks me.
“Yeah, I did” I said.
“I couldn’t do anything about it, it just ran out in front of me. Why doesn’t see put it on a bloody lead,” he says as he checks to see if there is any damage to his bumper.

I’ve not seen the dog this week so I guess its either dead or its learnt left and right and the rest of the green cross code.

Passing Trade

When I walk down the high road where the main shops are in the east London suburb where I live. I have often thought: ‘How the hell do these shops make any money? Maybe there’re a front for something.’
Well since the recession a lot of the shops have closed down, especially at the end of the high road. They’ve been boarded up for a while now and a doubt if even a charity shop would open up there.
There’s a few shops that are hanging in. A shop that sells art work, a women’s clothes shop and a shop that sells modern design lamps and tables and stuff like that for the home. But if you want a paint brush or hoover bags then forget it. You have to go to a big DIY store for that.
Its become a one dimensional high road that’s all about eating and drinking. There’s supermarkets, takeaways, restaurants, cafes and pubs in abundance.

The high road where I work still has a healthy mix of shops, and they all seem to be doing good business. All apart from any shop in the arcade. The only constant shops in there are a café and a beauty parlour for dogs. The rest are a constant turn over. Traditional sweet shop, six months, clothes shop, six months, fancy dress shop, six months, shoe shop, six months, physic reading place, six months. She should’ve predicted that that wouldn’t last long.
What do they expect when there’s no passing trade.

Are great place for passing trade are shops in airports. Well its not really passing trade its more like: I’m stuck here with nothing but these shops until I can board my flight and I need to get rid of this foreign money trade.
But in all the times that I’ve been to an airport I’ve never seen anyone buy a pen from the pen shop. Never. How does this shop survive? It’s a pen, so what if it looks nice and expensive, it’s a pen and it writes. I’ve never received a birthday card and thought, ‘That looks as if it was written with a nice pen.’

Empty The Fucking Bin

Steeling milk, not replacing toilet roll, spending an age in the bathroom, making noise late at night, boy or girlfriend always over, leaving a mess in the kitchen, chasing up money for bills, pissing on the toilet seat, not doing washing up, are some of the many annoying things about a house share. In the place I live now the main thing that really pisses me off is the rubbish bin situation. It’s never really been much of a problem in other places I’ve lived. I guess it’s because I used to share with one other mate. But now I live with some girls who never empty the rubbish. It’s a mans job is it? Does that mean if it’s an all girl house share then the rubbish will never be emptied? Would they be contempt to live in piles of shit?

The problems I had in my last place were more on a personal level. I would just get so sick of the fucking sight of my flatmate. The slightest thing used to annoy me. Like the way he took an age to light a cigarette. Holding it for a minute or two. Then after a few false starts with the lighter he’d slowly raise his hand to light it. Then the way he sat back and smoked it would wind me up even more so.
What also annoyed me about that place was getting money for the bills. Making me feel like the bad guy for asking again. Maybe the bills wouldn’t be so much if you didn’t turn up the heating full blast and leave it on all day and night! You don’t need the heading on when you sleep! And stop forgetting to leave it on when you go out and there’s nobody at home!
At least in this house it’s all inclusive so I don’t have to chase people up for bills.

But the rubbish situation here annoys me whenever I go to the kitchen. The bin is obviously full so don’t put any more rubbish on top of it! Fucking empty it! And don’t put cans of beer and bottles in the rubbish bin, put it in the recycling box that is just out side the patio door. It’s only an extra two meter walk and yet sometimes there’s normal rubbish in the recycling bin. It’s not hard to work out what goes into the bin and what goes into the recycling is it?!?!
Sometimes there’s a two litter plastic coke bottle balancing on top of the full to the brim bin. A double annoyance.
There is one other bloke here that does empty the rubbish but he is the worst offender when it comes to what needs to be recycled and what goes into the bin. Plus when he does empty the bin he puts the black plastic bag outside the patio door. It goes out in the front garden! How can the bin men collect it when it’s out in the back garden?!?!

It’s full right now, I’m going to empty it but then I’m on strike. No rubbish emptied for a week.

The Levee's Gonna Break

Something’s got to give.
I’ve lived in this place a year now. It’s been an eventful year and a year I won’t forget. I’m glad I moved into this house as it‘s been an experience and believe me there’s a book worth of material in it.
When I first moved in. The very moment, as I was taking the boxes from the car the police turned up. The landlady and a tenant had had an argument and she called the police. Welcome to the new place!

With eight rooms being rented out there’s been lots of comings and goings and a very diverse mix of people.
Nationality’s I’ve lived with in the last year: French, Polish, Slovakian, South African, Albanian, Angolan, Romanian, Malaysian. As I say it’s been interesting.
All these people from around the world, and where was I born? The hospital a couple of miles down the road.

I’m living in reverse. I’m living my thirty’s like I should’ve lived my twenty’s.
I’m thirty three. When I was twenty three I’d already been living with a girl for two years. and would do so until I was twenty eight.
Now days I rent a room in the type of housing situation for people who first come to this country. That’s not putting them down at all but this house seems like a stop gap. And I repeat, I’m thirty three and was born two miles away.

I need a new living arrangement, and a new job maybe?
Working for a living, it kills you, it’s soul destroying. I’m surprised that more people don’t go postal. The same shit day after day, week after week. Taking the shit. But how else am I going to pay the rent for this room.
It breaks you down. I need a holiday. Maybe a long one. Maybe move away. As I said, I was born two miles up the road. A change. But I like this place. I like living in London. People gravitate here to find a better life and find a dream. But what when you’re from here? Where do you go? Bristol, Liverpool, Manchester? No, fuck that. I don’t want to live anywhere else in this country. Abroad? What job would I do to pay for a small room aboard? I don’t know. Work in a bar or something?

Sooner or later the levee’s gonna break. I need a change before I lose my fucking mind.

Housemate quote of the day: This one from the Manchester United fan who’s conversations about football I try to end fast as he knows nothing about the game but talks about it every day.

Him: Did you see the draw for the Champions League? Oh my God, Arsenal, Barcelona. And Manchester United, we got Bayern Munich. Oh my God what a game. Have Manchester United ever beaten Bayen Munich in the Champions League? I think they have.
Me: Yeah, in the Champions League final. Think it was in 1999.
Knows a lot about his club then.

Keep Your 90s Nostalgia

In the 1980s my parents would occasionally go to a 60s themed party. My dad was reluctant to get involved where as my mum was always up for it. Even though I was only a kid I still remember thinking that it was a bit lame to go to a themed party to relive something in the past.

Last decade 80s nights were the thing. That’s on it’s way out so next it’ll be about reliving the 90s.
And guess what it’s only two and a half months into this decade and I have an invite for a 90’s party. A club that I used to go to in the mid-nineties is having a reunion night.
I declined. Not interested in such nostalgia. Save that to the people who used to go there who’re now married and have kids and therefore rarely go out. No, you can save the “Remember when we used to…” And “Back in the day I used to…” That’s what a lot of my mates who have kids are like. Always talking about way back when. “Do you remember the time when?” Yes, you relive it each time I manage to drag you out once a year. Why don’t you do some other stuff so that you’ve got some other shit to talk about?!?!

This reunion night just sounds like it’ll be too much of an embarrassment. Especially the people that will take it to the extreme. I can imagine them drinking cider on the bus, wearing a Nirvana t-shirt, (or for the slightly later era Oasis or Blur t-shirt or god forbid Shed Seven) ripped jeans, taking advantage of the drink offer as best they can, getting drunk and dancing with a look on their face that says- “Remember this one?”
This type of nostalgia makes me cringe.
Look I’m sure they’ll have a good time but nostalgia doesn’t interest me as much as it does Peter Kay.

See I know that a lot of these people stopped listening to new ‘alternative’ music after they left collage. Because they weren’t really into the music, they were following what was supposed to be cool and when they left collage they had to find new music themselves. But as they weren’t really into it they stopped listening to new stuff. Only stuff on the radio and they think Coldplay are alternative because they have guitars. And now they like x-factor. How do I know this? From a good proportion of ‘friends’ on facebook. Their status updates when the x-factor was on. They actually cared about who got voted out.

I’m still listening to new music and going out drinking every weekend. So sorry but you can keep your 90’s nostalgia.

Neil Or Buzz

How did Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin decided who would be the first out of the shuttle and set foot on the moon.
Maybe they flipped a coin? No they couldn’t do that in the shuttle, because what with there being no gravity the coin would never land.
Thumb wrestle? Maybe. Or maybe Neil Armstrong said to Buzz that as people call him Buzz it’s the sort of name people will remember. I mean who would remember the second person on the moon if he was called Neil?
He probably said that in a few years a film might be made where toys come to life and one of the main characters is a spaceman toy called Buzz Lightyear. They are hardly going to call it Neil Lightyear are they?

Doctor Google

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.

Just Get The Deal Done And Leave

One of my housemates friend is staying for a few days and she asked me if I could get any cannabis. I said no. I could of done but it isn’t worth the hassle.
I could never really get into smoking drugs, hash, weed, whatever. I only bought it for myself a few times and that was through a friend who sold it on to me.

One reason is that I have no need to smoke something that will make me a more lazier person than what I already am. I need no help with that.

But another reason is that I just can’t be dealing with drug dealers. The amount of time over the years that I’ve wasted in some grimy small time drug dealers flat because a mate wanted to get some weed.

My mate wants to buy some drugs, the dealer wants to sell some drugs so do the deal and get out of there. But no, I had to go into the flat and sit on the tatty cherry bombed sofa while small talk commences and a hyperactive pit bull type mongrel jumps up at me. Eventually he gets the scales out and weighs out the drugs. Right it’s in a bag, it’s in my mates hand and the money is handed over. Great, now can we get out of here please? No, my mate takes out a rizla opens the bag and proceeds to roll a joint.
So now it will be at least another twenty minutes of sitting on the edge of a stained sofa while pretending to listen to their tedious conversation.
Why feel the need for this fake social interaction ritual? When you buy a loaf of bread you don’t cut the loaf and eat a sandwich with the baker.

Happily Ever After [or maybe not]

‘The secret to a happy ending is knowing when to role the credits’

Cinderella.
So she goes to the ball tries on the shoe and it fits so the prince asks her to marry him. [because absolutely nobody else could possible have the same size feet as her]

Then a few years later the prince develops a bit of a drinking problem, he becomes abusive towards her. She gives him one last chance and then he changes his ways. They’re happier than they’ve ever been but then Cinderella gets some kind of wasting disease and she dies a slow horrible death. The prince is broken hearted and hit’s the bottle more than ever. He dies alone in a puddle of his own puke and shit. The end.

The Princess and The Pea.
The prince cannot be certain that the girls he’s met are real princesses. [because of course he has to marry into another inbred family like royal families always do]
Then a rain drenched girl who claims to be a princess seeks shelter in the castle, She sleeps on a bed of twenty mattresses. The mother of the prince puts a pea underneath the mattresses. When asked is she had a good night sleep the girl complains that she was kept awake by something hard in the bed. [Ungrateful cow, stay out in the rain next time.] The Prince rejoices [because of course only a princess would have the sensitivity to feel a pea under all that bedding. So obviously that is the girl for him] and they marry.

Mainly due to sleep deprivation the princess turns out to be a grumpy bitch and the prince is happy when she falls from thirty mattresses to her death.

While on the subject of fairytales I recently bought a paper that had a supplement with fairytales in. One of them was Snow White. A few things that I noticed about the Snow White fairytale:

When the queen asks the mirror who is the fairest of them all and the mirror tells her it’s Snow White, at the time Snow White is seven. Seven! The mirror should be put on the sex offenders list!
The huntsmen is ordered to take Snow White into the forest to kill her and bring back her lungs and liver as a token, but he lets her go and brings back the lungs and liver of a young boar which the queen eats in a stew. Even Hannibal Lector drew a line at eating kids.
In the forest she meets dwarfs who basically say that she can stay with them if she acts as their slave.
After a couple of failed attempts the queen poisons Snow White with an apple. The dwarfs put her in a glass coffin and place it on the mountain-side. Some time passes [doesn’t say how long, so lets be generous and say three or four years which would make snow white about ten or eleven] when a prince sees Snow White in the coffin and asks the dwarfs if he can have it because he can not live without the sight of Snow White. That's the dead eleven year old body of Snow White!
He takes the coffin and she wakes up when the piece of poison apple dislodges from her throat and he asks her to marry him. [Well Jerry Lee Lewis married his fourteen year old cousin.
Then for some reason the wicked queen is forced to dance in iron hot shoes until she dies]

They live happily married until Snow White found out that he has a thing for young dead looking girls I.e. young Goths, and leaves him.

Cat Rustling

Don’t feed the cat I told my housemates. Why not they said? Well it isn’t ours for a start. How do you know it isn’t a stray? It has a collar around it’s neck. But it’s so cute, don’t you think? It’s a cat, so what. But we have mice and the cat will get rid of them. I will set some mouse traps, we don’t need a cat to do the job. Why don’t you like cats? There’re lovely animals. If they are so lovely then why are thay one of the only animals that kills just for the fun of it? We can feed it until the mice are gone. Cats are so disloyal you only have to feed it a couple of times and it won’t stop hanging around.

They didn’t listen and I was made to look the bad guy for not acting all soppy towards it. Then it’s mate turns up for a visit, then the both of them are hovering outside everyday. So now there are two cats that they're leaving food out for. I had had enough, I chased them off. They came back. I through a glass of water on them. They came back. I hosed them. They came back. I ask my mate how to get ride of them and he suggests the river Roding. Something less extreme as that I say. He suggests chilli powder. So I put chilli powder in their food. They came back. Resilient fuckers I must admit.

Then the cat gets pregnant. I told you not to feed the cat, now we have a whole family. Don’t expect me to buy cat food, it's not my problem.

So in the garage the cat gives birth to four kittens. Of course they all take soppy into overdrive, talking baby talk to the kittens. “You’re a lovely little thing arnt you? Yes you are, yes you are. They are just so sweet, blah blah blah.”

The landlady says that the kittens have to go, and she doesn’t want any cats in the house. So one of the girls makes arrangements for people to collect the kittens. By this time the Romanian couple who live in the house have taking a shine to the white kitten and think it’s theirs. I tell the Romanian bloke that the landlady says they have to go. He won’t listen. Someone comes around to collect a kitten. He is adamant they don’t take the white one. Soon only the white kitten is left. He makes it clear that he is keeping the cat. So on a Friday night I am walking to the train station to meet a girl who is going to take the kitten. Yes I put the kitten in a bag and smuggle it out of the house. Cat rustling on a Friday night. I am left to do the dirty work. Me who said not to feed the cat in the first place.

It all came to a head. A kitchen showdown. “I will get my kitten back, I love that kitten, who let the person in the house to get it?” he repeated while looking at me. I told him that the landlady said they had to go. He knew I had a major part in giving it away. He said that he and his wife will be moving and they want to take the mother cat. Fair enough, all that’s well that ends well.

Since the kitchen showdown there hasn’t been any hostilities. In fact he has been very reasonable towards me, friendly hellos and asking if I have had a good day. Something’s up. If it was part of a mafia film right now I would be worried about getting whacked. It’s not a mafia film but I might start locking my door at night.

Don’t feed the cat I said.

Bean Bag Blues

I once heard someone say that when you buy your first sofa that’s when you’re finally all grown up. If that’s the case then I have a long way to go until I’m all grown up. Maybe your status in life can be recognised in what chair you own. The king sits on a thrown, then peasant sits on a tree stump.

Well the only kind of chair that I own is a bean bag, no actually I own two bean bags. I also own a stool but I use that as a bedside table so I guess that doesn’t really count.
I used to own a table and chairs set that I bought from Ikea over ten years ago but when I moved it occupied too much space in my new room. So to maximize possible room space I got rid of them a replaced them with the two bean bags. I now call that part of my room the lounge area. Sometimes I sit on my bed and sometimes I gravitate towards the lounge area.
From table and chairs to bean bags. Downsizing. I’m going in the wrong direction to get that three piece suit sofa. And I won’t change direction if I keep living my early 30’s like my early 20’s.

But I really don’t won’t to spend Saturday afternoons trouping around DFS looking for a cheep deal on a three piece sofa. Maybe one day I will purchase a huge lazy boy chair. But for now I am content with the bean bags. This aint no blues. Hail to the bean bags!