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....

Job Hunting

A weekend by the sea got my daydreaming about a better life going into overdrive again, and whilst I have the Great Road Trip of 2010(TM) to look forward to and plan, I started wondering about how nice it would be if I didn't do what i was doing at the moment. Maybe that means a new job, maybe a new town to live in, I'm not sure. But getting time out of London definitely clears your head, and I am now sitting at the computer trying to start looking for jobs, or at least updating my CV.

Of course, it takes more than a bit of idle thought to turn wistful pondering into actions - it takes direction, drive and ambition, as well as hard work. So far tonight I have watched Hollyoaks and a documentary about gangs (featured towns - Glasgow and Brixton - hmmmm....), smoked about four rollies, spent an hour looking for a used car on Autotrader and the last little while spying on my own house via the Superzoom photos on 192.com. It's really rather marvellous, as long as you find it exciting looking at people sunbathing in Trafalgar Square. I managed to have a look at the roof of my house and the deck chairs in our back garden, and got a bit bored quite quickly. Efforts to find any random celebrity's house proved fruitless - at least to the best of my knowledge. So here we are, almost 10pm and yet again I've failed miserably to do anything constructive, unless downloading "The Wire" is classed as such. Which in terms of life plans, I don't think it is.....

Hi Mum!

My mum is my most avid reader, and gets most upset when I fail to post a blog for a bit.... So, despite the fact I've just got home and should really get to bed, I am writing this in the knowledge that I'm going to be on the sunny south coast for the weekend and she may well be unable to sleep, turning to the tattie for something to make her doze off. Never one to disappoint (at least intentionally), here is some drivel to make you pass out of at the keyboard - with boredom, if not relaxing sleep.

After the relative excitement of the "I'm buying a bike!" fiasco of my last post, I have been assured that my new mode of transport has been ordered and will be available next Saturday. Upon strolling into Halfords last Saturday, I was faced with the unlikely truth that they don't stock 22" bike frames (as required by my elongated legs) and need to order them in specially - this despite the fact that they only have three varieties of frame size. So, despite my anticipation reaching fever pitch, I shall have to wait a little longer. Hell, it's been 15 years so far, so another week won't make too much of a difference.

Between now and then, I am off to Portsmouth tomorrow to spend the weekend with J - and the cat who shares her bed. I have a Harold Bishop-esque reaction to the scratching, ungrateful balls of hair, so am expecting to spend my weekend unable to sleep due to the burning rash all over my body and inability to breathe. Still looking forward to it though.

After that, I have "the big presentation" on Thursday, where I have to talk for 40 minutes about the goals of the company for 2008. If the reaction to my trial run today is anything to go by, they'll be rolling in the aisles. Completely unintentionally, of course.....

Bicycle! Biicycle! Biiiicycle....!

I'm buying a bike tomorrow! I'm very excited, and have spent the last few weeks avidly searching the Halfords web site and eyeing up the contraptions as they whizz past me on the street. Before any proper bicyclists start slagging me for using Halfords, I have to as they are the ones with the deal with my work - through whom I get a discounted deal. As luck would have it though, the one I want is the cheapest they have in their range, so as of tomorrow I shall be bidding farewell to public transport and hitting the open road.... literally, if I was to try cycling on the mean streets of London straight away. I think I've ridden a bike about five times since passing my cycling proficiency 19 years ago, so have a bit of practice to get in prior to trying to ride to work (the official reason behind me getting a cheap deal in the first place). That, and the small matter of it being a 15 mile round trip from my house to my new office - which i think might require a bit of See That Tattie Run-style training before attempting.

So, cue doddering round the park for weeks to come, and late night dashes 200 yards up the road to the offy. Can't wait.

what to write about?

I've had some kind of writer's block for months now, never knowing what to blog about. Either my life has ground to a shuddering boredom-filled halt, or I have stage fright after people complimented me on my previous efforts. As far as I can tell, it's not the former, unless my brain has also turned to porridge and in actual fact is trickling out of my ear - whilst I sit, staring vacantly into space in some secure unit with a stupid lop sided smile on my face as I imagine I am actually sat at home typing this - as we speak. But, not to get too Cartesian on your asses, that's not such a bad thing anyway, as to all intents and purposes my subconscious would believe it, therefore I would not know any different. I think therefore I am etc. Like wot's in the Matrix, innit?

I'm not sure what is causing my lack of entertaining banter these days but I think part of it might be down to lack of practice and/or subject matter.... I'm trying to start updating the blog more regularly again now, but the fact is if I don't have a story to tell, it's bloody difficult. I do not have what might be termed an exciting or glamorous life - especially by London standards - and there are millions of people out there all doing what I'm doing with much better stories to tell.

So, I need a hobby - as Craig pointed out last night during one of his sage, "sober for 2 weeks" pieces of mentoring - and am planning on starting to grow vegetables in our back garden. Life does not get any more rock and roll than this, let me tell you. So over the spring and summer months, strap yourselves in and get ready, for the roller coaster ride of emotions that can only be stirred by one man's struggle to raise 3 cherry tomatoes as a single parent....

see that tattie grow......

Corner shops rock

after trekking to our crap Tesco tonight, I found out that yet again they were out of vegetables and didn't have the light bulbs I was after.

So I went the whole way back past my house to the Costcutter, where there was a massive selection of greenery and bargain lightbulbs - meaning I can now see in my room again. Plus I rewarded myself for my efforts by getting a couple of cans of lager.

God, my life rocks.

Gotta love it

As someone employed in the financial services industry - in particular in Operations - I pissed myself when I read this in the paper this evening. I absolutely love the audacity of the fraudster - it almost sounds like it must be made up. As for the poor sods involved that didn't follow ID procedures.... New year, new job, eh?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/2008/jan/10/scamsandfraud.creditcards
Barclays boss falls victim to ID fraud

This article was first published on guardian.co.uk on Thursday January 10 2008. It was last updated at 15:43 on January 10 2008.

A fraudster posing as the chairman of Barclays stole £10,000 from the bank after tricking a member of staff into sending him a credit card, it emerged today.

The conman duped call centre staff into issuing a credit card in the name of banking boss Marcus Agius and then used it to withdraw funds at a high street branch.

It is believed that the thief, working alone or as part of a gang, used the internet to find out details concerning Agius, such as his date of birth and address.

He then contacted a Barclaycard employee and requested that a new card be sent out.

Armed with the information and the card, the conman entered a branch of the bank and walked away with £10,000 of Agius's cash.

Barclaycard has since reimbursed the chairman and the fraud has prompted a review of procedures at the bank and the implementation of new security checks for senior executives.

Agius, who took over as Barclays chairman last January, said: "Credit card fraud is an issue which our industry continues to confront.

"Barclays is resolved to do everything possible on behalf of our customers to minimise its impact."

A spokesman for Barclaycard added: "It was down to human error, procedures were not followed fully and we have learned from it.

"This is an ongoing battle with professional fraudsters. All Barclays customers, from the chairman downwards, have a 100% fraud guarantee as long as they take responsible care of their information."

This is the second high profile case of identity fraud to emerge this week, after the TV presenter Jeremy Clarkson revealed he had also fallen victim to fraudsters.

He lost £500 after publishing his bank details in a national newspaper in an attempt to show fears about identity fraud were over the top.

In the first six months of last year criminals stole £263.6m through card crime, according to the payments association Apacs.

Charity wars

I get royally pissed off when I'm out for my morning (lunch time, afternoon) fag, as I have to stand in front of Charing Cross train station. This makes me an easy target for those charity muggers who come up and try and get me to sign up for whatever cause they are touting on that particular day. Somehow, the fact that they're "not asking for any money today" means that I am not entitled to say "no thanks" when they ask if I want to sign up, and I've been in quite a few heated discussions with them.

In particular, there's this aggressive American dude who works for one of the charities, who won't take no for an answer, even when I explain that I'm just trying to relax for five minutes in silence, I have already signed up for about 15 of the the things, my inbox is full to over-flowing with emails from them and anyway, wasn't the question "would I like to sign up"? In which case, as far as I'm concerned, the answer of "no" should be all I need to say. I don't see why I should have to justify myself to him.

All of which made it all the more amusing to leave my building this morning and walk straight into the middle of a turf war between aforementioned American dude and a small equally crusty woman in a different coloured bib, who was screaming "this is our patch" at him whilst jabbering on her mobile phone - no doubt to the shadowy figure who sends her and her posse out to stalk the streets looking for personal details of members of the public. Unfortunately things seemed to be resolved on this occasion, but I live in hope that there's going to be some full on war on the streets of London between rival charity gangs, and the gutters will soon be running green with the spilled lentil soup and tufts of dreadlock of the fallen.... I can but daydream.

Happy New year....

welllllll, I'm only a week late, aren't I? Strange to think that this time last week was New Year's Eve - seems like an eternity ago already. Had a reasonably quiet one by general standards, arriving in the pub at 9.30-ish and heading for home by half two. All flew past in a bit of a blur, but then I guess that's the sign of a pleasant evening. Unlike last year there was no drama, no friends falling out with each other, and everyone seemed to keep in reasonably good nick - at least to my rather less than sober eye.

We were down the Hootananny - Brixton's very own Scottish pub. Their marketing obviously went well - tickets were originally priced at £12, had reduced to £8 by the time we got ours a couple of days before the big night, and rumour had it that they were still being sold on the door for £4 each on New Year's Eve itself. Ah well, no matter - the band was good and we were there with a load of mates - isn't that all you need?

The new year that has dawned has opened up all manner of new possibilities and fresh starts, all of which work did its level best to dump all over within ten minutes of my arrival on the 2nd. Nothing in particular you understand - just the recognition that the life grinds on in its own unbearably dull and disorganised way within the hallowed halls...

Yes, I know it's up to me to change things, either by finding alternative employment or ensuring I do my current job better - but by god, they do their best to suck enough will to live out of you whilst there to make you just want to veg in front of the telly when you get home.

But I am determined to get things sorted this year (hmmm, sounds familiar). Not content with one momentous anniversary having passed me by in October, there is another on the horizon in April - five years in London. Quite how the bloody hell that has happened I do not know. Yes, I have been here almost as long as in Glasgow, after stepping off the tattie boat in 2003 ready to "give it six months and see how it goes...." Whereas Glasgow has so many memories, London seems to have passed by in a bit of a blur. Up to me to change it i suppose.

Starting tomorrow.

Rocking out Aussie style

so many high points to this performance by Aussie John.... The temporary sheepishness following his stumble to check if anyone noticed and to regain composure - quickly replaced by the inate rock god within, the head banging that's so fast the camera can barely keep up, and the finishing touches of discreet rock horns and polite applause for the band... All the time ably assisted by wingman Paul, as an entire row of semi-comatose pensioners wonder what the hell's going on in the background.

John, I salute you. You are the master, and I a mere pupil.

Helen and Lee's wedding

So, back in London town after a lovely week back at home... On Saturday we attended the wedding of what I can now refer to as "The Goudies"... It's only the second wedding of a friend I've been to, thanks in part to our refusal to grow up and assume adult responsibilities, and it was a fantastic day. They got the mix just right, in that the wedding service lasted all of 20 minutes and the drinking 9 hours....

Helped in no small part by the band, who are normally fixtures at the Limelight in Belfast rather than weddings/bar mitzvahs, there were some spectacular moves being pulled on the dancefloor. I managed to capture two of the highlights - John rawking out to "Last Night" by the Strokes, and Lee facing down a challenge to a dance off towards the end of the night. It says a lot for the man that he still had it in him to pull of some pretty good shapes at almost 1am - although on this day of all days, there was never any doubt that he would get the girl at the end. I particularly like the way that Helen, having wafted in from Stage Left to greet her all conquering hero like a demure angel, then flashes a little rock horn at the very end to give her man the respect he deserved.

Cheers for a great day guys, and congratulations.

I'm daydreaming about travelling

by moseying about on Google Earth... I keep reading things about the far north of Norway and really want to travel by boat up to see the Northern Lights. But then when I get to Kirkenes I'd have to go across to Russia to check that out too.... In fact, I'd love to travel round the entire coast of Russia. Ever since I read one of those adventure books (you know the type - if you want to make 'x' decision turn to page 127, if you want to make 'y' decision turn to page 450) based in the USSR - and Vladivostock in particular - at the age of about 12 I've been fascinated by what it must be like. Flying over Siberia on my way from Japan back to the UK a few years ago just made me want to be on the ground even more - hundreds and hundreds of miles of nothing, punctuated by foreboding concrete buildings in the middle of nowhere... I'm not normally accused of having the most active imagination, but every childhood daydream and romantic notion I have about far flung spots seems rooted in the remote wilderness of Siberia. Conveniently there is also a range of active volcanoes down near the Chinese border, so with my lovely girlfriend in tow it is marginally more likely to happen than it has been in the past. Marginally.

Irn Bru Snowman

I only saw this for the first time today on quality time-wasting channel "Dave". There just aren't enough Scottish adverts on English telly (sod Carling - I want Tennents!)

Somehow this puts me in the Christmas mood more than most things, whilst simultaneously making me want to buy tooth-rottingly sweet garish soft drinks

Now that's what I call.....

.....Christmas!!!

Currently downloading a raft of tunes to provide suitable ambiance for our Christmas dinner tomorrow. It's become a bit of a tradition for my group of mates to meet up near Christmas and celebrate the festive season/get hideously drunk in a safe and comfortable environment.

As my starting point, I have downloaded just about every song from the original "Now that's what I call Christmas" cassette, which is still just about going strong back at my mum's house and has provided the soundtrack to Christmas for as far back as I can remember. I just need to hear Wings or John and Yoko and am instantly transported back to the build up to the big day in the late 80s/early 90s, as the excitement built up for what seemed like an eternity, with more and more presents arriving under the tree and my sister and I trying to "subtly" find out which were ours and work out what could be inside.

These days of course, technology has progressed a little from the good old cassette and this year's selection is going to be on my Ipod (due to CDs only holding 24 tracks - rubbish). I've gone for some classier stuff along with the cheese so we'll have a bit of Frank and Dean and a bit of Louis Armstrong as well to while away the wait for dinner - which seems to take as long to cook these days as Christmas day did to arrive when I was a kid.

I just hope I don't get mugged on the way to Helen's house - the shock and feeling of injustice would only be outweighed by embarrassment as the mugger stuck on my tunes to discover Slade and Cliff Richard blaring out.....

As a further reason to celebrate, J found out today that she has got her dream job! She starts as a lab assistant in a Geotechnical consultancy on the 2nd of January. She bloody deserves it.

Mistletoe and Wine

ah, Christmas.... a mere fortnight away no less. Wasn't it only last Thursday we were having our annual moan about how the shops are starting to sell Christmas cheer earlier every year?

Christmas this year in the Chomper household is going to be a quiet affair, and all the better for it - we've limited ourselves to one present each and are instead going to focus on chilling out and getting drunk. Initially I thought this would take all the stress out of the pre-Chrimbo run in, with fewer present ideas to bandy about. Alas, it has proven otherwise, as now all the pressure is on choosing the right gift from the range of options available. Normally, due to my fortuitous monthly pay day on the 18th, I am relatively flush with cash in the last week before the big day, and thus can afford to run about buying everything on people's wish lists, saving myself the hassle of making any decisions whatsoever, whilst simultaneously covering every base and looking downright generous to boot.

My own present list - which my mum insists on - is looking decidedly more mature than in previous years, no doubt connected to my passing the crest of the hill in October and cultivating more grey hairs than is possible to count on my head these days. Previous years saw a range of cds by popular beat combos, stupid books, gadgets and a variety of other stuff place themselves firmly at the front of my brain screaming "you need me!". This year, all I would like is (one of) a new bag for work, a teach-yourself-Polish CD, a new wallet, or a lead to connect my PC to my telly. Rock, and indeed, roll. It reminds me of the year I couldn't think of anything to buy my dad for Christmas and ended up buying him a belt.

All this Christmas present thought reminds me of when I was a kid, and a gullible kid to boot - I firmly believed in the presence of the big man until I was at least 11 or 12. Old enough, at any rate, to enter secondary school still too scared to waken up in the middle of the night for fear of disturbing him. Of course, things were simpler back then, and kids didn't grow up as fast as they do now, although I think perhaps I grew up a bit slower than most. But then, there was the proof - the mince pie eaten and whisky drunk; the muddy boot prints leading up to our back door on Christmas morning (given the lack of snow in those pre-Global warming days).

I remember once coming downstairs to my parents at some ungodly hour (probably about 9.30pm) on Christmas Eve, totally stressed that I couldn't get to sleep. What would happen if Santa came and I was asleep? Pretending wouldn't fool him - if he could communicate with Robin Redbreasts to find out if you were behaving, he could sure as hell tell if you were pretending to be asleep when he squeezed his fat belly down the chimney. Thankfully my mum, who I think was friends with Santa or at least had met him, had the solution, and my stocking was removed from the end of my bed and placed in the living room, at the opposite end of the house to me.

Poor old Santa got a rough deal from me on more than one occasion - and my parents were the ones who had to sit there, consoling their only son on Christmas morning and I wailed about the unfairness of it all that Santa hadn't got me exactly what I wanted. I mean, to me he was something like first cousin once removed from Jesus, and therefore should be telepathic as well as capable of commandeering 6 reindeer and a sleigh big enough to carry presents for all of the Western world.

So, one year I asked for a radio. I got a radio. I cried. What I actually wanted was a radio with a cassette player on it like my sister's - I mean, surely Santa would have realised that? My parents were there to console me. As they were the year I asked for a guitar. Santa bought me a guitar - a very beautiful child's size acoustic guitar, that would no doubt have cost an absolute fortune if it had been bought in a local shop rather than manufactured in an elven sweatshop at the North Pole. Again, I was gutted. I wanted an electric guitar, not an acoustic one. Surely Santa would have realised that? Again, my parents were there to comfort me and explain that, from what I'd written in my letter, Santa probably thought that he'd got me the right thing. Poor old Santa - I'm just glad he wasn't there to hear me whinge and moan and be genuinely distraught that these lovingly bought presents hadn't gone down as well as he no doubt thought and hoped they would when he chose them. And I want to take this opportunity to apologise for being such an ungrateful, naive little shit for not appreciating them the way I should - they were amazing presents and I was incredibly privileged to grow up in an environment where I could act like such a little snotrag over the "wrong type" of very expensive present.

Of course, the fact these two episodes came to me years later as I thought back and cringed about them only goes to demonstrate how wonderful all my Christmases were growing up. I was one of those kids who were fortunate enough to be in a position where, if I asked Santa or my parents for a "big" present, I generally got it. I still have all my Christmas presents from over the years - from my Scalextric, to my remote control car, to my "Manta Force" (an early and disgraceful example of marketing to kids via their classroom which I shall explain at some point), my Amiga, my Nintendo - even my stereo, which I got (I think) when I was 11 years old, and is still pumping out the tunes in my bedroom as I speak. I loved them all, even the radio and the guitar, and with hindsight wish I'd made that more clear.

I'm waiting for payback when I have kids.

and, erm, have to give feedback to Santa.

I'm having a beer

Normally on a Sunday I would be stressing at this moment, as it would no doubt have been my 6th of the day and 20-somethingth of the weekend. But thanks to a lack of funds and a new found sense of boringness that has manifested itself since October, it is my 3rd. Something much nicer about relaxing on my bed, beer in hand and watching the football, than forcing pint after pint of water down my neck in a desperate attempt to avoid waking in the middle of the night with sweats, dehydration and heart palpatations... Being old and boring rocks.