I sitting here writing this with two pairs of dark, beady eyes watching my every move, and I have to admit that over the last month or so I've become used to it, and even quite like it.
The eyes belong to a gorgeous pair of parakeets that are part of the family - he's Spark, she's Ruby - and the past month has taught me something that I didn't appreciate before, namely that birds really do have personalities.
I'm very much an animal lover, and have owned dogs, cats, and even a dwarf Russian hamster, but in all of these cases their personalities have been up front, so to speak, in their mannerisms, in their voices, and in the fact that, I suppose, they're mammals.
The birds, though, are every bit as individual as their four legged counterparts (which now include a couple of guinea pigs called Jemima and Aston), and fascinate me in the ways that they find to communicate with us.
For example, I'm usually first up and when I come downstairs I'm often greeted with a whistle from the birds, usually followed by one of them (more often than not Spark) then flying to the front of the cage, and hanging on to it with his claws to attract my attention to the fact that they've used all their water and are demanding more!
Also, when we eat I've noticed that regardless of whether Ruby and Spark have been snacking all day, they both make a point of joining in with us, which I'm told by the resident experts is because they consider us part of their flock (or vice versa) and the flock that feeds together, err stays together.
So, what I'm trying to do, I guess, is apologise to the avian world for my lack of faith in their individual personalities. Oh, and just in case they're slightly unforgiving I'm keeping them well away from a certain Hitchcock DVD....
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Friday, 15 August 2008
Tinkle and a Twix
One of my colleagues left the company I work for today, so in time honoured tradition a group of us descended on a local hostelry for a few drinks to celebrate, or commiserate, or whatever it is you do when someone leaves.
Well, when I say hostelry, and let's face it, who does say hostelry these days, I mean swanky, wanky cocktail bar in the vicinity of Fenchurch Street that serves all manner of exotically titled beverages that no sane person should ever be seen ordering, let alone drinking.
In the spirit of the evening, however, I'm prepared to indulge such frippery, mainly because they also serve pints of Guinness, which is much more suited to my real ale palatte.
Inevitably I have to visit the Gentlemen's, and this is where I'm suddenly reminded of one of life's peculiar practices that, frankly, I've never been able to fathom.
Lurking in the conveniences is a smartly dressed man with a selection of sweets, chocolates and various toiletries. Now, aside from the fact that it must be a soul destroying existence spending much of your working life in the gents, it begs the question why, when all I want to do is recycle the last couple of pints, wash and dry my hands, and proceed to refill my bladder once more, would I be in the least bit interested in a small plastic bottle of aftershave, a perfumed soap, or a Twix!
I realise that everybody needs to make a living, but (and call me old fashioned) this is tantamount to emotional blackmail. Here I am, having performed one of the most intimate functions of the human body, which may or may not have been observed by my friend at the sink, but for the priviledge of performing the basic sanitary function of washing my hands, thus preventing everybody else I will touch this evening from, effectively, touching my manhood, I am effectively being placed on some huge guilt trip if I don't give this guy some money (and I'm guessing he's not going to be happy with ten pence) to hand me a towel which I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, and then offering to sell me some beauty products and an item or two of confectionary to take back to the bar!
I'm sad to report that I took the cowards way out and fled the bathroom without washing, so if I happened to shake your hand this evening, I'm sorry!
Well, when I say hostelry, and let's face it, who does say hostelry these days, I mean swanky, wanky cocktail bar in the vicinity of Fenchurch Street that serves all manner of exotically titled beverages that no sane person should ever be seen ordering, let alone drinking.
In the spirit of the evening, however, I'm prepared to indulge such frippery, mainly because they also serve pints of Guinness, which is much more suited to my real ale palatte.
Inevitably I have to visit the Gentlemen's, and this is where I'm suddenly reminded of one of life's peculiar practices that, frankly, I've never been able to fathom.
Lurking in the conveniences is a smartly dressed man with a selection of sweets, chocolates and various toiletries. Now, aside from the fact that it must be a soul destroying existence spending much of your working life in the gents, it begs the question why, when all I want to do is recycle the last couple of pints, wash and dry my hands, and proceed to refill my bladder once more, would I be in the least bit interested in a small plastic bottle of aftershave, a perfumed soap, or a Twix!
I realise that everybody needs to make a living, but (and call me old fashioned) this is tantamount to emotional blackmail. Here I am, having performed one of the most intimate functions of the human body, which may or may not have been observed by my friend at the sink, but for the priviledge of performing the basic sanitary function of washing my hands, thus preventing everybody else I will touch this evening from, effectively, touching my manhood, I am effectively being placed on some huge guilt trip if I don't give this guy some money (and I'm guessing he's not going to be happy with ten pence) to hand me a towel which I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, and then offering to sell me some beauty products and an item or two of confectionary to take back to the bar!
I'm sad to report that I took the cowards way out and fled the bathroom without washing, so if I happened to shake your hand this evening, I'm sorry!
Thursday, 7 August 2008
The Vinyl Frontier
It was like an Aladdin's Cave of vinyl, with albums and singles piled up from floor to ceiling in no discernable order, save for the occasional box that was labelled "rock", or "60s" or "disco" or some such description.
On a teenager's pocket money, though, it was a treasure trove of music, all available for a fraction of the price of the brand spanking new article, providing that you didn't mind the sleeve being scuffed, or the vinyl scratched, with the occasional jump.
The place itself was dark, just the right side of musty, and if you held out any hope of finding a particular album or single on your own then you stood about as much chance as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Rob, though, for it was he who owned the establishment, seemingly had the chaos inside his little kingdom mapped like the back of his hand. Asked for a single, say Boston's More Than A Feeling as I once did, he would look skywards for a brief moment, as if seeking divine inspiration, and then suddenly lurch towards a particular pile of vinyl and pluck it as if from nowhere.
In the age of internet record stores and relentless chain stores that have all but driven the independents six feet under, I'm happy to report that Rob's Record Mart is still alive and kicking in Hurts Yard in Nottingham, and should you find yourself in the middle of my old hometown then you really should pay him a visit, as you'll never experience another record shop quite like it.
On a teenager's pocket money, though, it was a treasure trove of music, all available for a fraction of the price of the brand spanking new article, providing that you didn't mind the sleeve being scuffed, or the vinyl scratched, with the occasional jump.
The place itself was dark, just the right side of musty, and if you held out any hope of finding a particular album or single on your own then you stood about as much chance as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Rob, though, for it was he who owned the establishment, seemingly had the chaos inside his little kingdom mapped like the back of his hand. Asked for a single, say Boston's More Than A Feeling as I once did, he would look skywards for a brief moment, as if seeking divine inspiration, and then suddenly lurch towards a particular pile of vinyl and pluck it as if from nowhere.
In the age of internet record stores and relentless chain stores that have all but driven the independents six feet under, I'm happy to report that Rob's Record Mart is still alive and kicking in Hurts Yard in Nottingham, and should you find yourself in the middle of my old hometown then you really should pay him a visit, as you'll never experience another record shop quite like it.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Oranges and Lemons
I've been working up in the Big Smoke again for a little over five weeks, and I'm finding that I just adore walking through the streets and passageways of The City, for that is where my office is based.
The walk from Liverpool Street Station south towards the Thames is a wonderful juxtaposition of the old and the new. The blue gherkin that has graced the skyline for just half a decade sits peacefully and aesthetically alongside the myriad of small churches and old establishment buldings that house such historical institutions as the Bank of England.
The huge NatWest tower, which dwarfs pretty much every other bulding in the capital with the possible exception of Centre Point and Canary Wharf, rises from behind a beautiful old corner building that sits barely three stories high, but which is crowned by a series of ornate and exquisitely carved statues who seem to guard it like a small army of ancient Briton warriors.
Most intriguing of all, though, is the Church of St Clements, which is just around the corner from my office block. Famous for the bells of the old childrens nursery rhyme, there is often an old priest who sits on the narrow steps, dressed in his imaculate black cassock, and holding a tin which invites donations, though he never solicits for them, but merely smiles at us commuters as we stroll by on our way to work.
One of these days I'm going to drop a couple of pounds in his tin and go and have a look inside, but for now I'm enjoying my daily walk through this vibrant and wonderful city that counts only Paris as a serious rival for my favourite city in the world.
The walk from Liverpool Street Station south towards the Thames is a wonderful juxtaposition of the old and the new. The blue gherkin that has graced the skyline for just half a decade sits peacefully and aesthetically alongside the myriad of small churches and old establishment buldings that house such historical institutions as the Bank of England.
The huge NatWest tower, which dwarfs pretty much every other bulding in the capital with the possible exception of Centre Point and Canary Wharf, rises from behind a beautiful old corner building that sits barely three stories high, but which is crowned by a series of ornate and exquisitely carved statues who seem to guard it like a small army of ancient Briton warriors.
Most intriguing of all, though, is the Church of St Clements, which is just around the corner from my office block. Famous for the bells of the old childrens nursery rhyme, there is often an old priest who sits on the narrow steps, dressed in his imaculate black cassock, and holding a tin which invites donations, though he never solicits for them, but merely smiles at us commuters as we stroll by on our way to work.
One of these days I'm going to drop a couple of pounds in his tin and go and have a look inside, but for now I'm enjoying my daily walk through this vibrant and wonderful city that counts only Paris as a serious rival for my favourite city in the world.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Back From The Real World
After what seems like an eternity offline I'm back in the land of zeros and ones thanks to the lovely people at Virgin coming around at long last to hook our cable and internet up.
I have to say, though, I haven't really missed the net, and the TV has barely been on since the hookup, save for Jonathan Ross last night, and a couple of on demand programmes that we now seem to have access to via the telebox thingy.
It's good to be able to get back to my cyber scribblings here, though - not that any of you (assuming there are 'you' out there reading this) have probably missed my ramblings - as although I've finally been able to make a restart on the final phase of the latest book, it's quite cathartic to spill my thoughts onto this screen and send them spinning off into the cyber ether like a coffin in a deep space funeral.
Tonight's missive will therefore be brief(ish), just to flex my mind once more here in the Asylum really, but rest assured that normal service is now officially resumed, as from the next thrilling instalment which should be winging its way onto this page.....soon. :-)
I have to say, though, I haven't really missed the net, and the TV has barely been on since the hookup, save for Jonathan Ross last night, and a couple of on demand programmes that we now seem to have access to via the telebox thingy.
It's good to be able to get back to my cyber scribblings here, though - not that any of you (assuming there are 'you' out there reading this) have probably missed my ramblings - as although I've finally been able to make a restart on the final phase of the latest book, it's quite cathartic to spill my thoughts onto this screen and send them spinning off into the cyber ether like a coffin in a deep space funeral.
Tonight's missive will therefore be brief(ish), just to flex my mind once more here in the Asylum really, but rest assured that normal service is now officially resumed, as from the next thrilling instalment which should be winging its way onto this page.....soon. :-)
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Who The Hell Is Demolition Stav?
Demolition Stav.
That was his name, though not, of course, his real one. That I never knew, never wanted to know as Nick and I used to stand there watching him clear wave after wave of robots with the most incredible dual joystick maneouvering that youcould possibly imagine (should you want to, of course, and I'd wager that not many of you would).
I was ten years old, maybe eleven, and we were regular frequenters of the dimly lit mecca that went by the name of Space City. In here were all manner of wonderful machines - Tempest, Dig Dug, Bubbles, Gorf, Tip Top, even a cockpit version of Star Wars.
The daddy of them all, though, was Robotron.
Just the mention of this name, Robotron, brings people of a certain age and predilection for video games out in a cold sweat, for it was, and remains, one of the hardest, most infuriating and yet most satisfying video games of all time, and Demolition Stav was the absolute master of this punishing machine.
I hadn't though about Demolition Stav for years, but last night I watched The King Of Kong, an engaging and simply fantastic documentary about one man's quest to become the owner of the world high score record on Donkey Kong.
No, come back, don't walk away! Though those of us with experience of playing video games in the darkened parlours of our youth will dig the many geek-tastic references and memories, this is a documentary that is actually not really about video games at all, but rather one man's quest to become the best at something.
Whether he succeeded, I'll let you watch the film to find out (and seriously, there are few movies that I've seen so far this year that have been quite as engaging as this one, and no, I'm not getting commission on the marketing campaign), but the name Steve Wiebe (pronouced wee-bee as he continually corrects people in the film) is one that is now as synonomous with excellence in the field of video gamin as the long lost Demolition Stav.
It's a long time since those hours spent pumping ten pences into arcade machines in the darkness of Space City, but it's funny how sometimes the most trivial of trivia pops back into your head. It's precisely these little details that makes our memories unique, though.
That was his name, though not, of course, his real one. That I never knew, never wanted to know as Nick and I used to stand there watching him clear wave after wave of robots with the most incredible dual joystick maneouvering that youcould possibly imagine (should you want to, of course, and I'd wager that not many of you would).
I was ten years old, maybe eleven, and we were regular frequenters of the dimly lit mecca that went by the name of Space City. In here were all manner of wonderful machines - Tempest, Dig Dug, Bubbles, Gorf, Tip Top, even a cockpit version of Star Wars.
The daddy of them all, though, was Robotron.
Just the mention of this name, Robotron, brings people of a certain age and predilection for video games out in a cold sweat, for it was, and remains, one of the hardest, most infuriating and yet most satisfying video games of all time, and Demolition Stav was the absolute master of this punishing machine.
I hadn't though about Demolition Stav for years, but last night I watched The King Of Kong, an engaging and simply fantastic documentary about one man's quest to become the owner of the world high score record on Donkey Kong.
No, come back, don't walk away! Though those of us with experience of playing video games in the darkened parlours of our youth will dig the many geek-tastic references and memories, this is a documentary that is actually not really about video games at all, but rather one man's quest to become the best at something.
Whether he succeeded, I'll let you watch the film to find out (and seriously, there are few movies that I've seen so far this year that have been quite as engaging as this one, and no, I'm not getting commission on the marketing campaign), but the name Steve Wiebe (pronouced wee-bee as he continually corrects people in the film) is one that is now as synonomous with excellence in the field of video gamin as the long lost Demolition Stav.
It's a long time since those hours spent pumping ten pences into arcade machines in the darkness of Space City, but it's funny how sometimes the most trivial of trivia pops back into your head. It's precisely these little details that makes our memories unique, though.
Friday, 13 June 2008
Ch-Ch-Changes
The last few weeks have been a bit of a blur - I've finished my old job, landed a new one, and tomorrow move from Hitchin to Colchester to begin the next chapter of my life.
I couldn't be happier at the moment.
I must, due to the old last minute packing chestnut, keep this brief, but I'll be offline for a couple of weeks, so play nice while I'm gone and don't miss me too much!
See you on the other side.....
I couldn't be happier at the moment.
I must, due to the old last minute packing chestnut, keep this brief, but I'll be offline for a couple of weeks, so play nice while I'm gone and don't miss me too much!
See you on the other side.....
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