Handbags At Teatime

Generally on a Tuesday evening I can be found ambling up and down the aisles of our local Sainsbury's, daydreaming of doing something considerably more interesting than loading up a trolley full of groceries. I sometimes find things to amuse myself along the way (see here, here and here.) and, usually, the whole experience is just made a little less tedious as a result. No harm, no foul.

Sometimes, however, things go wrong. Badly wrong.

I was on the home run on this particular occassion, bakery behind me, heading for the freezer section and my boredom ratio was already well into the danger zone when she hove into view. She was a thirtysomething lady who we'd spotted earlier, heading towards us and carrying a fancy handbag. I know it was fancy because Mrs A had commented as such, but I could have probably taken an educated guess as she was carrying it on her arm (rather than it being slung in the trolley with the couscous) in the manner of ladies that are pleased with their handbag. That strange walk with the bag slung in the crook of her arm, wrist up and outwards to the side as though she was carrying an invisible tray. Every time I've seen this walk performed before the person involved wasn't having to control an errant shopping trolley at the same time, which was clearly a tricky skill to master.

I know this because I had a go myself after we'd passed her (sans fancy handbag) and almost ended up putting the shopping trolley into the frozen peas. As I said, boredom levels were dangerously high by this point.

Mrs A gave me a playful dig in the ribs, told me to behave and I chuckled my way to the end of the aisle where I waited as she grabbed some stuff from the freezer.

There was a noticeable determined click-clack of angry high heels along the aisle that we'd just come up and, with hindsight, this was the point at which I should have abandoned the shopping and run.

Mrs Fancy-Handbag had come back. And she was cross.

I stood very still, hoping that her vision might be movement based*, but apparently not. She asked if I made a habit of taking the rise out of people in the supermarket and gave me a really first class telling off. I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances - I apologised.

This just made her madder.

She embarked on quite an impressive rant that culminated with her telling me to grow up and calling me a dick. I half heartedly told her that there was no need to use that kind of language and that was that. She click-clacked angrily away towards the bagels.

Mrs A looked disappointed and the moral of this sorry tale hit me with blinding clarity. A moment of epiphany to rival Saul on the road to Damascus:

Never stop for fishfingers.

NDC

* - Well, it worked with the velociraptors in Jurassic Park

Insert Interesting Title Here

I find myself in a peculiar and quite unusual predicament.

I have a list of things to record for posterity as long as your arm at the moment. Some funny, some nostalgic, some just plain weird. Content is not my issue.

No. My issue is not being able to find a place to start, finding a flow to the jumble of stuff that's in my head just now. Maybe it's because I've not really blogged so much of late, maybe it's because I've just hit a rich seam of sitting on my arse and not doing stuff.

I'm sure once the dam is breached I'll find my voice again and it'll all find its way merrily into the ether, where it can be duly ignored by the world at large, read only by the beautiful and rich of spirit. Yup, that's you.

So, what should I write first?

• The Dangers Of Acting The Goat In The Supermarket or Fury Has A Fancy Handbag.
• The Quick Way Down or A Salutary Tale Of Knowing Where You Stand.
• Argh! My Eyes! or It's Not Just The UV Rays You Need To Worry About.

I'd appreciate a bump to get me going. Your thoughts, as always, would be most welcome.

NDC

Bzzzzzzzz.

One of the main features of having hair like mine is that I don’t really have much choice in haircuts. At best I have two options that I can select from.

a) - Short

b) - Afro 

Unfortunately my job precludes the latter so I’m pretty well down to one. The big benefit of having a haircut that is described to the prospective contractor as a single digit number is that pretty well anyone can do it and therefore, rather than having to select my barber based on skill and ability to execute complex coiffuring techniques, I can choose based on entertainment value alone.

I used to go to a top establishment just around the corner from where my office was located. The guy who ran the joint had a number of enormous racy artworks on the wall that would’ve got Christian Grey’s approval and piano in the shop that was given to him by an elderly neighbour for reasons that were never made clear. He would regularly stop midway through running the clippers over my head to have a shot on the bongos at the back of the shop. This is not a euphemism. Conversations ran from drunken archery exploits to lurid fights with landlords.

After I’d left to get A Real Job, it just wasn’t feasible to get to his shop anymore and I had a spell at a normal hairdressers with normal people and normal conversations. Then I found a new home.

I knew it was right for me from the very first haircut. The guy doing my hair spoke almost no English as far as I could tell. I held up three fingers, he nodded, smiled and went for the clippers. A good start. The TV in the corner of the shop was playing Bhangra and as he clippered away at my head he decided to join in enthusiastically with the singing and the dancing and teh shoulder-waggling, all whilst mostly avoiding my ears. Lovely.

So last weekend I took The Boy Wonder to get a haircut. I explained to the chap that I would like his hair to be reasonably short at the back and sides, but still with a bit of length on the top, just a bit of tidying up and some left on the fringe please. He smiled and with a look that said “Certainly sir, number 3 it is”, reached for the clippers and set to work.

I sat in the waiting chair, and free from the fear of losing an ear to the clippers for the first time, actually took a good look around the shop. The TV was playing a music video that was like a cross between a Kanye West video and a Bollywood movie – unfortunately the lyrics were entirely lost on me but the gist of the song appeared to revolve around a lovely lady who needed to decide which man was right for her – the wealthy business man, the shy geek, or the bad boy. In the end the surprise winner was a chappy with a six pack, a jacket with no armpits and a penchant for wearing every primary colour at the same time (I assume he was he pop star responsible for the video). It was ace.

Next to the TV was a large LED sign with the legend “Now Servig” (sic).

After a few minutes the bewildered but freshly shorn Boy Wonder was offered a lollypop. He still had a fringe of sorts, which I took to be a small victory, so we paid and headed for the door. As we were leaving I overheard the next occupant of the chair explaining that that he was a huge fan of Formula One racing and was going to watch next weekend. He went on to ask if the barber could clip “Button” into the back of his hair to show his support for Jenson. As we reached the door I looked back over my shoulder to see our man flashing his best “Number 3 Sir” smile and reaching for the clippers.

So If you see an angry looking chap in the crowds with “Go Jimson Bitten” writ large in the back of his hair, you’ll know why.

NDC

Hippy

"I've come to know that memories are the best things you'll ever have.*"

Tonight, sitting here on the balcony, a couple of beers to the good and a vodka and lemonade by my side, I'm shrouded in darkness and watching the steady Turkish stars, whilst listening to Ben Howard's album 'Every Kingdom', via some rather good knock-off headphones from the market. My hippy credentials are finding their voice. 

It speaks to me metaphorically of my teenage world (hot sand on toes/cold sand in sleeping bags**).

It hints at the hard times (this apathy you feel/makes a fool of us all***)

It speaks to me of redemption (I saw a friend the other day/ he said that my eyes were gleaming"****).

It speaks to me about the beautiful life and fantastic wife I have now (you give me shelter/you show me heart"*****)

It's a musical masterpiece that seems to chart my time on the planet to date. I'm sure Ben is currently working on That Difficult Second Album and wondering why it's turning out so relentlessly cheery.

And tomorrow the stars will still be here, my glass will be empty and my head will ache. And all will be right in the world. 

NDC

* & ** - Old Pine

*** - The Fear

**** -  Keep Your Head Up

***** - OnlyLove

Surfacing

I've been on a bit of an unintentional sabbatical from my blog over the last few months. family stuff, house buying and work stuff have all conspired to make me feel, on regular occasions, that I have been at the very epicentre of an explosion in the WTF factory and as a consequence I haven't really be posting much.

However, I think things may have turned the corner. Yesterday we (hopefully) agreed a completion date for our new home and  today is a gloriously sunny day. Even though at this moment I am sitting at my new desk in the office*, I know that tomorrow Mrs A and I will be heading North for a long weekend seeing friends and generally whooping it up. This makes me very cheerful indeed. I am aware that after today there may be little more sunshine to be seen until next week but to be honest I expect that the we will be mostly observing the weather through the window of coffee shops/galleries/cafes/restaurants or pubs.

I may even take a photograph or two.

NDC

* - It's a fancy corner desk by the windows, some have said the best seat in office. Guess who was drafted in to do some work when the bigwigs decided to rejig the seating plan on our floor.

Sage

The lady I currently sit next to at work is a source of great amusement to me. Today she was in the mood to dispense advice.

In a Zen-like exchange, never ceasing from the keyboard tippety-tapping that comprises her job, she delivered a beautiful, succinct credo. Something that a chap can rely on in dark hours. A rock to anchor the psyche to.

"Cheer the fuck up."

Quite.

NDC

SJC

Last week I buried my second father.

Shirl, for that was his name, was a huge character. Not in a hugely gregarious, in-your-face kind of way, but he collected people as he wound his way through life. He seemed to have a very easy way with almost everyone he met and people in the main couldn't help but like him. Not least of all, me.

The circumstances that we were introduced to each other were far from perfect, he and The Mum got together at the cost of my Dad and I held him responsible for quite a while. At on point The Mum was genuinely of the opinion that I was going to shoot him (the fact that I didn't own any kind of firearm or even have the first clue where to get one didn't seem to get in the way of the theory).

But the thing was, he and The Mum loved each other hugely and I took the view that it wasn't for me to stand in judgement or shout the odds - and this point of view, looking back, was facilitated mainly by my Dad's almost superhuman efforts to never bad-mouth anyone.

Years went by and he became part of us as a family. He was funny, warm, kind and just great friend. When my relationship of many years broke down he said things to me that meant the world. I will miss his advice and his company.

That's him, on the right. With the fancy shorts.

Cheerio Shirl, it was an honour to know you.

NDC