St. Valentine’s Day

A general answer to those who’ve questioned my general disgruntling on the subject of St. Valentines Day:

I detest both the expectation the day engenders and the associated use of the word ‘romance.’

Nothing makes my goat boil more than people who think that doing something for/with their partner for Valentine’s is romantic. It just isn’t! Any other fucking day of the year, bar birthdays and anniversaries, would be romantic because it would be a surprise but there can be no romance when the gesture is expected/insisted upon.

Anyone who insists their partner does something for them on Valentine’s Day should be dumped forthwith.

Anyone who uses the word romance on 14th Feb should be dragged into the street and shot.

Apart from me in this rant obviously.

I shall now go and lie down.

Domestic Science

See!

If life has taught me anything it is this: that Andy Wilson (@drbobchoco to some) and I should never share a house. Probably. I’m not saying it isn’t a fun experience but when it comes to household chores we’re both quite lazy bastards. I can admit this now although over the years, in an impressive feat of dual self-denial, we’ve more tended to consider ourselves brave investigators into the effects of domestic neglect. Imagine very, very passive scientists.

This started in our second year at university when we shared a house together along with the very lovely and put-upon Mr Richard Moseley. Our first foray was into behavioural science. We let the house turn into a bigger and bigger shit-tip and waited to see who’d crack first. To our lasting shame, this was usually Richard.

The usual lack of any clean cutlery or crockery did cause us to become inventive however. I once went down to breakfast (probably about 11:30) and was greeted by the sight of sight of Andy, a look of grim determination on his face, eating breakfast cereal from the world’s largest Tupperware bowl using an ice-cream scoop. Indeed, this remains one of the most treasured memories from my entire time at Durham.

Of course not all ‘experiments’ were a success. One, a major cause of suspicion, was the week all three of us went down with a mystery bug. Eventually, in need of sustenance, we were forced to tackle the grubby crockery mountain in the kitchen and found, under a pile of plates, what can only be described as a green, furry chicken carcass. I’m not saying the two things were definitely related but it did give us pause for thought as we washed up our Pot Noodle forks.

Much later in 2001 I was living with Andy in Halifax, this time with no third person to fall back on. Most normal folk in this situation would eventually be conditioned out of their sloth and become decent human beings but alas, we suffered a major setback – a scientific breakthrough of sorts. Around May, in an attempt to get women, and therefore potential girlfriends, into the house we held a chocolate mousse party.[1] Four bowls of different mousses were produced but not all of each was eaten. The semi-full bowls hung around for a bit.

About week or two later in a bout of emergency tidying (one of the girls from the party was coming round) the bowls were hidden in a kitchen cupboard and forgotten about. Maybe a month or so later one of us chanced to look in the cupboard (probably searching for a clean pan) and discovered, in a scene reminiscent of the best horror movies, the abomination that had developed.[2] There was only one thing to do. We gingerly carried all the bowls to the cellar and then ran away.

But here’s the thing – when we went back to the bowls some six months or so later, the offensive bio-matter had turned completely into a light grey dust which could easily be washed away under the tap. This seemed to vindicate our entire attitude!

Over the years however my attitude has changed. We tend to get fussier about our surroundings as we age which is why most parents are such insufferable twats when it comes to bedrooms. I now live in quite a small hovel that doesn’t lend itself well to the accumulation of mess. It also, unlike previous residences, has quite a damp cellar (don’t ask how I found out this is a bad thing.) The upshot is that I now wash up around two to three times a week.

I have a nice clean, odour-free, unscientific kitchen.

I do sort of feel I’m letting the side down.

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[1] This low tactic actually bloody worked, for me at least.

[2] I seem to remember from school biology that moulds develop on food in a progression, each subsequent one feeding on the preceding or its by-products, etc. For the scientifically curious, my own observations (based on frequently repeated ‘tests’ like any good scientist) are as follows:

Firstly, at about 3-6 days depending on time of year, comes the light-green fur familiar to everyone from almost inedible bread. (I’m sure this is perfectly normal Penicillium or some such and is thus probably even good for you.)

Secondly, at 1-2 weeks, comes a more whitish fur occasionally accompanied by black dots. I suppose this could be mildew but I’ve never convinced myself that the black bits aren’t just coffee grounds.

Thirdly, at 2-3 weeks, a really quite disturbing orange and black slime  develops. This not only looks unappealing but, when disturbed, releases a smell that makes one gag quite violently. This was the stage the bowls had got to.

Autumn

Last night, for the first time this year, it actually felt like autumn. I was walking home in the light drizzle. There was a mist settling in the valley and the sodium light was glinting off every moist surface. I even believed I could discern a hint of bonfire smoke in the air. Now to me, it doesn’t get more autumnal than that but here’s the best thing: it was actually cold!

I’ve been waiting for it to stop being warm since bloody September. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the summer months. I can remember three separate occasions this year when the temperature was such that I summoned up the will to leave the house without a jacket and each time the experience was tolerable. I just prefer the colder seasons.

We have the immense good fortune in this country, living as we do on an island in a temperate climate, of having distinct seasons. It is a gift. Whilst I accept that I’m probably in the minority, preferring as I do October to March, I have never understood the mentality of people who would seem to want it to be warm & sunny all the year round. Actually, these people generally fall into two main categories.

Firstly there are the idiots – the depressingly unimaginative folk who at some point have been conditioned into a warm-good/cold-bad mentality and don’t have the wit to break out of it. I imagine they holiday on fetid, baking little islands and think sun-tans look attractive. They also seem to have a childishly simplistic view that sun equals warmth. This is why, usually around February time, on the first bright day of the year they start wandering about in shorts and a T-shirt even though it’s still only 2°C.

Secondly are southerners, mainly Londoners, who get warm weather for much of the year and have presumably come to see it as a right and feel put-out when it’s no longer there. It is probably due to such arrogant thinking that the Edinburgh Festival is held in August meaning that I get to wander around one of my favourite cities whilst drenched in sweat. (As an aside, I’m prepared to believe there’s a perfectly good non climate related reason why the festival’s held in August but if you know what it is, don’t tell me ‘cause I don’t care!)

Why do so many people fail to appreciate living in a country where they get to experience just about every type of weather imaginable? We should revel in it. Like Billy Connelly said, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes!” Our climate should be absolutely treasured and frankly, those who can’t see it should just bugger off somewhere else.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, autumn.

It’s still crisp & misty out.

Nice.

Eighty Six

According to 5 Live this morning, today is supposedly the most miserable day of the year. Apparently, by mid January people make the final mental severance from the excesses of Christmas and the New Year and realize there are a depressing number of months to get through until thoughts of holidays roll around and an even more depressing number of days until pay-day.  Insult is apparently added to injury by the fact that it’s a Monday.

Personally, I quite like Mondays. They are the beginning of a whole new week – a clean slate, an opportunity. There’s the possibility that this week I might actually achieve something instead of fucking it up or tossing it off like most of the others in recent memory. It was therefore in an unwise state of optimism that I decided to weigh myself.

Eighty-six kilograms! I don’t even want to think what that is in stones, pounds and ounces. Too fucking many, that’s for sure. I used to weigh a mere 9 stone back in my dim and distant university days. I know this because I had a friend called Hamish, a sturdily-built rugby player who weighed 18 stone and could confidently claim to be “twice the man” I was. I can’t put off the metric to imperial calculation now, hold on…  Jesus, when did I become such a fat knacker?

I suppose the signs have been there. Thinking hard about it, I’ve noticed that my pyjama bottoms have been getting lodged around my calves and that shirts which I’ve worn happily for years are beginning to feel tight across what can only be described as my tits. Perhaps I’m just one of many in my generation experiencing such things as we hurtle together towards middle age. I certainly can’t be the only one thinking it colossally unfair whilst at the same time feeling just a tad guilty.

In a vague attempt to salve my conscience I went for a walk. I have the good fortune to live in a solidly urban area which just happens to turn pleasantly rural if you walk for ten minutes in any direction. Sadly for the lazy and tubby, almost all of those directions are uphill. I fought down the sloth and chose the steepest one possible.

My first obstacle was not one of gradient but of several hundred horrible children as I attempted to pass the local secondary school. I detest such places – a feeling which stems from an unsuccessful attempt a few years back to get through training as a science teacher. I’ll probably write about the experience some time when I’ve calmed down. As an aside, I would actually recommend a PGCE course to anybody as it can be quite revelatory, not least with regard to the piss-poor quality of some graduates these days. All I got out of it though was 9 months of depression and an utter loathing for all children between the ages of 11 and 16.

Pushing such grim thoughts aside I trudged onwards and upwards half-heartedly fighting off the tendency to fantasize. This really is something I should stop doing as it serves absolutely no purpose. I lazily let about a mile slip by whilst I inhabited some imaginary world where I was a radio presenter. One with wittier things to talk about than how depressing the day is whilst being gobbled-off under the desk and no doubt looking forward to the awards season. Pathetic really.

As I snapped back into reality and started to head downhill towards home, my attention was drawn to a stream of water flowing along a roadside gutter. I imagined for a moment the all the molecules zipping by as part of their long journey. Down into the drain for a brief sewery adventure followed by a plunge into the River Calder then the Aire, the Ouze and finally the North Sea before being squeezed through unnumbered sets of gills. I think dim memories of lesson plans were affecting my brain.

For instance, thoughts of molecules reminded me of that odd science fact which involves the tendency of atoms to be constantly swapping places with each other. The result is that every eight years or so your body has acquired a completely new set – you are literally a totally different person.  Weird huh? Of course it doesn’t lighten my mood to feel that over the past decade my new atoms have brought an extra 4.5 stone of mates with them to the party. Bastards!

Ok then, plan for the week: More walking, less fantasizing, join gym.

Roll on Saturday.