This is one of those posts that springs from an oddly random thought. I happened to be thinking about politicians continually fretting about their legacy. Now, fear not, I am not going to launch into a discourse on the relative merits (or lack thereof) of the current crop of career politicians, but I did decide fretting about this seemed an excellent waste of thought power, time and personal energy. Here, therefore, I am, about to ponder the greatest of mysteries. What is my legacy?
We can certainly rule out progeny at this stage of the game. As I reported in last night's entry, the whole arena of romance is a minefield for me at the moment, so there is unlikely to be the immediate patter of tiny feet, nor an army of Daves and Davinas upon whom I can impress my world vision.
Similarly, there are no great inventions to which I can lay claim. Notwithstanding the Dave's F***** cocktail which I have mentioned before, this having no official status and indeed, just being a means to a particular favourite end du temps. I could try and backdate a patent on the 'running on the spot' dance which I have perfected I suppose. Or maybe not.
So, no kids and no inventions. Sporting greatness? To be fair, there can be few heavier smokers (long since quit now) that could bowl 12 overs of fast-medium (then medium by and by slow-medium) every Saturday without falling apart. Nor indeed have many found such an array of ludicrously inappropriate shots with which to gift one's wicket to the opposition. However, now that we come to it, I'd really rather my legacy were not as a chain-smoking bowler with a penchant for the slog. My other sporting achievements boil down to a few games of badminton and the inanity of school rubgy and hockey.
Hmmmm, not easy is it? This, I guess, is the point - you don't get to pick and choose your legacy, it just sort of happens to you along the way. What you can do is try and skew things to a favourable outcome and one day in the distant future, friends and loved ones will miss certain somethings when I am not around. That's it! The things people miss about you when you are not around. That's my legacy - the stuff only I can get away with saying, or only I would do. Being just the right man for a particular thingymajig.
Who needs the wing of a hospital named after them when you can have a legacy that involves people thinking of you and smiling?
Tuesday 30 November 2010
Monday 29 November 2010
Turkey Shoot
I thought I'd try a little experiment today. Some time ago I decided to stay single. I wonder, in hindsight, if that were not just a convenient excuse not to have to play the singles game any more. So I promised myself I would come on here and make a post, and I wouldn't think about it in advance. It would just be me, thinking and typing about romance in the sass-filled teenies (or whatever decade this now is) and I wouldn't hold back, or obfuscate. So here we are, and here I go, look away now if you have a weak constitution. This is what I believe they call in the politics trade, a 'courageous' choice.
When I left love and romance behind, for a while I felt like a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders, you see truthfully I never really 'got' the whole thing. Now I don't mean by that relationships in and of themselves, I have had some truly fantastic relationships (and some truly hideous ones), and I can recognise the little voice inside me telling me I am nicely loved up. No, it's the ridiculous posturing and peacockery that precedes love that I cannot abide or understand.
Do I tell you that I think you are beautiful, or do I give some sort of masonic nod and a wink across the crowded bar? Am I supposed to fall in love with you before I disclose my feelings or is that a negotiable part of the whole relationship package? Would you rather not know about my feelings after all? You begin to see the picture.... total and utter neurosis. Let's hang an enormous negative around my neck before I even start. Dave went into administration at the end of his last relationship, he starts the love chase on -15 points. Or something like that anyway.
Notwithstanding all of that, I found it a relief not to be in the game anymore because I am petrified of rejection. I completely understand that there are people out there who don't want to jump my bones for some odd and personal reason, but within the bubble of singledom I can count that as a curio, a weird malfunction in someone that does not swoon at my feet. In reality, I imagine being laughed at, I imagine that my feelings, deeply held and framed in just the right words are greeted with derision, scorn or a simple dismissal out of hand. Feelings deserve better than that, and it would only take one occurance and I'd never have the stomach to brave it again. So I don't, I stay quiet and safe and let the years slip away.
I'm hiding. I have allowed the very thought of the romance game become fraught. It really is a bind, part of me wants to draw a line, start again, have fun learning how to play the game all over again, but then there is the part of me that is just disappointed in myself, angry that I am denying myself a fundamental part of happiness in the human condition. It's a mess, frankly, and I guess I hoped that writing about it on here would be a first step - to where, I am not sure, but somewhere is better than nowhere. Somewhere would be different, different right now would be good.
I'll finish by saying it's not like I have been able (or ever wanted) to give up feeling and falling. That still happens, but I stand back, terrified and full of my neuroses and despite my heart wanting to burst I stay silent. Love is a feeling that deserves to be spoken, and it breaks my heart when I betray it like that.
When I left love and romance behind, for a while I felt like a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders, you see truthfully I never really 'got' the whole thing. Now I don't mean by that relationships in and of themselves, I have had some truly fantastic relationships (and some truly hideous ones), and I can recognise the little voice inside me telling me I am nicely loved up. No, it's the ridiculous posturing and peacockery that precedes love that I cannot abide or understand.
Do I tell you that I think you are beautiful, or do I give some sort of masonic nod and a wink across the crowded bar? Am I supposed to fall in love with you before I disclose my feelings or is that a negotiable part of the whole relationship package? Would you rather not know about my feelings after all? You begin to see the picture.... total and utter neurosis. Let's hang an enormous negative around my neck before I even start. Dave went into administration at the end of his last relationship, he starts the love chase on -15 points. Or something like that anyway.
Notwithstanding all of that, I found it a relief not to be in the game anymore because I am petrified of rejection. I completely understand that there are people out there who don't want to jump my bones for some odd and personal reason, but within the bubble of singledom I can count that as a curio, a weird malfunction in someone that does not swoon at my feet. In reality, I imagine being laughed at, I imagine that my feelings, deeply held and framed in just the right words are greeted with derision, scorn or a simple dismissal out of hand. Feelings deserve better than that, and it would only take one occurance and I'd never have the stomach to brave it again. So I don't, I stay quiet and safe and let the years slip away.
I'm hiding. I have allowed the very thought of the romance game become fraught. It really is a bind, part of me wants to draw a line, start again, have fun learning how to play the game all over again, but then there is the part of me that is just disappointed in myself, angry that I am denying myself a fundamental part of happiness in the human condition. It's a mess, frankly, and I guess I hoped that writing about it on here would be a first step - to where, I am not sure, but somewhere is better than nowhere. Somewhere would be different, different right now would be good.
I'll finish by saying it's not like I have been able (or ever wanted) to give up feeling and falling. That still happens, but I stand back, terrified and full of my neuroses and despite my heart wanting to burst I stay silent. Love is a feeling that deserves to be spoken, and it breaks my heart when I betray it like that.
Sunday 28 November 2010
New poetry piece - In Exile
I live beyond love’s pale,
A traveller, a tinker, surviving at the barren margins.
Me, who once knew the warmth within,
But withdrew to the sanctuary of exile.
Seldom chance will draw me back inside
The shrinking bounds. For here I am a mere visitor,
Offering nought but a mockery of the familiar
Devotion I see with wistful envy all around.
At times I cannot sleep and fancy that I
Will make my triumphant return.
I would throw up a floral tribute in my footfall
And cast myself on the tenderness of a beloved Dulcinea,
For whom I will endure, endlessly, all trials.
Then comes the dawn and my fantasy dissipates,
For I can see her before me. I long to drown
In her eyes, in her arms, in her care,
But silence has lease and no words will come.
Struggle as I might, I am scared to speak or move and
Rooted, I wait for the veil to fall and hide her
Away, unknown forever in wholesome depth,
Another to come and take her blessing.
I live beyond love’s pale,
And yet I cannot bear the cold.
A traveller, a tinker, surviving at the barren margins.
Me, who once knew the warmth within,
But withdrew to the sanctuary of exile.
Seldom chance will draw me back inside
The shrinking bounds. For here I am a mere visitor,
Offering nought but a mockery of the familiar
Devotion I see with wistful envy all around.
At times I cannot sleep and fancy that I
Will make my triumphant return.
I would throw up a floral tribute in my footfall
And cast myself on the tenderness of a beloved Dulcinea,
For whom I will endure, endlessly, all trials.
Then comes the dawn and my fantasy dissipates,
For I can see her before me. I long to drown
In her eyes, in her arms, in her care,
But silence has lease and no words will come.
Struggle as I might, I am scared to speak or move and
Rooted, I wait for the veil to fall and hide her
Away, unknown forever in wholesome depth,
Another to come and take her blessing.
I live beyond love’s pale,
And yet I cannot bear the cold.
Saturday 27 November 2010
Under the affluence of incohol
Last night I attended our work's Christmas party. Rather early, but conveniently the day after my birthday. Nice of them to consider me in planning it I thought. Now alcohol was available for consumption at the do, a service which I took advantage of. With maximum prejudice.
At this point, you might think I am about to swing off into a description of horrific behaviour and cringingly embarassing activities, but you would be wrong. Firstly, I would probably not be looking to dob myself in on the very next day (excepting the need to spike stories about to hit the tabloids, but there are none of those), and secondly I was the very model of intoxicated eloquence. OK, perhaps not, but I was well behaved. Or, at least I was better behaved than most some.
However, the unpleasant hum that has accompanied me all day and rattled around my noggin like an angry bee with a hammer has set me thinking. For you see, I have not always been so well-behaved under the influence of the gift called alcohol. For your amusement, these are some of the all-time cringes of all-time committed by a Mudpuddler sans sobriety.
1) The now infamous attempt to utilise a weepeing willow to swing, tarzanesque, across the river Wensum in Norwich. I made it far enough across to get wet to the knees.
2) The bottom end of Burgess Road in Southampton is quite steeply downhill. Well it is when you are drunk and on your way home from the girlfriends, and not paying attention, and on a bike, and then on the floor. Twice that I can remember.
3) Trying to attract the attention of beautiful young fillies in the Waterfront is a noble endeavour. However I can confirm that being sexually suggestive with a curtain and then dancing the dance of the Curtain veil does not work.
4) In a former life as a financial adviser, I used to enjoy our annual sales conferences which were really an excuse to get plastered. However, calling the national sales manager an unforgivably rude word is never a good idea. Worse is having it pointed out he is right behind you. Worse than that is replying with 'I don't care, he is still a ****'
5) The 5am walk home from university balls, every time.
6) Agreeing with your fairly new girlfriend who you are quite keen on that you'll have seperate nights out, and then running into her and her friends when 'tired and emotional' and (I quote) making her sorry she had ever met you.
7) 'Feeling the rhythm' and expressing it through the medium of dance.
8) Winning a cheap stuffed toy at Monte's all day event and presenting it to the girlfriend in Stoneham dining room by 'making it talk and introduce itself'
9) Orgainse an event for several hundred people and announce the headline band when hammered. That one worked well.
10) The curious case of the missing three hours. You know what, let's leave that one unsaid!
At this point, you might think I am about to swing off into a description of horrific behaviour and cringingly embarassing activities, but you would be wrong. Firstly, I would probably not be looking to dob myself in on the very next day (excepting the need to spike stories about to hit the tabloids, but there are none of those), and secondly I was the very model of intoxicated eloquence. OK, perhaps not, but I was well behaved. Or, at least I was better behaved than
However, the unpleasant hum that has accompanied me all day and rattled around my noggin like an angry bee with a hammer has set me thinking. For you see, I have not always been so well-behaved under the influence of the gift called alcohol. For your amusement, these are some of the all-time cringes of all-time committed by a Mudpuddler sans sobriety.
1) The now infamous attempt to utilise a weepeing willow to swing, tarzanesque, across the river Wensum in Norwich. I made it far enough across to get wet to the knees.
2) The bottom end of Burgess Road in Southampton is quite steeply downhill. Well it is when you are drunk and on your way home from the girlfriends, and not paying attention, and on a bike, and then on the floor. Twice that I can remember.
3) Trying to attract the attention of beautiful young fillies in the Waterfront is a noble endeavour. However I can confirm that being sexually suggestive with a curtain and then dancing the dance of the Curtain veil does not work.
4) In a former life as a financial adviser, I used to enjoy our annual sales conferences which were really an excuse to get plastered. However, calling the national sales manager an unforgivably rude word is never a good idea. Worse is having it pointed out he is right behind you. Worse than that is replying with 'I don't care, he is still a ****'
5) The 5am walk home from university balls, every time.
6) Agreeing with your fairly new girlfriend who you are quite keen on that you'll have seperate nights out, and then running into her and her friends when 'tired and emotional' and (I quote) making her sorry she had ever met you.
7) 'Feeling the rhythm' and expressing it through the medium of dance.
8) Winning a cheap stuffed toy at Monte's all day event and presenting it to the girlfriend in Stoneham dining room by 'making it talk and introduce itself'
9) Orgainse an event for several hundred people and announce the headline band when hammered. That one worked well.
10) The curious case of the missing three hours. You know what, let's leave that one unsaid!
Thursday 25 November 2010
The song of thirty nine
So, I'm 39 today. One more year until the big one, the start of life, the dimmening, the big shazam. All that jazz. That's not to belittle the 3 and 9. It's the last chance I have to celebrate a birthday without a 4 or greater at the start of my age. In the (slightly meddled with) words of one of my favourite series 'I was a bastard when I was younger, a bastard when I got older, now I am just an old bastard'. In honour of 39, here are 39 things I know through my 39 years of shizziness..
1) Yorkshire puddings are my spinach.
2) Oranges are not the only fruit, but they are the worst opal fruit
3) My general funky sexiness has escalated in direct opposing correlation to my declining youthful vigour.
4) Therefore God is a woman.
5) A very funny one.
6) Despite messers Potter, Ottaway, Scarborough and myself coming up with the idea of reality TV about 2 years before it took off, it is all complete crap. I just wish we'd cashed in on it ;)
7) Football is a strange and useless game.
8) I was born 2500 years too late, I would make a splendid Greek thinker with a cadre of men to do manual work for me.
9) I love my friends very much, even if I don't tell them often enough.
10) Pickled red cabbage.... really?!
11) Cats>Dogs
12) Love can really screw you up
13) It can also make the world turn
14) Every time I have said it, I have meant it
15) If I jump in a hole with you, its because I have been there before, and I know the way out.
16) Tubby men who have had their off stump cartwheeled by your medium pacers are very sore losers.
17) Jam sandwiches with a lump of cheddar on the side. Teenage tea of champions.
18) Those chunky chipsticks? Dip the ready salted ones into a cup of sweet tea and eat them. You'll thank me for it later.
19) East 17's video to stay another day - comedy gold.
20) Rubber necking winds me up more than anything else on the road.
21) I used to believe in things too.
22) Whisky>Beer>Cider>All other alcoholic beverages
23) If I ever go missing, look for me in the Highlands.
24) Mental illness is simply not understood by enough people, and it's not until I started to deal with mine that I realised how little it is understood.
25) I look freaking awesome in formal attire.
26) The Harry Potter look did not suit me however.
27) Laughter gets you through.
28) You can't hide anything from my Mum, ANYTHING.
29) Therefore my Dad is both a wise and a very open man.
30) I am 150% more affectionate than you think I am.
31) I have cried 450% more times than you'd guess.
32) Sometimes I am not at all sure how deep things go with me.
33) I am terrified of finding out.
34) The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
35) You learn so much if you just listen.
36) Je ne regret rien
37) If I truly love somthing or someone, a little bit of my heart stays with them always.
38) That is far more useful than you realise, as some of you will discover
39) It's a funny little life for a funny little guy, but I'll do my best with it.
1) Yorkshire puddings are my spinach.
2) Oranges are not the only fruit, but they are the worst opal fruit
3) My general funky sexiness has escalated in direct opposing correlation to my declining youthful vigour.
4) Therefore God is a woman.
5) A very funny one.
6) Despite messers Potter, Ottaway, Scarborough and myself coming up with the idea of reality TV about 2 years before it took off, it is all complete crap. I just wish we'd cashed in on it ;)
7) Football is a strange and useless game.
8) I was born 2500 years too late, I would make a splendid Greek thinker with a cadre of men to do manual work for me.
9) I love my friends very much, even if I don't tell them often enough.
10) Pickled red cabbage.... really?!
11) Cats>Dogs
12) Love can really screw you up
13) It can also make the world turn
14) Every time I have said it, I have meant it
15) If I jump in a hole with you, its because I have been there before, and I know the way out.
16) Tubby men who have had their off stump cartwheeled by your medium pacers are very sore losers.
17) Jam sandwiches with a lump of cheddar on the side. Teenage tea of champions.
18) Those chunky chipsticks? Dip the ready salted ones into a cup of sweet tea and eat them. You'll thank me for it later.
19) East 17's video to stay another day - comedy gold.
20) Rubber necking winds me up more than anything else on the road.
21) I used to believe in things too.
22) Whisky>Beer>Cider>All other alcoholic beverages
23) If I ever go missing, look for me in the Highlands.
24) Mental illness is simply not understood by enough people, and it's not until I started to deal with mine that I realised how little it is understood.
25) I look freaking awesome in formal attire.
26) The Harry Potter look did not suit me however.
27) Laughter gets you through.
28) You can't hide anything from my Mum, ANYTHING.
29) Therefore my Dad is both a wise and a very open man.
30) I am 150% more affectionate than you think I am.
31) I have cried 450% more times than you'd guess.
32) Sometimes I am not at all sure how deep things go with me.
33) I am terrified of finding out.
34) The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
35) You learn so much if you just listen.
36) Je ne regret rien
37) If I truly love somthing or someone, a little bit of my heart stays with them always.
38) That is far more useful than you realise, as some of you will discover
39) It's a funny little life for a funny little guy, but I'll do my best with it.
Monday 22 November 2010
Fear
Sometimes you have too much time to think. I think I have had too much time to think lately because I have been thinking about fear. Fear is very sneaky in that it uses being thought about as a way to get a toehold and start that niggling, nurdling and burrowing it does into the subconcious and suddenly from thinking about fear, I am afraid.
I've never been scared of things, or people. I have always been most scared of myself, of what I am or what I might be, of the things I could do, or would do or even sometimes will do. Fear of myself is my nemesis, it is the antithesis of everything in me that smiles, and makes those around me smile, it is selfish and introverted and deceptive. It feeds off every perceived weakness and provokes weaknesses that were never there before. Fear is, quite literally, the thing that has driven me to just about every poor choice I have made, it is the source of my mistakes and many of my regrets.
Yesterday I wasn't afraid, and the world was as it always is for me; soft, slow moving, friendly and entertaining. However, somewhere between falling asleep last night and typing this blog entry this evening, fear got in and started causing mayhem. Every thought I am having as I write these lines, or in moments of contemplation between paragraphs, it is there, just off to the right, just out of eyeshot but brooding, laughing and plotting. I can't blank it or ignore it, all I can do is beat it, send it away, not be scared any more. That is the rub, however, what do you do to beat fear? Today's answer might not be the same as yesterday's, or last month's.
For all the time it sits there, wallowing in it's own insipidness, it will cheapen everything I am. All my plans will be worthless or doomed to failure, all choices will be fraught with danger, every decision will be the wrong one - even when it is the right one. ESPECIALLY when it is the right one. I find it terribly difficult to put into words what it is to be scared, I am trying here, but it isn't easy. Giving fear physicality and a location at least helps me to start to understand a little better and I will find the right response. I will find, at some point, what set fear running and I will deal with it, dissipating the presence off to my right and setting me back on my merry way. The usual Dave with the usual jokes and the usual smile.
Right now, however, I am scared and I don't know why, and I hate feeling like this.
I've never been scared of things, or people. I have always been most scared of myself, of what I am or what I might be, of the things I could do, or would do or even sometimes will do. Fear of myself is my nemesis, it is the antithesis of everything in me that smiles, and makes those around me smile, it is selfish and introverted and deceptive. It feeds off every perceived weakness and provokes weaknesses that were never there before. Fear is, quite literally, the thing that has driven me to just about every poor choice I have made, it is the source of my mistakes and many of my regrets.
Yesterday I wasn't afraid, and the world was as it always is for me; soft, slow moving, friendly and entertaining. However, somewhere between falling asleep last night and typing this blog entry this evening, fear got in and started causing mayhem. Every thought I am having as I write these lines, or in moments of contemplation between paragraphs, it is there, just off to the right, just out of eyeshot but brooding, laughing and plotting. I can't blank it or ignore it, all I can do is beat it, send it away, not be scared any more. That is the rub, however, what do you do to beat fear? Today's answer might not be the same as yesterday's, or last month's.
For all the time it sits there, wallowing in it's own insipidness, it will cheapen everything I am. All my plans will be worthless or doomed to failure, all choices will be fraught with danger, every decision will be the wrong one - even when it is the right one. ESPECIALLY when it is the right one. I find it terribly difficult to put into words what it is to be scared, I am trying here, but it isn't easy. Giving fear physicality and a location at least helps me to start to understand a little better and I will find the right response. I will find, at some point, what set fear running and I will deal with it, dissipating the presence off to my right and setting me back on my merry way. The usual Dave with the usual jokes and the usual smile.
Right now, however, I am scared and I don't know why, and I hate feeling like this.
Saturday 20 November 2010
New Poem - The decay of the lonely
He sits in silent exile
Captive of his own disintegration.
Every sound mocks his strangled pleas,
Screaming in this void, devoid of human comfort
As the relentless chatter of the clock
Marks the irresistable march of time.
He fancies he can hear his decay,
Crackling like fire as he submits and burns,
Thrashing violently to break the bonds of
A voice that cannot carry outside this cell
And tears that will remain unknown
In the terrifying freedom forever lost.
His loneliness is betrayed by another voice,
He has become hollow, perfect acoustics for
The returning echos of yesterday's scorn.
Imprisonment is sanctuary,
Here it is safe to crumble,
Here reality ends.
Captive of his own disintegration.
Every sound mocks his strangled pleas,
Screaming in this void, devoid of human comfort
As the relentless chatter of the clock
Marks the irresistable march of time.
He fancies he can hear his decay,
Crackling like fire as he submits and burns,
Thrashing violently to break the bonds of
A voice that cannot carry outside this cell
And tears that will remain unknown
In the terrifying freedom forever lost.
His loneliness is betrayed by another voice,
He has become hollow, perfect acoustics for
The returning echos of yesterday's scorn.
Imprisonment is sanctuary,
Here it is safe to crumble,
Here reality ends.
Monday 15 November 2010
The strange transformation of farmer Dave
I was thinking the other day about my life. This is a preposterously stupid thing to do as it inevitably leads to one of two things - turmoil or one of 'those' conclusions. On this particular pondering I came to a conclusion; that being my goals in life have shifted, dramatically and, I am pretty sure, conclusively.
When I was a stripling studying for a degree in the useful and ever so vocational subject of philosophy I was possessed of a terrribly cityish vision of the future. I had thoughts of a pied a terre a few steps from the trendiest clubs and bars and a larger and more imposing pad, quite possibly Georgian, in one of the better 'burbs of the big smoke.
If we fast forward that desire to here and now it becomes utterly incongruous - I can't bear being in a city for more than an occasional night of drinking and a curry, and the city I would go to remains Norwich, that parochial backwater watching over the Kingdom of East Anglia. My visits to London are restricted to a very occasional meeting with old friends. On that basis, I declare the desire for a pied a terre not only null but decidedly void as well.
Rewinding once again to my twenties self, I anticipated a stressful but ultimately rewarding job in the city with most of my food taken away or eaten in some bistro or other, I had no desire or compulsion to actually think about what I was eating, or where it had come from. This is dimaterically opposed to the here and now! Whilst I still enjoy a take away, I want quality ingredients for which I know the original source, and in terms of work, the driving ambitions are dissipating fast in the face of the good life. I honestly now feel uneasy if I cook for myself and do not know where the ingredients have come from, or that the meat (if it is meat I am preparing) had a respectful rearing.
I think it is my upcoming move that has made me take stock, the house I am planning the move to is typically 'county' and not a bit 'city', it feels rustic and it would be totally out of place in a city or even a town, but I love it. It encapsulates everything that is important to me at the moment - my immediate surrounding being peaceful, the food I eat being home grown or locally sourced, life being all about pleasure in my time, not trying to wedge moments of pleasure into a crowded working day.
Whilst many of my desires have become opposites of past desires, I was struggling to come up with a catch-all description of the change, but whilst typing this I think I have it - I want everything slower, sedentary, and relaxed. Why run anywhere when you will miss all the wonder on the way?
When I was a stripling studying for a degree in the useful and ever so vocational subject of philosophy I was possessed of a terrribly cityish vision of the future. I had thoughts of a pied a terre a few steps from the trendiest clubs and bars and a larger and more imposing pad, quite possibly Georgian, in one of the better 'burbs of the big smoke.
If we fast forward that desire to here and now it becomes utterly incongruous - I can't bear being in a city for more than an occasional night of drinking and a curry, and the city I would go to remains Norwich, that parochial backwater watching over the Kingdom of East Anglia. My visits to London are restricted to a very occasional meeting with old friends. On that basis, I declare the desire for a pied a terre not only null but decidedly void as well.
Rewinding once again to my twenties self, I anticipated a stressful but ultimately rewarding job in the city with most of my food taken away or eaten in some bistro or other, I had no desire or compulsion to actually think about what I was eating, or where it had come from. This is dimaterically opposed to the here and now! Whilst I still enjoy a take away, I want quality ingredients for which I know the original source, and in terms of work, the driving ambitions are dissipating fast in the face of the good life. I honestly now feel uneasy if I cook for myself and do not know where the ingredients have come from, or that the meat (if it is meat I am preparing) had a respectful rearing.
I think it is my upcoming move that has made me take stock, the house I am planning the move to is typically 'county' and not a bit 'city', it feels rustic and it would be totally out of place in a city or even a town, but I love it. It encapsulates everything that is important to me at the moment - my immediate surrounding being peaceful, the food I eat being home grown or locally sourced, life being all about pleasure in my time, not trying to wedge moments of pleasure into a crowded working day.
Whilst many of my desires have become opposites of past desires, I was struggling to come up with a catch-all description of the change, but whilst typing this I think I have it - I want everything slower, sedentary, and relaxed. Why run anywhere when you will miss all the wonder on the way?
Wednesday 10 November 2010
Back in the dim mists of time....
Once upon a time, in a land far, far from here (actually Southampton so not THAT far) I was a wee strip of a lad embarking upon a great missive of learning. I was a student of philosophy, studying for my B.A. I say studying, I mean drinking, playing pool and sharking - the triumvirate of joy that kept me going for three years.
There are many fine tales that I could tell you of those times. I could reveal the secret behind cartoning, the blight of many a Stonehamite, I could get into a deep discussion about the health benefits of a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps. I might even, with a somewhat winsome grin, talk about my behaviour, or lack of it, towards the fairer sex on occasion.
However, today is not the time for such tales, as appealing as the telling might be. Perhaps future blog spots might offer an opportunity to give you some insight into the specifics, but in general think about me, with hair and 2 stone lighter, permanently drunk and getting away with moider and you're getting warmer.
No, it is a particular memory that has stirred me to post today, and indeed to plan an expansion of Mudpuddlin to another outlet. For you see, back in those days, Student Dave had a friend, Student Len. Dave and Len were more foresighted than anyone at the time knew, and committed to the ages their thoughts and general flimflam to a book, an orange book. The Orange Book is, contrary to the legends, extant, and provides a fascinating and terrifying testimony to the raw power of alcohol. Portions of the original Orange Book may indeed find their way into open web publication, but in the meantime be aware that the Orange Book will return! Following extensive negotiations, and an attractive offer of co-authorship (that I am sure alcohol had nothing to do with), look out very soon for the Orange Blog, and be swept away by it's majesty.
It is, as they say, on, and quite seriously out of order.
There are many fine tales that I could tell you of those times. I could reveal the secret behind cartoning, the blight of many a Stonehamite, I could get into a deep discussion about the health benefits of a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps. I might even, with a somewhat winsome grin, talk about my behaviour, or lack of it, towards the fairer sex on occasion.
However, today is not the time for such tales, as appealing as the telling might be. Perhaps future blog spots might offer an opportunity to give you some insight into the specifics, but in general think about me, with hair and 2 stone lighter, permanently drunk and getting away with moider and you're getting warmer.
No, it is a particular memory that has stirred me to post today, and indeed to plan an expansion of Mudpuddlin to another outlet. For you see, back in those days, Student Dave had a friend, Student Len. Dave and Len were more foresighted than anyone at the time knew, and committed to the ages their thoughts and general flimflam to a book, an orange book. The Orange Book is, contrary to the legends, extant, and provides a fascinating and terrifying testimony to the raw power of alcohol. Portions of the original Orange Book may indeed find their way into open web publication, but in the meantime be aware that the Orange Book will return! Following extensive negotiations, and an attractive offer of co-authorship (that I am sure alcohol had nothing to do with), look out very soon for the Orange Blog, and be swept away by it's majesty.
It is, as they say, on, and quite seriously out of order.
Thursday 4 November 2010
Mudpuddler's gourmet guide, Toad in the Hole
A treat today if you are peckish, the full on belly busting, diet denying, tum-expansion inducing carb and fat fest that is the good old English Toad in the Hole. Get in mah belly!!!!
Batter for the pudding
100g plain flour, 2 medium (always free range) eggs, third of a pint of milk, salt and pepper. Sift the flour into a bowl (air, darling, air) and crack in the 2 eggs and add the milk and seasoning. Whisk briskly and combine into a thickish emulsion. Leave to rest for at least an hour before use.
Preparation
Pre-heat oven to 200c (450f). Cut a selection of seasonal vegetables into equal sized chunks - I would suggest carrot, potato and parsnip for a winter treat, alongside perhaps turnip or sweet potato and red onion and place these in a roasting tray in the oven to roast off for 45 mins. Once cooked, remove to serve and deglaze the roasting tn with beef stock, a glass of red wine and a tablespoon of redcurrant jelly to make the gravy.
For the toad
When you begin roasting the vegetables, put a round pyrex dish in the oven with some lard or odourless fat to become smoking hot and brown the outsides of 3 quality butcher's sausages (Powters or similar are very good)
then with 40 mins cooking time remaining, transfer to the pyrex dish and pour in the batter mix to cover the sausages (do this immediately and return quickly to the oven). The sausages will be the 'toads' hidden in the yorkshire pudding.
To serve
If the fat was nice and hot, the pudding should come out whole and sit nicely on a dinner plate. Place the roasted veg inside the pudding and smother the lot with the gravy you have prepared. Eat and save the regret for hotter, more whimsical days. This is all about feeling well-fed and contented!
Variations on a theme
Try italian sausage and/or Chorizo instead of pork sausages. A small amount of English mustard powder in the pudding mix adds a kick to a Yorkshire pudding as well.
Enjoy!
Batter for the pudding
100g plain flour, 2 medium (always free range) eggs, third of a pint of milk, salt and pepper. Sift the flour into a bowl (air, darling, air) and crack in the 2 eggs and add the milk and seasoning. Whisk briskly and combine into a thickish emulsion. Leave to rest for at least an hour before use.
Preparation
Pre-heat oven to 200c (450f). Cut a selection of seasonal vegetables into equal sized chunks - I would suggest carrot, potato and parsnip for a winter treat, alongside perhaps turnip or sweet potato and red onion and place these in a roasting tray in the oven to roast off for 45 mins. Once cooked, remove to serve and deglaze the roasting tn with beef stock, a glass of red wine and a tablespoon of redcurrant jelly to make the gravy.
For the toad
When you begin roasting the vegetables, put a round pyrex dish in the oven with some lard or odourless fat to become smoking hot and brown the outsides of 3 quality butcher's sausages (Powters or similar are very good)
then with 40 mins cooking time remaining, transfer to the pyrex dish and pour in the batter mix to cover the sausages (do this immediately and return quickly to the oven). The sausages will be the 'toads' hidden in the yorkshire pudding.
To serve
If the fat was nice and hot, the pudding should come out whole and sit nicely on a dinner plate. Place the roasted veg inside the pudding and smother the lot with the gravy you have prepared. Eat and save the regret for hotter, more whimsical days. This is all about feeling well-fed and contented!
Variations on a theme
Try italian sausage and/or Chorizo instead of pork sausages. A small amount of English mustard powder in the pudding mix adds a kick to a Yorkshire pudding as well.
Enjoy!
Monday 1 November 2010
Love, that weird game we once played
Sometimes it isn't until you sit down and analyse yourself that you realise where you are falling short. I've been a confirmed bachelor for what, 15 years now? I can't remember what it is like to share life with someone, so I am not entirely sure why I suddenly expect it to happen.
Of course, it is not just about remembering what it is like to share life with someone, it is remembering how to be, or seem, in that situation. I'm not good at 'getting' it - I consistently fail to pick up subtext and I am useless at reading between the lines. There are games played in the world of romance that I don't even begin to understand the rules of. Having said all of that, I miss it. I miss it like crazy. That giddy helter-skelter ride that whisks you away from the first moment and dumps you, months later, on your head and completely at a loss to explain any of the time just passed.
Every time I have said those three words, I have meant them, truly and from somewhere I didn't even realise I had. But it is always different, always a new feeling, always at odds with my previous understanding of love. Each time I fall, I fall differently - normally head first, always at pace. So why does this all feel like something that used to happen, but won't again? Where exactly did I stop falling and start learning to stay afloat regardless?
In truth, that is why I am missing it now. Because it feels like a story I have been part of, but my part in it has ended. I still feel affection, I still feel longing and boy do I ever still feel desire, but that leap of faith from longing to love seems an impossible transition. Right now I have an image in my head of the last girl I loved. I can see her in perfect clarity, as if she were here right now. I remember how I would feel waiting for her to come to my flat, the joy of hearing her footfalls on the stairs, the way she would smile and kiss me as we met and how proud I was to be part of something really good. She was magnificent, and I'd give anything to feel that way again. It can't ever truly be game over, can it?
Of course, it is not just about remembering what it is like to share life with someone, it is remembering how to be, or seem, in that situation. I'm not good at 'getting' it - I consistently fail to pick up subtext and I am useless at reading between the lines. There are games played in the world of romance that I don't even begin to understand the rules of. Having said all of that, I miss it. I miss it like crazy. That giddy helter-skelter ride that whisks you away from the first moment and dumps you, months later, on your head and completely at a loss to explain any of the time just passed.
Every time I have said those three words, I have meant them, truly and from somewhere I didn't even realise I had. But it is always different, always a new feeling, always at odds with my previous understanding of love. Each time I fall, I fall differently - normally head first, always at pace. So why does this all feel like something that used to happen, but won't again? Where exactly did I stop falling and start learning to stay afloat regardless?
In truth, that is why I am missing it now. Because it feels like a story I have been part of, but my part in it has ended. I still feel affection, I still feel longing and boy do I ever still feel desire, but that leap of faith from longing to love seems an impossible transition. Right now I have an image in my head of the last girl I loved. I can see her in perfect clarity, as if she were here right now. I remember how I would feel waiting for her to come to my flat, the joy of hearing her footfalls on the stairs, the way she would smile and kiss me as we met and how proud I was to be part of something really good. She was magnificent, and I'd give anything to feel that way again. It can't ever truly be game over, can it?
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