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

Every Day's a School Day.

Ah, The Boy Wonder.

He was with us last weekend and there was a pretty good exchange of life lessons.

For my part, I educated him in the value of never making a bet that you can't be sure of winning. I had to drop him off for one of his many social engagements on Saturday and on the way we stopped off to buy some blinds for a couple of the bedrooms. He was convinced that they wouldn't fit in the boot of the car. I was pretty sure they would* but he was like a dog with a bone with the idea as we ambled back across the busy Saturday-afternoon-shopping-centre-carpark.

"OK" I said, in my best Wiley Old Fox tones, "if you're so sure I'll make a bet with you. If they won't fit in the boot I will do the Gangnam Style dance in the carpark. If they do, you have to do it."

He considered for a moment, but the prospect of his dad making an arse of himself in  the middle of the Saturday Shopping Experience was too much for him to let go. He stuck out his hand and we shook.

After a few moments of panicked jiggling and some judiciously applied force, the boot lid shut and I grinned at him.

Yes I made him do it. I now know that the dance is even funnier when performed by a seven-year old with an expression on his face that just says 'one day I will pick your care home'.

It wasn't all one way on the learning front though. I now know that it is possible to burp your way through the entire alphabet. Apparently Q is the most difficult letter.

I am a proud father indeed.

NDC

* - OK, OK, it hadn't even crossed my mind that they might not actually fit in the car until they were bought, paid for and TBW raised the notion as we walked back to the car.