See that Tattie grow?

I'm 45% sure I'm going to start preparing the world's greatest little vegetable patch this weekend. Weather, laziness, ambivalence and hangover permitting, of course.

Work sucks

that is all.

Irlande Douze Points

I so cannot wait for Eurovision this year (even more than usual!)

This is Ireland's entry, and we're going to wipe the floor with the opposition. Sung by Ireland's most famous turkey - Dustin - it is Euro-gold.

Altogether now!

"Eastern Europe, we love you!
Do you like, Irish stew?"

Sowing the seeds of love...

Sometimes I need a good kick up the arse to stop talking about stuff and actually start doing it. Those of you who know me (erm, so everyone reading this then) will testify.

It's happened twice at work, which - despite the fact I moan constantly about it - has got to me to a semi-respectable position within my company (with a found-out-about-today-pay-rise! Mini-woot! It's not much but more than I expected) rather than festering on a helpdesk doing a job an intelligent 12 year old could do.

It's also happened in Glasgow, when Helen first of all persuaded me to get out of call-centre hell and bugger off to NZ for a few months, and then followed it up by finally making me see that my ex wasn't exactly all I was making her out to be (ah, the pathetic mourning of that first proper dumping....)

And it has happened now, with J once again surprising me with a small but perfectly formed spontaneous gift that makes me realise how much she cares. She bought me some seeds.

You may remember from a couple of posts ago that I have grand plans to convert our ramshackle garden into an oasis of vegetables, herbs and finely manicured lawn. Unsurprisingly, I rambled on to people about this a fair bit recently, but had done absolutely jack about starting on it, save for muttering the odd "must start that next weekend" when stumbling to the fridge in the morning.

But now, I have seeds.

They're sitting here, on my table, screaming "give me life!" very quietly in my head....

... and that's what I'm going to do. Rocket, Lettuce, Parsley and Spring Onion, all destined to be sown and tended and ultimately munched. It may be betraying my soppiness to note that all of the choices have meaning to me. Rocket and Parsley are J's favourites, lettuce was my original suggestion about what my be easy to grow, and we had a conversation, very early on in our relationship, around how chives were the bits that grow out of spring onions. Still not sure I buy that, but anyway....


It's true what they say - it's most definitely the thought that counts.

My mug on t'internet

Photos from Saturday night (Craig's birthday) on the club's website, and doesn't everyone look like they're having a lovely time?! Even me, although perhaps that's because it's the first time I've seen myself on one of these random "night out" websites... I'm sure the pages of "Bizarre" are but a stone's throw away.... Lots of shots including me, Craig, Coco, Helen, Euan and Laura, all in glorious mono-colour.....

How Does it Feel to be Loved?

Good taste

Having become an amateur journalist (no offence Gav) after getting two rambling anecdotes published in a free local newspaper, I am now referring to myself (at least in my head) as "a photographer". Back in my younger days, when I still thought I was going to become some sort of cool creative arty type rather than festering away in middle management for the rest of my life, I flirted with the notion of trying to leanr how to take photographs properly. You know, thus removing any notion of photography as "art" and instead treating it like it was some kind of skilled trade that I could do an apprenticeship in.

No matter, however, because thanks to the power of the internet, I am now just that. Kind of. I was looking at my Flickr account the other day and found an email that I'd been sent before Christmas from a company called Schmap. One of my photos had been shortlisted for their "Belfast Travel Guide" and they wanted my permission to consider it. All very exciting, even if it was a very boring shot of a waterfall and it's not exactly National Geographic.

Unfortunately the deadline for authorising it was the 16th of December, so I narrowly missed the boat on it getting used in the latest edition, but apparently they get updated all the time, so you never know.

My camera died back in July, and I'd sort of resigned myself to not getting another one - just using a combination of J's camera and my mobile phone to cover any notable events. But after the encouragement that someone liked one of my photos, I'm reconsidering.

Pathetic how much I react to the slightest compliment, isn't it?

(oh, and PS, whatever you do, don't search for Glenariff waterfall pictures on the rest of Flickr....)

New strings to my bow

My evolution into a well-rounded individual continues apace, as I made my first foray into the world of proper cooking this week.

I tried to cook something for the first time on Thursday night which didn't just involve the act of adding jar of sauce to browned meat, and managed to make it taste kind of like it was supposed to and not give either J or me food poisoning into the bargain. Ok, so it was only Cottage Pie, but that's because J likes cottage pie, and I was trying to do something nice for Valentine's day. It wasn't yer standard common-or-garden pie either - it had parsnip and horseradish in the mash and both thyme and a bay leaf in the mincey bit. I'd never really noticed that supermarkets had "herb" section before, and milled around for quite some time looking completely uneasy, reading and re-reading the little labels on the shelves to make sure I was buying the right thing whilst seasoned (like what I did there?) herb purchasers elbowed me out of the way to buy whatever it was they needed for the ad hoc extravaganza they were planning on knocking together when they got home. But I got there in the end, and after 2 and a half hours spent turning the kitchen into a bomb site, I think it proved worth it, if J's reaction was anything to go by. Of course, in the time it had taken me to cook she had demolished half a bottle of red wine, so she may have been a little less critical than Gordon Ramsay.

The knock on effect is that I now have a little bit of confidence that I can actually follow a recipe and make something approaching a half decent meal from fresh ingredients. Today I knew I had mushrooms, a chicken fillet and the remaining thyme in the fridge, so bought some leeks and potatoes, wrapped some bacon and herbs around the chicken, and rustled up something vaguely similar to a Tesco finest ready meal. I somehow feel much fuller and more satisified than if I'd bought the same thing from a shop, despite the fact it probably cost almost exactly the same amount.....

Six letters, P something D something U something

At a loose end whilst having a cig in the conservatory a few minutes ago, I decided to have a crack at the Guardian crossword from a few days ago. Don't normally partake in such pastimes, but what can I say - I was feeling a bit crazy.

I surprised myself by getting every single clue with a minimum of fuss, even showing off by filling in all the across clues first, and then all the down ones, in chronological order.

All, that is, except one.

The clue for it is "Dais". I have absolutely no idea what this word is, and suspect it isn't even English. For a brief moment I triumphantly thought that my heritage had made a mockery of the paper's feeble attempts to confuse me with linguistics - "of course! It's the Irish word for parliament!" It was only as I tried to get a coherent word to fit the spaces that it sank in that the word I was thinking of is actually "Dail" (pronounced "Doyle"). Bah.

My next idea was that Dais is actually a reference to a group of similarly named Welsh men, but this proved no more successful. Then I thought it might be something to do with a festival or something - probably again based in the Valleys and involving strange costumes and folk songs.

My final, desperate ploy was that it was, in fact, referring to four-fifths of a daisy, which given the relative easiness of the other clues was perhaps a little off the mark. Nevertheless, I spent a good, ooh, 30 seconds, trying to come up with some sort of incomplete plant reference before - mercifully - finishing my fag and retreating to the monosyllabic world of my bedroom.

I know I could access the majesty of the world wide web on which I currently sit to find out the answer, but that would be admitting defeat to the puzzle - unthinkable given the ease with which I breezed through the clue's comrades. Instead, I chose to wander off, muttering something along the lines of "not bothered anyway" (to myself), seeing myself less as a failure at the Quick Crossword, more as a vicious yet merciful overlord, who has just battered the thing into submission but decided to leave it with dignity intact.

So those of you who are wondering, I have decided on my own word to fill the gaps, and expect it to be available in the next edition of the Oxford English dictionary.

Dais (n,v,adj,whatever): Pudnut.

農曆新年!!

Gad. Hungover to feck today after crashing and burning at an unseemly hour yesterday following the rugby...

Just been round for some delicious Chinese food, courtesy of the Putney massive, to celebrate Chinese New Year. Just what the doctor ordered - am almost not feeling like utter crap now. Had a whole massive platter of stuff for starters - none of which I can remember the names but involved lots of prawns and pork and ricey-type stuff, followed by two massive vats of curry, and some nice custard tart things and a fortune cookie for afters - it was magic.

Am now back and aimlessly surfing the net and wasting what remains of my Sunday.

The bike wasn't ridden

The garden wasn't gardened

Bet you're shocked.

Out in the suburbs, no one can hear you scream....

This is the slightly disturbing sight that greeted me when I left the flat this afternoon. A massive leg bone lying in the middle of our garden path. I have no idea what kind of creature it used to belong to, but it's fairly stripped of flesh.

Either the local foxes have turned quite nasty and started leaving us the remains of their prey, or one of my flatmates is actually a werewolf. Given the hours that some of them keep it wouldn't be surprising.

The other theory, of course, is that it's merely the leftovers from someone's drunken Fried Chicken purchase last night - the new Chicken Cottage family bucket perhaps?

See that Tattie Ride!

Finally got my bike yesterday - all shiny and new and already splattered in mud. I had to ride it back from the shop to my house - only about 5km but a bit of a mission, given my lack of riding experience in the last two decades.

God knows what the bus drivers etc thought as they went past me as I wobbled my way out of the car park onto the main road. I assumed that, even if I was out of shape, I would at least still be able to ride the thing. As it was, I couldn't keep it in a straight line - never a good idea with the Number 3 bearing down on you. Thankfully I made it to the park and found my bike legs, even attempting a bit of off road (hence the mud). I say off road - I actually just went onto the grass to go past a few people, not remembering the recent heavy rain, and found myself trying to ride through a bog. Luckily I didn't fall off and end up covered in shit from head to toe.

I also managed my first run in with a car on the way back, as I went to pull out round a parked car and the traffic behind me didn't stop. I slammed ont he brakes, he did as well, then i wobbled a bit before moving off again. Would have been quite exciting but for the fact we were pretty much stopped at traffic lights at the time. As it was I just looked like a guy who couldn't ride in a shiny and unflattering helmet.

When I got off the bike outside my house, my legs buckled beneath me, and I fell over trying to walk down the two steps from our hall to our living room - lunging forward and grabbing hold of the armchair to stop myself looking like Tom Cruise in Born on the Fourth of July. I was a bit shocked at just how emaciated my leg muscles obviously were - until Scot pointed out I had ridden the whole way back in the hardest gear. Guess that actually means I'm hard as nails....