What I See When I Run

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Having put on my shoes, shorts and t shirt, I leave the flat, lock the door and walk down the internal fire escape, past the detritus which people in the adjoining flats have put there and forgotten about, the abandonned child's bicycle, uniformly grey in the shadowed light and accumulated dust, the boxes in which computers arrived, cat shit on the 4th floor. I disturb the cat on the 3rd floor (it doesn't shit on its own floor) and it keeps pace just ahead of me all the way down to the ground floor, where it gets just far enough away from me, turns and gives me a withering look. I use this descent as a form of stretching, something I have always been advised to do before running but have rarely done.

I trot under the building, past the pool, crystal blue, to the high fence which I scale and drop down onto the sand below, across the open desert separating my block from the brand new pink block and down past Noodles, with whom I have been having an undeclared war. I seem to have had at least a partial victory as they have moved all the tables and chairs and some of the plants off the pavement, thereby allowing pedestrians to use it again, whereas before they had purposefully obstructed the walking public. I used to walk through regardless, moving out of my way anything which obstructed me. Maybe they are concerned about the local councils' endeavour to get rid of all unsanctioned occupation of public land, regardless of how temporary it may be.

Rubbish is part of life in and around Salmiya. (I speak for Salmiya, 'minha terra', but of course it is endemic to all Kuwait). Despite the fact that you see yellow overalled men sweeping litter into bins, this is only on the main roads. Go ten metres off those roads and trash abounds. There are bins but I have seen many people approach bins, throw their rubbish when they are within 5 metres and turn away, oblivious and unconcerned as to whether the garbage reaches it. So, much of it lies somewhere near and the cats liberally spread it around. I pad through the crap, past Macdonald's and I cross Salem al Mubarak Street, down the side of Zahra Complex, (beautifully clean pavement here). There is a curiosity set in to the side of Zahra Complex. There is a flight of stairs, perhaps eight steps and they go nowhere. The steps are bounded on three sides by wall.

I cross the coast road and as I make the beach-side pavement I remove my t shirt. The beach path is empty. There are not many who venture out when the sun is high. I run past the Hard Rock café, keeping to the beach side, no shortcuts, and I can sense the sniggers of those diners inside, cool, elegant and relaxed. "Weirdo! Hahahaha."

There is the first cartilage clunk! I try to work out what prompts it and it seems that if there is a slight irregularity in my stride, "Clunk". So I try to maintain an even gate but still, every now and then, "Clunk". I reckon it's not going to be a problem though, I used to have a similar clunk in my right knee but that disappeared over time. I am, however, finding it is a struggle to keep running the whole distance. I know it is not that I cannot physically run the distance but the heat is just phenomenal (around 46° today) and after 4 km or so I walk. I don't like to do this, as I have registered to run in a 10km race in England in mid July and I need the miles but it is just too hot. I turn at the Scientific Centre and retrace my steps, stopping at the water fountains to replace some lost fluid. If there is any breeze at all, you don't appear to sweat, it dries as it leaves the pores; otherwise, you drip. The t shirt wrapped around my hand serves as a mop. On the grassed areas, now pristine, (all the KFC and Macdonalds garbage that the people who go there in the evenings leave, barely 2 metres from waste bins, has been removed), the workers who cleaned it doze in the shade of trees, waiting to be collected and taken back to their rabbit-hutch accommodation at the end of the day. The security guards shelter inside their air-conditioned cabins, snoozing or reading the newspaper. (Why the need for security guards on this utterly deserted stretch of coast beats me. They are still there in the evenings, when the sun goes down and the people come out for a walk and to soil the grassed areas but it is hard to imagine riots breaking out amongst the family groups and couples who stroll up and down). Back around Hard Rock and I'm across the road, putting on my t shirt and heading home. I end the run/walk with a punishment. I run up the 14 flights of stairs to the 7th floor and arrive with my heart jumping out of my chest. This is my 'hill training', which I am not sure I really need, as the race is described as flat.

Mahogany

blogs.indystar.com

An awful realisation came to me a couple of days ago. You may say that it has been staring me in the face, as these truths stare us all in our faces. But as sometimes we do not see the wood for the trees, I had not seen this with such arresting clarity as I did two days ago.

I glance back over my shoulder and I cannot believe that what happened 20 years ago, really happened a full 20 years ago, (Tiananmen Square, Berlin Wall, Satanic Verses, daughters aged 7 and 1). It seems rather that I was merely distracted for a moment and in that moment 20 years of sand fell through the tiny hole in life's egg-timer. OK it's a truism. I am not alone in this realisation and it is not the first time that I have reflected on it.

The shocking, gut-churning realisation (and I am reflecting on such things as my 60th approaches with alarming speed), is that in another distracted blink of the eye, I will be 80. That focusses my attention like nothing before. I have 20 years to achieve this.

The Resurrection Part Deux

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The hyperbole has gone off the scale. It's a form of collective fanatical madness, not unlike that which overtook much of the western world on hearing the news of Princess Diana's death. If one had expressed an opinion contradicting her status as a saint one would have been ostracised, beaten about the head and labelled heretic.

For certain there will be those crawling from under the skirting boards in the coming days, claiming that he has in fact not died; that he, like Lord Lucan, fled for an anonymous refuge from taxes and the law, respectively, in Peru. Given his somewhat bizarre appearance and unfortunate facial features, (Wouldn't you think that with access to so much money, he could have found a decent plastic surgeon?), it could prove difficult to 'disappear'.

I believe that there is a more likely explanation to this apparent 'death'. He's been down on his luck recently and the tax bills were rolling in. It's hard to imagine that one so successful could possibly end up in financial hardship but there you are. He was due to commence a huge tour starting with 10 concerts in London on 8th July. This should have brought in a bob or two, with tickets costing up to £70. But probably not enough to keep the juggernaut Jackson machine oiled and running at full steam, as well as paying the tax man. So what to do?

Well, if he has been known for anything, apart from his music, it has been his spectacular productions. The London shows were being hailed as part of a 'come-back' tour. What about the ultimate media extravaganza, the thing that all the reality shows, the Big Brothers, the jungle celebrities, the dying on screen, et al, have been anticipating, "The Resurrection"! Imagine, all the world's dignitaries and glitterati gathered in some appropriately kitschy, glitzy venue fit for "The King of Rock". There are tears in the eyes of the family on the front row; there are fine though sombre clothes and discreet hats; there are hundreds there, from all over the world. Wars have been put on hold. As the coffin proceeds down the central aisle, all of a sudden the restrained music soars to the opening bars of 'Thriller', the lid flies open, a white gloved hand shoots skywards and two black patent leather shoes kick and he's up on his feet and moon-walking on top of the box! What a come-back!

It's Written Init?

The other day, I was asked rather indignently, by a hijab-ed Muslim girl, why I do not 'believe'. I retorted that indeed I do believe, in all sorts of things but not in fairy stories, charming though they may be.

Why do people believe? There appear to be two routes; the first being born into it and in that sense having little or no choice in the matter, unless at some point in one's life one comes to question the indoctrination. For that is what it is. The second is making a reasoned decision during your life to adhere to this or that belief. This I suppose can be prompted by all sorts of circumstances; you may be introduced to it by friends or family and be mentally receptive; you may come upon hard times and need explanations which don't come from the real world. You may experience 'voices' or the word of 'God'.

The very word 'belief' implies a lack of proof of existence. It is easily shown that people will, en masse, believe almost anything, given the right circumstances and the right personality to deliver the message. Hitler. James Warren (Jim) Jones in the jungles of Guyana.

There are none more susceptible to indoctrination than peasant, ill-educated peoples such as those of the Middle East (1,300 and more years ago), and more widely, as the doctrines first of Christianity and then Islam spread their tentacles abroad. People who need explanations grasp willingly at an idea which supplies them. So long as everything is clear cut, black and white, offering reward and retribution, your average man in the souq isn't going to get all philosophical about it. He will not see the irony in the fact that he dumps one 'belief', long held, for a new one.

Indeed, the new one may well be the best thing since sliced bread. As soon as enough people subscribe, it spreads like wild fire, just as with a flu pandemic. Proof is unnecessary. There will be enough fundamentalists around to attest to having seen a burning bush or 5,000 people fed on two fish and five loaves of bread to satisfy the receptive. We are all so easily taken in by the sleight of hand of the magician, we surely don't need further proof of the gullibility of people. (Incidentally, did you know that 'gullible' is not in the dictionary? Astonishing but true). One can be at least thankful that Christianity has gone through its irrational, fundamentalist state, (in most parts of the world; there are still some loonies around, hammering themselves to crosses every year). It is philosophical, can discuss, debate and even change. Sadly, Islam has not yet come to that state, although I have met those Muslims who deny a strict interpretation of the Qur'an and promote a 21st century reality of approach. Most Muslims naively hold up the book and claim "It is written" as proof of the truth of it all. The mere writing down of something does not and never will guarantee its veracity. And are we in the 21st century seriously expected to believe that it was the word of God, dictated by an angel and written by Mohammed. Harry Potter is less fanciful.

I seriously believe (!) that people of all religions, believers of fairy tales, should watch Monty Python's Life of Brian. That film, apart from being very funny, superbly exposes the ridiculous genesis of religion, through misunderstanding, misinterpretation and fanaticism.

What is wrong with the following?

Humanism is a broad category of ethical philosophies that affirm the dignity and worth of all people, based on the ability to determine right and wrong by appealing to universal human qualities, particularly rationality, without resorting to the supernatural or alleged divine authority from religious texts. It is a component of a variety of more specific philosophical systems, but increasingly is emerging as a standalone sensibility for our own species, planet and lives.
Humanism can be considered as a process by which truth and morality is sought through human investigation; as such, views on morals can change when new knowledge and information is discovered. In focusing on the capacity for self-determination, such humanism rejects transcendental justifications, such as a dependence on faith, the supernatural, or texts of allegedly divine origin. Humanists endorse universal morality based on the commonality of the human condition, suggesting that solutions to human social and cultural problems cannot be parochial.

Wikipedia

Durham?

www.tentacled-monkey.com

Isn't it astonishing that despite the 400 years of colonial occupation of Mozambique, during which the tentacles of Portuguese government and influence reached across the nation, with the aid of Goole Earth, exploring scientists have just found a large area of virgin rain forest around Mount Mabu, which contains significant numbers of hitherto unknown species of butterflies and snakes amongst others. It must however be acknowledged that local communities have known of its existence for millennia.

It's a bit like unexpectedly stumbling on Durham.

Mad Dog

x96.com

Tic toc. And again. It's only intermittently that you are aware in these circumstances of the ticking of the clock. But there it is again. The sounds of others working, shifting things in the office next door, or sawing wood down below for work to be done during the fire-days of summer distract momentarily but there it is again. And like the sudden plethora of Ford Cortinas there are everywhere as soon as you acquire a Ford Cortina, the more you think of the clock and the more you try to dispell the thought, the more insistant it becomes. I can hear it above the commotion of 'maids' talking, circular blades spinning, the low level droning of the A/C. Tic toc, tic toc.

2 hours to go before the penultimate day at the factory ends and I am released, blinking, on to the streets. As you step out, you become abruptly aware of the fact that you have been cold all morning, with the violent assault of the light and heat. (It is a bizarre fact that in Kuwait, beautifully hot, the insides of buildings often feel at the height of summer like a January day in The Ice Hotel, beyond the Arctic circle). Ah, the pleasure of the heat as it invades your body.

Noel Coward got it right in 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen'. I for one go out in the midday sun. Not many others do, it has to be said; but I go home, put on my running shoes, run to the coast, and in the full force of the sun, run through the early afternoon, relishing the feeling of being mildly barbecued. Usually there is no apparent sweat; it is blasted dry as it leaves the pores, before it can start its gravity driven descent, it is torched.

Today's forecaste for Nottingham is 15°, sunny periods, and showers. Flaming June!

To Melting Hearts

Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France,

Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance;

Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune,

Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.

Extracted from a poem by Capt. John Mills Hanson

Where's Me Bus Pass?

I saw this written today and I thought, "That is it."

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming, "Woo-hoo! - What a ride!"

Shhh!

I was told the other day that as one ages, so hearing becomes more sensitive. Hm, not sure, but I think I have become much more intolerant of intrusive noise. Noise created by someone else, particularly in a place of my choosing, I find irritating.

In my classroom, for example, when the workers come to reorganise the seating plan for an exam, they drag the chairs and tables, creating that screeching, rasping noise that judders to my core. I suspect, however, that if I were the one creating the noise, with my focus on reorganising the room, the effect would be nowhere near as severe, although in my English way I would nonetheless be sensitive to those around me. But then, they may be utterly insensitive to it.

In the café, too, I find the noises that one would expect in a café totally acceptable; fridge doors closing, coffee machines whistling, the grinding of beans. As soon as someone drags a chair or a mobile phone with a wacky ring tone goes off, I rile. The guy upstairs who treated his flat as a gymnasium, until the management, at my request, had a word with him, used to send me quietly mad with his thumping and banging. I did on occasions come to the end of my tolerance and yell "Shut the **** up!" in a deep, vibrating baritone.

Barely credible, I admit, but the crashing of that chair as she tumbled would, despite the acrobatic spectacle, wrankle.

My wife tells me that I would find life in urban Spain intolerable, as noise is part and parcel of life, people shout, across roads, to the floor below, to the person standing next to them, cars blow their horns incessantly, music blares, people laugh, scream, cry. People rarely complain. That's life.

I was walking past Sablé the other day, looking for a taxi (!) and the woman in the car whose front bumper I brushed past blasted the horn three long and loud times. It nearly knocked me off my feet, but she was oblivious to my discomfort; oblivious, no doubt, to my presence. She was trying to attract the attention of her daughter inside the shop, to tell her to double the order of doughnuts, perhaps.

She was large.

The Threesome

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Behind the guy sitting straight-backed at the computer was a line of windows giving on to a corridor and, beyond, to the yard below. The windows on the outside of the building had not been cleaned recently; they were covered in the dust which settles, invisibly, out of the stick-dry desert air or is whisked by the stove wind in a storm and is blasted onto everything. Either way the view of the yard from the corridor was made indistinct by the silica veneer.

Not that the man often looked through those windows. Activity in the yard defined the trivia of daily life in the factory; like solitary ants the people went from one door to another, stopping en route to exchange a greeting or to gossip, to make sly judgemental comments about him or her, before moving on their predetermined path, which, but for the polished concrete surface, would have worn into a network of intersecting tracks, to disappear into another door. They would squint and shield their eyes from the sun, of whose power, we, insect forms grown large and self important, receive barely two billionths. They had no idea, nor did they care. Why should they? 2 billionths, 3 billionths.

He, of course, was one of them but he was not of them, if you see what I mean. He was apart, did not included himself in the drudgery of their thought and the grinding uniformity of their life, which they relished for its luxury of inactivity, for the walled-in straight-jacketed superfluity of intellect. They would stop, talk, heads close together, sometimes they would whisper in that big space, who could hear them? and they would furtively glance up at his windows. Returning from one of the strategic meetings, those meetings where the stone-faced Triumvirate harangued and left, he had looked for a moment from the window into the yard and he had seen their swivelling eyes and their curling reptile lips through the film of dust as they cast their aspersions and pointed their accusing glare.

Raw Prawn

images-0.redbubble.net

"Catch ya later, old man!"

This has been happening with uncomfortable regularity recently. Of course it is only the very young, the 16 to 30s who rub their youth in my face in this way and, I prefer to believe, the phrase is used as a term of endearment, without malice but also without compassion.

It is odd to be inside this frame, which, admittedly, has suffered the ravages of time, the sun's rays, wind, laughing, freezing temperatures, shaving, after shave, frowning, diet and genetic certainty and to be judged solely on the basis of its aging veneer, stings.

As these young people will soon know, (sooner than they could possibly have imagined), their fine, smooth skinned, toned, unwrinkled bodies will imperceptibly begin their descent towards decrepitude. Already have.

I know there is no alternative. I too am guilty. I have judged people older than myself purely on their superficial exterior; it is hard not to.

But, beneath that skin, loosening as it is, all remains pretty much as it used to be. Everything works. The eyes, weaker than they were, assisted by lenses, see everything as they did when they were 20/20 and I was twenty. I am far more determined to achieve now than when time stretched to the distant horizon. My mind, more analytical, more forgiving, finds the same things fascinating that captivated me as a young man. I can still stop dead in my tracks in front of a sublime building, close my eyes in ecstasy over a full bodied red, (That's 'red' not 'redhead'. Although...), become damp-eyed to Bruch's Violin Concerto, relish juvenile behaviour with friends and catch the swing of lithe hips at several hundred metres.

Yeah, the case is cracking, but look inside.

The Mesmeric Nature of Traffic Intersections

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Well, it's done and dusted. Two weeks to go before the end of school and I'm done. Reports are written, work for next October's exhibition is mounted, stored and sealed against dust. My room has all the displays of students' work removed and it is pristine white again. My sidekick, obsessive compulsive as she is, propelled me into this hitherto unknown territory of extreme organisation and forward planning. Now it's done I am happy. And now I have this 14 days spread out in front of me with almost no obligation at all. One two-hour year 10 exam on Sunday, which will have to be marked and the marks tranferred to reports but that is no arduous task, the work of an hour. Marking art work, as everyone knows, is no more than tossing it in the air and awarding As to those that land face-up.

The running is progressing, slowly; my hip joint reminds me every 100 metres or so that it suffered greatly in the past, by a sort of cartilage 'click'. It isn't painful, just an indication of something not quite 100%. This is an irritation because I really want to start increasing my mileage slowly but feel that I should perhaps get the all-clear from the hospital first. I suppose as I have waited this long, another couple of months is acceptable, but it is precisely because it has been so long that I am eager to get on with running.

My wife continues her sojourn in that Commonwealth curiosity, Mozambique, the only non ex-British colony within the organisation. I asked her if she goes to the beach, as, despite it being winter down there, it straddles the Tropic of Capricorn and is warm enough for sunbathing. She told me that it is not safe for a single woman to do so; danger abounds and being white merely adds to the perceived threat. Theft and mugging seem to be the post-colonial inheritance in Africa; it was rife in Zimbabwe, is in South Africa and no doubt is in other countries.

Where are all those cars going?

Pink Alice Band, Son?

rolemodels.jou.ufl.edu

I teach a class at the moment which includes a (Kuwaiti) student, one of those apparently inflatable ones, all unnecessary bulbous muscles bursting from a girl's size tee shirt. His spoken English is quite good compared to most of the others. Rather than studiously working to improve his sadly lacking grammar and spelling, he labours to show off his superior speech. When I direct a question to a particular student to answer, he blurts it out. I stopped the class once to ask for his restraint in this repect but his ego is so large that having been reined in, he resorted to giggling and talking to his juvenile sidekick, as the class proceeded. I finally put down my papers and talked to the class, emphasising that although my comments were general, they were in fact aimed at only a few members, who were behaving like children and showing disrespect to others who were dedicated to learning. He became surly; there is nothing these bloated egos hate more than someone telling them in public that they are behaving like children. The following lesson he did not show up. Blissful and harmonious it was. The next, he turned up late by 20 minutes. He walked in, apparently dejected, sat down and assumed a posture of idle resignation. He didn't open his books. I taught but he remained immobile. It's all about him you see. He wanted to attract attention (of the women) to him. He had been told off as a naughty boy, (he is around 30) and now wanted to attract their attention by his passive ignorance. He yawned. At the break he called me over to tell me that he was exhausted (do I care?) as, wait for it, he had just got off the plane, from, not New York, not Rio nor Cape Town. No, he had just got off the plane from Abu Dhabi. Poor darling.

This coincides with the news this week that Sir Ranulph Twisleton Wykeham Fiennes, at the age of 65 has just climbed Everest for the first time. And he plans to do it again. When he was 59, having suffered a heart attack and having had a double heart bypass operation a few months earlier, he ran 7 marathons in 7 days on 7 continents; I guess without moaning about it. The contrast between the gratuitous, narcisistic wimpishness and petulence, wrapped in a steroid induced frame, of the inflated Kuwaiti, and Sir Ranulph Fiennes, struck me as representative of the differences between so many young men, (not necessarily restricted to these shores) and the few remaining great men of a largely bygone age.

The following is extracted from wikipedia:

In 2000, he attempted to walk solo and unsupported to the North Pole. The expedition failed when his sleds fell through weak ice and Fiennes was forced to pull them out by hand. He sustained severe frostbite to the tips of all the fingers on his left hand, forcing him to abandon the attempt. On returning home, his surgeon insisted the necrotic fingertips be retained for several months (to allow regrowth of the remaining healthy tissue) before amputation. Impatient at the pain the dying fingertips caused, Fiennes removed them himself (in his garden shed) with a fretsaw which didn't work so he picked up a Black & Decker in the "village" with a micro blade and cut them off just above where the blood & the soreness was.

Pink T shirts!

Not the Pajero, Then?

• 
  

www.esquire.com

My father once won a piglet in a skittle competition in Ashbourne, in a spring fair or the like. Not having the means to care for and cherish it, he sold it to a swarthy type, who probably served it up with a glistening crisp exterior and an apple lodged in its mouth later that very day. I have never won anything so exotic.


My winnings amount to these:


Circa 1959: First place in the diving competition in a schools' swimming gala.
C1978: Masquerading as nine year old Nigel, I designed a logo for Radio Trent and too ashamed to admit the subterfuge, I accepted, through my 'mother', "Abba's Greatest Hits".
1985: First place, Boston Marathon: 2hrs 35 mins.
1990: A dance competition in an indeterminate dancehall in Basra; a bizarre charade, staged for the purpose of interviewing my wife, as winner, for Iraq TV, in which pointed questions were asked, aimed at getting her to denegrate the actions of the West. She declined to do so. We were presented with an envelope containing 10 Iraqi dinars.
C1994: I won a 14" TV in an Alghanim Electronics prize draw. I had bought a 14" TV and won another, not the Pajero.
C1999: KD 100 in a KNET draw, simply for using my KNET card.


And that's about it.

Albeit Punctured

www.runnersworld.co.uk

Thanks to the vagaries of the school calendar, which pays scant regard to the calendars of other international schools, I have just had a long weekend, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. And it came just in time. I didn't know, but I needed it. And it has been delicious, albeit punctured by a few tuitions.

I have just finished reading Haruki Murakami's "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running". I was drawn to it solely by the subject matter. It has been nearly two years since my altercation with the car wing mirror and I am now largely pain free. Indeed free of sensation, bar the odd twinge when I unexpectedly turn and twist the joint. From 1982 until that dark day I had, more on than off, been a runner, something that has provided me with solitude, space, fitness and the pleasure that comes with achieving a goal, and on occasions, exceeding it. So, having had two years out, I knew I needed a stimulus, an incentive to get me going. Finding a book about running, combining two of my favourite activities seemed serendipitous.

I loved the book and it has done the trick. Two weeks ago, I tied the laces on my running shoes and headed for the coast. Not bragging, I was astonished that after such a long time I was able to run for more than a few hundred metres without pulling up short, doubled over and wheezing. But it wasn't like that at all. I ran 5km comfortably; true, I was exhausted when I got back to the flat, but not too tired to prevent me climbing the short-cut high fence rather than staggering through the main gate. I was expecting to be more or less disabled the next day, but no, no stiffness, no pain. I can't work it out. Do my muscles have such a long memory of the punishment I used to mete out? Were they prepared, ready to go? I have repeated the run twice, with the same result. Odd.

I was sitting at my table earlier today, giving a tuition and glanced up at the lines of books on the shelves on the wall. A book that I bought perhaps two years ago came into focus. It had been in the same place since I carried it back from Mud Island, but I had never been moved to read it. I focussed on the author's name. Murakami. I had never made the connection. It is now next in line, "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle".

And when I return in now less than 7 weeks to the Land of the Web-footed People, I have made a note to buy Christopher McDougall's "Born to Run" about the bare-foot Tarahumara ultra distance runners of Mexico. That'll give me something to distract me from boring old Italy.

Does My Ass Look Big in This?

It seems that the amount of money I spend on clothes diminishes with the years. This may have something to do with my tendency to buy better quality but less frequently. My wardrobe slims but lasts longer. It follows that more care is required in selection and any leaning toward outré fashion is firmly brought vertical. The opposite seems to be true with women, mentioning no names. Since a certain lady departed the cankered shores of Blighty, back in December, two suitcases of her clothes have arrived in someone's flat, for him to transport back to Pom. Two suitcases. One arrived via Dubai after the lady's sojourn to Cambodia and Thailand. That equates to around 30kg of clothes. Now, she does not travel light, never has, so don't suggest that she has trimmed down to a carry-on bag. The 30kg HAS BEEN REPLACED! Just how many clothes does anyone need? I am not naive enough to believe that women do not know the difference between 'need' and 'want', but I also know that they are adept at pretending confusion of the two.

The illustration clearly indicates that clothes, generally, are overrated.

Catholicism for More Holidays!

www.wabe.org.uk

Brooklyn Day, June 7th; 1965 day in July; September Bank Holiday to relieve stress from return to school after the summer holiday; Carry On Day in January, in celebration of Kenneth Williams et al, and why not, Spain and Mexico have more national days than most other countries, so let's catch up. CLO day in January to celebrate the turning off of the Christmas lights.  Not to forget Doris Day in May.

My Idea of Heaven (Lying Here With You); sheer sublime loveliness by Lee Nash.  

And the clouds of dust swirl around Salmiya, the plastic bags cavort and gimble in the wabe, and so on.

A Few Beers

www.webentory.com

In the late 60s there were fewer laws controlling personal behaviour than there are now.  For instance the drink drive laws were extremely relaxed, if applied at all.  The 'breathaliser' had not been introduced.

Ill-advised though it was, we, Graham Rollinson, Pete Warbrick and I would go out on a Friday night, once Pete had passed his test and acquired a car, a Standard Ten or something similar. The car was already old when he got it and it was past its prime.

We would head out of Arnold, over Mapperley Plains and down into the villages of Woodborough (The Four Bells), Lambley (The Woodlark) and Lowdham (The World's End and The Magna Charta).  By the time we left there we had had a few and were in fine fettle.  Onward! To the Marquis of Granby in Hoveringham and ending up at the Red Lion in Thurgarton. 

By the time we headed for home, Pete was pretty well oiled.  So much so that he no longer could trust his driving so that when we got onto the small country lanes heading back to Arnold, if another car came towards us with its headlights on, he would have to stop the car, fearing crashing into the hedge, blinded as he was by the lights.  His car's were feeble, no match for a 'modern' car.

Well, once having stopped, the engine would stall, so we would have to jump out, push the car, he would release the clutch in second gear and the car would be going again.  But of course he couldn't then stop it to pick us up, as it would again stall.  So we had to run alongside the car with the doors open and launch ourselves inside, laughing uproariously.  To secure our entry we had to hang on to anything we could and the upholstery trim often came away in our hands.  We always got home, one way or another......

It is a Sign, Forsooth!

Here is one sign writer you would be well advised to avoid.  Mind you if a song is what you want, he could be your man.

Treading Water

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The Egyptian in shabby worn out plastic flip-flops who entered and left the lift without a word compounded the sense of bleakness which had engulfed him. The SUV which approached him at high speed blew its horn at him to get out of its fucking way rather than braking to allow his sedate progress, and prompted an uncharitable gesture.

The taxis driving past, heading in the opposite way to him, beeping as they approached, had earned inaudible but meaningful curses.

The party he left had been full of people who were having fun, drinking, eating and singing karaoke. He had listened, even joined in enthusiastically with 'Living Next Door to Alice', but it had palled quickly; there is nothing so sad as sad old guys and young girls thinking they can sing when they patently can't. He had caught the eye of a woman, mature, attractive and shapely, glancing his way. She had bowed in the Thai way when he had introduced himself. She was not like the English girls, loud and brash, foul mouthed and drunk. She was not like them. He went out into the night.