and he resolved to do different

Resolutions for the coming year

1) Continue to not smoke tobacco

2) Stop swearing at the boxes of stuff I have to move in a couple of weeks, it really isn't the boxes fault.

3) Mudpuddlers world tour 2011 is game on

4) Write a pissyourpants funny stand up routine and perform it at an open mic session

5) Finish the following things
a) The Pete and Lizzie novel
b) The short stories I have mapped in my noggin
c) The campaign for the restoration of the first floor caning team

6) Activate Fitness Dave '11!

7) Grow a set and tell 'someone' if it transpires I am crazy about them

8) Further demolition of depression and coping with OCD admirably

9) Laugh, regularly, and in a contagious fashion

10) Stop doing lists of 10 things which we all know is because the OCD hates irregular numbers

11) ha! Up yours, mental illness

For her

Lovely, in such a way only true beauty can be,
As if she were a daisy in a fairy glade
Caressed by the breeze to catch my eye.
How I would wish for no love-me-not,
Wandering, lost, within a dream.
The star that shone so bright,
It pierced the curtain above and
Bathed me in the softening light of our beginnings,
Calling me back, back to the start,
There to wonder at the fabric of her creation.
Of the many times she smiled for me,
I treasure each and consider, wistfully,
If there is any way such an earthen soul
Could match her simple grace.

Chance encounters

Just for a little light relief this festive season, I have been giving some thought to those odd moments in life when you are reminded of, jogged by or face to face with an ex. Depending on the nature of the break up and any subsequent maintenenace of cordiality/friendship this can range from a pleasant distraction to one of those past-invading-present mind bombs that throw you out of step for a period.

For today however, I am concentrating solely on those realtionships which ended abruptly and that you have lingering issues over. These are the most terrifying of exes to come into contact with, sometimes with an almost supernatural ability to put you off your Whisky Mac. Encounters of this type need to be classified, so that you can tell exactly what manner of encounter you may have had.

Chance encounter of the first kind
The least frightening and most common of encounters with this particular class of Ex, first kinds are much more widespread than you might think. They involve the past ex being brought into the present via the grapevine. You will not experience the Ex directly in these encounters, but will learn of them by word of mouth. An example would be a friend telling you they saw your ex (who for the purposes of this entry will hereafter be known as Psycho) at their Salsa class, or that they have started working at the local supermarket/school/etc. First kinds are largely harmless and nearly always brushed under the carpet after a few wistful memories and (perhaps) a glance at old photographs.

Chance encounter of the second kind
Rather less common than first kinds, second kinds involve a sighting of Psycho without any direct contact being initiated or made. Examples might include seeing them in a shop or the street, or perhaps coming into or out of a pub or club. The degree of effect a second kind will have will depend on the precise nature of the sighting. A sighting of them in the street, alone and with several shopping bags, might have no more effect than a first kind as above. However, seeing Psycho with someone else can lead to unecessary periods of reflection into the nature of this relationship - is this the new girlfriend/boyfriend/significant other. Did they look happy? Even more damaging is this sort of encounter in a place you associate with Psycho - your pub, your club and such like - this can lead to inward turmoil at the audacity of such actions and anger overflowing. On the other hand, a second kind involving Pyscho looking slightly haggard, slightly unhappy or rather fatter than you remember can initiate a mood bounce due to the righteousness of Karma. Second kinds can bring out the worst in all of us ;)

Chance encounter of the third kind
We are really starting to find ourselves through the looking glass here. Third kinds are much rarer, but much more significant than the previous types discussed. They involve a face to face encounter and actual verbal contact with Psycho. They are also the hardest to determine the effect of, as this will depend entirely upon the content of the conversation. However, at minimum, it will involve the necessity of phoining a close friend to tell them all about it, require the opinion of several friends and possibly family members and need to be risk assessed against future plans - will you need to amend your routine to avoid any chance of a repitition, did you tell them anything slightly untrue which needs covering up via the friend network, how current and accurate is your assessment of being 'well over Psycho'? Maintenance of diginity is the trickiest stunt to pull in the hardest and deepest third kinds. However, there are worse things....

Chance encounter of the fourth kind
Truly terrifying, the prospect of a fourth kind has been known to turn the knees of bold men to jelly. Fourth kinds are extremely rare, extremely turbulent and always bizarre. They involve unresolved issues from the relationship being inserted, by you or by Psycho, into a third kind. This can involve any of the following; arguing loudly in a pub in front of friends/new partners/family/amused onlookers, slanging matches in the street, post-argument collapses in the arms of a caring friend, weeks of torturous self-doubt, massive bouts of anger at how unfair the world is or a visit from Psycho's new partner to 'have a chat'. Fourth kinds have the disconcerting effect of bringing out everything you hate about yourself and everything that blights the memory of your time with Psycho. They are almost the worst of a bad set of circumstances, however....

Chance encounter of the fifth kind
You wake, hungover, with only the vaguest memory of last night. From the bathroom comes an unexpected noise of 'someone else', and then into the bedroom comes Psycho, looking immaculate to your rough-as-Beardsley and demanding you immediately discuss how you both ended up here...
My friend, you are on your own on this one!

Take care out there.

Beautiful Places

Thought I might dedicate a post today to those places in the world which have made (or still make) my heart melt when I have been there. Some places will just pass me by barely making an impression on me, but just occasionally I will stop and feel my heart pound at just how beautiful a sight I have stumbled upon. So, here they are, in no particular order!

1) Loch Ness.
I have been to the Loch Ness area several times, and intend to go there many times more in my life. The entire loch has an enchanting beauty about it, and it looks as good on it looking out as it does on the edges looking in. Maybe it is the legends associated with it, maybe it is fondness for time spent there, but driving the A82 alongside it makes me very content, and there is always an air of magic about it. The very first view I had of the Loch was on a crystal clear and hot July day some years ago, it was utterly still and reflecting the white clouds above and the hills flanking it on the far side. My jaw actually dropped. Short of adequate words, this is a picture I took at the time and was my very first view of the Loch.

2) Milford Sound, South Island, New Zealand
Milford sound is not easy to get to - we took a long drive from Te Anau where we were staying, over the mountains, where we climbed to the snowline, before going through a hand hewn (by convicts) tunnel to the Sound itself. Mitre Peak pokes out of the fjord and looks thoroughly majestic, but even better when you follow the wooden path and trail and come out to view the most magnificent waterfall. I remember running towards it and feeling the spray and it's raw power. Simply a lovely place, so isolated and yet so interesting. You have to go out of your way to see Milford Sound, you don't get there otherwise, and it was worth it. I left a little bit of my soul there that day so that one day I would have to return to collect it again.

3) New York
New York has so many different monuments, buildings and sights, it would be hard to pick one of them. Fortunately, I do not need to. When I flew to New York for the first time, I was flabbdergasted at the sheer size and majesty of it when the plane was approaching to land. I am no fan of cities in particular, but there is something about the sheer expanse you see twinkling in lights below you that is astonishing. I suppose it is perhaps a visualisation of what Man has achieved in terms of civilisation. Another jaw dropping moment for me.

4) Dublin
I said above, I am no fan of cities, but were I to pick a capital city I had to live in, I would plump for Dublin. Dublin has charm in buckets, from the statues on O'Connell Street to the fun and adventure of Temple Bar I loved my time working there. There is a sense of history about Dublin without it feeling too cheesey (for want of a better word). Twas a good craic.

5) Kaiteriteri and Abel Tasman National Park, New Zealand
Joint award here as I saw them both at the same time. I loved them both for different reasons. Tasman because it had a really stark beauty about it, If I were to discover a new continent (yes yes, not likely I know), Abel Tasman national park is how I imagine it would look - unspoilt, slightly dangerous and stretching on forever. Kaiteriteri on the other hand, is simoply the best beach I have ever been to - quiet, hot, golden with yachts moored out in the bay. Caves and rockpools to investigate further along, and no screaming, shouting, commericalisation or hassle. Yeah, that worked for me.

6) A887/A87
Perhaps a little odd to pick a road as a beautiful place, but the road running from Invermoriston on Loch Ness to the Kyle of Lochalsh and the bridge to Skye is, without exception, the most beautiful drive I have ever taken. It runs through Glen Shiel and beneath the Five Sisters which often seem to hang with mist and cloud - the lochs look cold but inviting and there are a myriad of little and bigger waterfalls cascading down the mountainsides. I imagine I could spend years investigating just the countryside along that route. One time I saw a house being built along the road with no other houses for what seemed miles either side and a direct cview of a triplet of waterfalls running down the rock face opposite. If I could pick any house to live in, that's it!

7) Blakeney/Morston in North Norfolk.
The North Norfolk coastline is lovely. I am biased because I am a Norfolk lad through and through, but Blakeney and Morston are my favourite places to go in the summer and autumn - there are so many walks to take and inlets to look over. The walk from Blakeney to Cley is really bracing when the wind comes in off the sea and everything seems so much smaller there - small, comfortable and unthreatening. There is wildlife aplenty to look at and space to find to look out over the salt marshes and dream. If anyone I speak to is in Norfolk for the first time, or for a short time, it is Blakeney and Morston I would classify as the must see places. The epitomy of gentle.

So, there we have it. An eclectic mix, but those are the seven places I have been which I treasure the most.

Life at the margins

He stares through the satin blackness,
Straining at each deceit playing with his eyes.
Minutes, or hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice.
Such warcraft in brokering uneasy peace,
So many hours lost to rack and ruin
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust
And professing itself the very yardstick of love.
The silence is unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus,
Clarity and a moment’s loving rest.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.

Christmas, the joys, shames and traditions thereof

One thing I will happily admit to is being a Christmasaholic. Can't get enough of the seasonal joys, absolutely love the feast from start to finish. Basically, I am a big kid at heart and Christmas is the best time for that little trait to burst forth and assert itself. With that in mind, I have been thinking about Christmas and it occurs to me that there are things that my Christmas would not be complete without, but also the way my 'traditions' of Christmas have shifted over the years.

Being preoccupied with my stomach, and keeping it full, Christmas is a very important part of this. I need to lay down some good fat for the coming winter lest I shiver and wither in the cold. I have favourites that stretch from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day and would feel hard done by were I to miss out on any of them. Christmas Eve supper has to be sea food, although the precise nature of it is negotiable. Often however, I will prepare moules and devour them with some crusty bread to mop up the juices. Marinere with an extra hit of chilli works very nicely, but I have also had Scallops or Bass for my big day Eve supper. Christmas Day itself is very easy - it has to start with one of Mum's fry ups and a vat of tea, the fry up must have the works with it too as it has to stretch the barren seas of 8am till Christmas Lunch. Lunch was always at my maternal grandparents, but since they passed away, we spend it at my Aunt's usually and dinner is as you would expect - Turkey and the trimmings, although I would happily swap for Goose! Cold cuts, pickles and salad for Christmas tea and back to the parents for a good hit of the ginger lady (single malt) and a bit of Five Live for the MCG Boxing Day test match - even better in an Ashes year such as this. Boxing Day isn't Boxing Day without another fry up (including fried slices of Christmas Pudding!), cold meats and pickles and bubble and squeak. The rest of the holiday I like to have some particular breakfast favourites - smoked haddock and crusty bread, a gammon based breakfast and of course smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, the breakfast of champions!

I mentioned the single malt above, this is usually the first drink I get to have on Christmas Day as I usually drive, but a good drink is another essential part of the whole period! In the days when we went to my grandparents, and I did not tend to drive, we always used to go for a Christmas Day lunchtime drink at the Volunteer, a pub my Grandfather drank in his whole life, and which has sadly now closed down and been converted into houses (which it ironically was originally, him being born in one of them). Its something we seldom do now, but I do miss it - a stomach stretching drink or two before a stiff walk back to find lunch being served.... what could be finer?!

Another tradition that has lapsed is Christmas Eve drinkies. For the most part, my peers have married and have children of their own, so it is not appropriate anymore, but it was always fun nonetheless. In the days before employers got ridiculously squinky about lunchtime beverages, I used to enjoy working Christmas Eve. We would do an hour or so's work before breaking out the homemade mince pies, sausage rolls and such and head for the pub at approximately 11.01 (pub opening hours were 11am-11pm) where a 'few' pints would whet the appetite. Back to the office for a temporary giggle before management would send everyone home at 2ish. That would give a chance for a snooze on the bus home or at home before getting ready for the night out. Of course, before 24 hour licensing, Christmas Eve was one of those special nights that pubs could get an extension to midnight to see Christmas in. Over the years, the Roundwell (now a medical centre), the Reindeer, the Ten Bells and the Belle Vue have played host. After a good drink, back home on the late bus or a sneakily arranged taxi to stay over at Mum and Dad's (or, at the time, lived there anyway!) to raid Mum's selection of sausage rolls and other treats. Important to soak up that excess alcohol! Oh the Christmas Day's I spent hungover like a dog, desperate for the hair of the same dog at lunchtime to get me through. The things we do for fun!

Happy times, but I thought I'd wrap up (see what I did there? wrap?!) with a few potted memories I treasure, or where the record needs setting straight. There was the night over Christmas I walked through the snow and cold to meet friends Suzanne and Heather for drinks. This was back in the days I had a full on quiff up top - a quiff which froze in the frigid Norfolk air. Hairspray? pah! Then there was the year of the adopted pussy cat. Having got totally plastered and walking back through the 'nest' we came upon a friendly cat. Unfortunately, so friendly was he, he decided to follow us all the way home (ahem, with some drunken coaxing) and we had to explain to Simon's father why he had to go out at 1am on Christmas Morning to put a cat back where we first found it. Of less note was the dodgy taxi the same Simon and I managed to hail late one Christmas Eve/Morning who turned out to be totally incapable of driving, including a bizarre reversing manouvere back along a dual carriageway as he had missed the right turn before it. To say I was glad to get out is an understatement. Finally though, I need to set a record straight here. Edinburghgate. We were all going to go to Edinburgh for New Year and Christmas Eve (or perhaps it was the eve of the Eve), I cooked a roast for everyone. Now, completely coincidentally, after Christmas everyone who was at the meal got sick (except me!) and we had to call off the Edinburgh plans. Indeed, only I made it out New Year's Eve. The facts here are that no-one got ill until 5 days after the meal, the symptoms everyone had were flu-like and I did not get ill although I ate the same food. However, I have ever since been blamed for poisoning everyone. Therefore, I am taking this opportunity to refute these scurrilous lies. The food was good, the grubby diners just needed to stop getting off with each other/living together down Cardiff Road. And with that, the little episode is hereby closed!

A good airing

I had intended to write the short story today that I have mentioned in a previous post (the excellent idea), however as on so many other days, time has slipped through my fingers and I have found myself completely preoccupied with other thoughts.

'Preoccupied with other thoughts' is, as you might guess reading my earlier entries, my euphemism for depression. Depression is a rotten, sneaky and thoroughly wicked disease. I hate it as a whole, I loathe every aspect of it, but one of the things that most angers and upsets me is the way depression makes me feel, the havoc it wreaks on my emotions.

Sometimes I can stand looking at a winter wonderland and feel snowflakes gently land on my skin and slowly melt and I, in turn, will melt at the sheer beauty of the world even in the depths of winter; at how the snowy landscape, in it's own way, is every bit as beautiful as a cornfield playfully kissed by summer breezes on a sun-drenched July afternoon. Then there are depression days and I look at the same scenery and there is nothing, nothing but a yawning chasm where joy should be and a lingering and inescapable feeling of sadness for myself that I cannot feel as I should feel.

The sadness that depression imparts is not like the feelings one gets at the end of a tear-jerker, or watching the news show the world finding another thousand ways to let itself down. Depression sadness is destructive and long-lasting (indeed in the depths of it, it feels perennial), it absorbs anything positive around it and turns it into emptiness. When I am like this, I yearn to feel something, anything, to break the hold sadness has over me, but everything that would normally work will not - it either has no effect, or depression turns it negative, I become even sadder that something I love has not made me better, hasn't seen off the demons.

Then there is the guilt, the awful self-loathing and guilt that I cannot respond appropriately to loved ones or friends. Guilt that I don't speak up or cry for help and guilt when I do, burdening a happy spirit with my decline. This is all depression's doing too, a further twist of the knife and a tightening of it's hold on me. An ever-decreasing circle of sadness and guilt, a maelstrom in the water of life dragging me down and down and down. I would find it hard, perhaps impossible, to describe the blackness of the furthest depths or the bleakness of being there.

Why am I writing about this today? Last night I went out for Christmas dinner with my friends. It was a fabulous night, I thoroughly enjoyed it and it is always wonderful to have reason to remember why you love the friends you love. At one point I talked, very briefly, about being ill this year and I caught my hand shaking. My hand has never been a shaker, not even when I was a heavy drinker in my youth. It scared me a little to be honest, especially as I had left my medication at home and knew I had missed taking it and would not take any until today. In and of itself neither I suppose are terribly dramatic, but the seed of doubt had been planted in my head, and that is all depression needs sometimes.

Today I have been fretting about it, thinking about it, obsessing over it. I have already gone through a cycle of terrible guilt. I had a great night last night with 5 wonderful people and I hate that I have spent today musing on my illness. I hate the amount of medication I take and I hate how long I have been on it and will remain on it. Of course, when Bagpuss goes to sleep, all his friends go to sleep too, and Professor Yaffle, my OCD, has taken the oppurtunity to seize on my weakened resolve and state and I have found myself stuck in some weird little routines today. All part of the spiral.

I know it, I name it, I can write about it and I can hold on to yesterday and tomorrow as places where it has no hold. Right now though, in this moment, here, its not where I wanted to be today. It never is.

Last Christmas - a musical mystery

Something troubles me, Mudpuddlees. Given that its the time of year VH1 have their annual 'play Christmas music until you vomit' 2 month extravaganza, I have had plenty of opportunity to revisit that Eighties chestnut of note, Last Christmas. The remarkable thing about this video and song is just how many things about it bother me. Bother me enough to write some nonsense in my blog. A notable irritation.

Let's ignore, for the sake of my sanity, the elephant in the room. That being, George's later coming out. Even without this monstrous pachyderm trumpeting it's presence, the damn song has no end of things wrong with it.

Firstly, when George and friends arrive in their 4x4s at the cable car, some of their group are already present and waiting. They all wave at each other like imbeciles (except George who looks casually cool throughout). Nobody in the wide wide world of sports waves like that at people they already know in greeting. You might, if a little bit simple, wave like that in parting, but not when meeting up. Especially when there is no-one else there that you need to distinguish yourself from in identification of travelling companions.

George has a new girlfriend this Christmas - a sultry blonde vixen who gets far too little camera time herself in the video. Why, therefore, is he singing about a woman he was with the year before? Is he not satisfied with the blonde? If not, he should let her go, for to do otherwise is ignoble of the Whamster. I know her not, but I deem she deserves better.

As for this temptress of the previous Noel, it occurs to me that George only gave her his heart on Christmas Day, and she gave it away the very next day. Is a year not long enough to get over this intense 24 hour relationship? You gotta let it go buddy, she has moved on.

Talking of which, she is with Andrew Ridgley - you know, the talented one from Wham - not only are you moping after a girl who had your heart for 24 hours a year ago George, she is now with your musical partner. There is something seemy, borderline incestuous and not a little creepy about this whole arrangement.

Now, the gang of winter cabin holidaymakers all go outside for a snowball fight. George is shown standing aside from the action looking wisftful and afraid. He looks, in fact, like a small boy who's mother has told him he is not to play in the snow with the other boys. What the hell?! Get a grip man, you are not alone with your former one day love out there, indeed your new girlfriend might appreicate your company. What is so terrible about larking in the snow that wasn't a factor five minutes ago when you were laughing and joking with Pepsi and Shirley?

Then we have the whole incident with the brooch - the video intimates that George gave his ex-lover a brooch the previous Christmas and her hand is seen stroking it this year. But, wait a moment, the glittery brooch is on Andrew Ridgley's jacket!?!! So, she not only has with her the brooch given to her by her ex-lover, she gives this (rather effeminate) brooch to his musical partner and her current beau to wear to a dinner they are all attending.

On top of all this, there is the whole issue of timescales. From what I can gather a large group of people meet, get a cable car into the mountains to a cabin they have rented. They decorate the cabin, including a Christmas tree, have a snowball fight and then dinner and having kipped overnight, go back down the mountain the next day! Frivolous wasting of money and a rather poor holiday if you ask me.

So, there we have it. Last Christmas irks me. It makes no sense and is more replete with plot holes than the Bobby in the shower Dallas episode.

Discuss! ;p

Ten things

Having spent much the last year feeling like the sword of Damocles is not only hanging, but actively fraying it's support, above my head, I decided today was a day for fututre ponderage. What, however, can a little numpkin so rooted in the now find in the as-yet-undone to excite and entrance?

I have given it plenty of thought and the key is in the words as-yet-undone. Yes, it's time for the ocassionally flabtastic, always magnificent Mudpuddler to set out his dreams unfulfilled. The following ten things are things I want to do with a certain degree of urgency. In other words, the sooner, the better.

1) The sporting grand slam. I have score goals in football, I have kicked conversions and scored tries in Rugby, cleared from the break in Pool, bagged many five-fors and even managed a half-century in the noble game of cricket. So what is left? A 180 in darts and a 50 break at snooker - notch off those two and I will content myself that I have at least temporarily excelled in all Britain's favourite sports. I would go for a sub-80 round of golf, but I am a golfing spanner and therefore I am ruling it out as a sport of note.

2) Climb Ben Nevis. Stop turning round half way up! In my regular sojourns in the Highlands, I have often started up Ben Nevis, but time, lack of fitness or arsingly inappropriate conditions have conspired against me. I even once pledged to get the whole way with a kiwi I fell in with - however I was unwell that day (! no, really) and he left me halfway up with the immortal phrase 'Shit Dave, you're not very fit are you?'. Man will return to the mountain.

3) Move to the Highlands. There is nowhere that makes me happier (with the possible exception of the North Norfolk coast) - the move after this one is likely to be there. I cannot imagine ever being unhappy waking up to the stunning vistas on offer.

4) Take up mountain biking. I really am a lazy little ratkin at times, and yet I have always fancied a bit of rough track riding on a decent bike. the aim is to kill two birds with one stone - something to do and getting fitter.

5) Finish the bloody novels and short stories I have half-written, noted down, stored in my head etc. Updating this blog is all well and good, but the whole idea was to unblock the writer's block, keep my hand in and help me move all those little projects forward. I have a little folder now though, so surely thingsmust be on the up?!

6) Do a night of stand up somewhere. Speaks for itself - I'm quick enough when out and about, let's see what it tastes like when the pressure is on. I'll feel less guilty about my rapier wit (lollers) once I have fronted up to a crowd of unknowns. Besides, I did it when off my head at the Stoneham talent show many years ago!

7) Return to New Zealand. I had a fantastic month there in 1996 after my friends Dom and Jenny emigrated and I have wanted to go back ever since. In addition to seeing them again, my old drinking buddy of University legend fame Lee is there as is first floor caning teamer Shads. Therefore I am called, and must adhere.

8) Bag the Munroes. Unrealistic, long term aim. However, I want to at least make a dent in the Munroes of Scotland (all peaks over 3000 feet) - its another of those things I love doing (walking/climbing etc) but need to have some focus on to keep me doing it!

9) Learn to paint. I have always painted with words. Whilst I live writing poetry and prose, I would love to be able to draw and paint. Have always been rubbish at it, but as time to myself grows and work becomes less of an issue, I'd like to at least be able to capture an interpretation of my own of some of the beautiful places I hang out in.

10) Fall in love again. Been too long. Nuff said ;)

The Muse

She glides with grace, this uncommon beauty,
From whom I cannot avert my gaze.
Each step she makes seems choreographed
As a tantalising dance takes shape.
In my mind I am Astaire,
Ready to whisk her round the room,
Light-footed, light-hearted,
A whimsical coupling free from care.
Each hair behaves to perfection,
Waving and wafting, on day release,
Framing a whole new study in wonderment.
Her eyes sparkle when they set upon me,
As if interacting with the joy such attentions bring.
They draw my glance to her mouth,
Quickly upturned in a reassuring grin,
Before I retreat back to drown in those eyes
Joyous, sad, deep, flirtacious all at once.
I should content myself with that smile,
But as she turns to the pressing matters of the day;
A cup of coffee, or passing friend,
I am wracked in grief that I know not how
To tell her I am in love.
She is as beautiful to me
As words can convey,
And yet I cannot bring myself to speak,
Lest my love be spurned and a veil be ever drawn
Between me and my matchless joy.

That all important letter to Santa Claus

Dear Sir,
I write with reference to the upcoming appraisal of my behaviour over the last twelve months. I hope that you will find time to consider the following points before assigning me my final grading for the year. I must also reiterate the concerns I raised last year over the rather arbitary nature of only having two grades for which I can be considered, these being Naughty and Nice.

I would like to say, firstly, that incidents within the car should not be considered. With all due respect to your good self , you are able to travel around unburdened by other sleigh-riders, and cannot possibly understand the hurt and upset caused by the thoughtless actions of other drivers. Additionally, due to the sound-dampening effects of the metal casing, hand gestures are the only right and proper means of communication with other motorists.

Taking the first point then as fully covered off, I turn to the unfortunate incident in the pub. Yes, I did spill his pint and, to be fair, I was also rather transfixed by his wife’s assets (not that he noticed, being preoccupied with the deliquification of his glass). I consider his actions thereafter to be a gross infringement on my liberty from assault, but mostly I am hopeful that whilst he will clearly be rated Naughty, the minor infringements on my part leading up to this will not also penalise me on a knock for knock basis.

I am led to believe that you do not have mind reading powers, or that if you do, you have agreed with my union that these will not be utilised in my appraisal. As such, I would like you to note that all slights, mickey takes and insults thrown on my part are always projected from a position of general affection and fondness and do not reflect negative emotional behaviour by me.

Similarly with what are rather unkindly called ‘lies’ (such an ugly term I think you will agree), I do not have a detailed list to hand, but can assure you that on each of the occasions I appear to have ‘lied’, I either believed what I was saying, felt it was kinder to say what I did than the truth or, frankly, totally got away with it and no harm was done.

I could provide you with thousands of instances of my being Nice this year, but as you know from previous years, I am not good at blowing my own trumpet. I prefer to let the details speak for themselves, but in the interests of even-handedness in the letter I would cite my driving quite slowly near schools and holding doors open sometimes as key examples, and would in fact consider the ‘creative accounting’ of telling some of the girls I know that they look great a kindness, not a naughtiness. I am also a gentle and considerate lover. Or at least I would be, had I anyone to be gentle and considerate to. Most of the time. Probably.

Finally, I would conclude by pointing out I have served no time in prison this year and have no convictions, and no court cases due. I have not caused physical injury to anyone important and I am usually on time for work. I hope you and the delightfully buxom Mrs Claus are well (will she be attending my appraisal too?) and have the seasonal workload planned as ever.

Yours Nicely
Mudpuddlin Man

Blogging the things I find it hard to say

One of the advantages of regularly updating a blog which your loved ones often drop by to read is that it gives me an outlet to say some of the things it is hardest to say. I have never been good at opening up as anyone who knows me well could attest to, and its a trend that has got deeper as life has gone on. It is the price of living alone I guess that I have got used to bottling things up, or dealing with them here where no-one can see.

There are often so many things I want to talk about, but I can't find the right time, or the right words to do it, I am much more comfortable making people laugh and smile than letting them worry about me and how I am. Yet, in the cold light of day, all I am doing is hiding myself and postponing dealing with what troubles me which in itself has led to some of the problems of the last year and a half. Having said that, I don't want anyone to think I am constantly in turmoil, at least 95% of the time when I say I am fine, I really am, but there are always the other times, when I am really not. So, here in the sanctuary of the blog, is a taste of what I sometimes want to say.

Since the meltdown of last year, I have had to get used to some new realities pretty sharpish. For example, it worries me how long I am going to be on medication, I don't like my mental health being dependant on it. The tablets sometimes make me tired, not tired as in having a disturbed night's sleep, but weary, knackered, worn out. It makes me feel older suddenly, not something I enjoy. In fact, it terrifies me; I want to feel young and full of energy, otherwise I am hurtling in the wrong direction. I know the medication is doing a job, I just wish I didn't need it anymore.

Of course, I do need it, and that is why I have had to come to the hardest state of affairs to accept. Emotionally, mentally, I am vulnerable. I suffer from mental illness, I cannot rely on my emotional state to get me through. There were times over the last few months that I wasn't sure I could trust my responses at all. I have spent years building up a hard outer shell, almost impervious to outside influences without realising the real attacks were coming from the inside. There were so many times I could, I should have let people in, and I am so sorry now that I didn't. It has been a tough transition to begin viewing things emotionally through the prism of OCD and depression but perhaps now I can understand better some of the stranger reactions I have had over the years to people, and events.

The biggest mistake I have made was a few years ago accepting it was my lot (and considering it the best option for me) to live alone, that I would make a poor life partner for anyone. If I have a biggest regret in life, this is it. It's not the best option, and as 'easy' as I might find it on a day to day basis, it really isn't. It's not so much that I am currently single, it is that I have somehow deleted the files in my databank that deal with communicating love and romance. Sabotage of the self. It eats at me, it really does. I hate that I have become petrified of confessing to feelings. It annoys me that I just referred to discussing my feelings as 'confessing'. I can write poetry, but I can't tell someone I think they are fantastic and they make my heart skip a beat or ten? I come home at night to darkness and silence. What sort of fool am I to have decided that was best for me?

So, there we have it. Some of the things I wish I had said years ago, months ago or weeks ago on those occasions when 'I'm fine' is a bare-faced lie. I really should have said more, more often. I am sorry I was too foolish to do so. Love you all.

The day before you left

I didn't spend a moment yesterday indulging
In the haven we set against the gathering gloom.
Not for a single one of your flowers did I stop and take
Glory in it's heady scent, nor spend a solitary moment
Before that crazy painting you bought from an unknown
A lifetime and more ago.
You fell for it's simple charm and I loved you
For such a wonderful, and gentle appreciation.
Our song played on the lunchtime hour, I meant
To call you through so we could smile and
Remember just how it became ours, but
Something held me back.
Perhaps it was weariness, perhaps complacency,
And maybe it was these twins that for too long
Have kept me silent on the matter of my
Adoration of you.
Now though we stand upon the further shore,
Yesterday evening a fact, and not a looming
Cloud on our horizon.
Now it is too late for me
To smell your flowers, and our song is dischordant.
My eyes and ears are full of all the places
You are not, and yet should be.
A cruel epiphany, but well earned.

Inspiration

I had the most entertaining idea for a short story yesterday, one which fermented overnight in between bouts of waking up and hitting 5live for the cricket update and strange dreams which seemed to involve me wagering large sums of money which were supposed to be for cat food (don't ask!)
By the time I got up this morning I was fairly excited by the whole prospect, and it is not something I have seen done before in the way I intend to. I would be drawing on various other styles and blending them somewhat but essentially, a top drawer idea which I think will fly. So far, so good and then it hit me....

I cannot for the life of me work out the mechanics of writing this down. I know the plot, I know the subtle twist/theme I am working in as the story proceeds, I know the hook that gets the reader intrigued and I know how it ends (or rather doesn't, but that is for another time!). However, I am really struggling to comprehend how I tie it all together.

This is an immensely frustrating situation, and one I am finding even worse than the complete writer's logjam I suffered from earlier in the year. It is all there for the taking, the entire thing is clear in my head and yet I can't work out how to get it on paper. I don't know if it is actually feasible to do what I want to do in words. I am going to be so angry if I can't pull this one off, it really is a doozy!

I though blogging about it might provide the spark of inspiration, but alas, answers, as yet, come there none. A case of watch this space. I do hope I haven't just massively overhyped this ;)

The Trap

Trapped, he cannot escape memories caught
In endless loop. The relentless drumming of
Shame, regret and agony pounding a beat
In the otherwise still and frozen night
Accompany his memorial dirge.
A baleful tribute to everything that
Has ripped him apart and left him
Ragged, defenceless and bereft of hope.
His clenched fist taps along in rhythm to
This torture, hammering on his temple,
As if pleading for rage to be let inside
To decimate and desecrate his broken mind.
He long since lost the sense of pain from nails
Dug into his palms, fists now combing hair
He would rip from his scalp if only he could
Unclench. What began as tears has become
A torrent, glottal fire at the back of his throat
As he fights for every breath, taking in the raw
Untrustworthy air.
So often he has been here, the past played
On loop, constant variations on a theme,
All roads leading to ruin.
As he rocks and feels himself subside,
Shattered, he is taken by the fear that
This time he may not make it back.

Descent

In the heat of our dance we are aflame,
Blazing trail crackling as we descend,
Two voices sing of one insanity.
You refute the man I am,
Tethered by the memory of yesterday‘s rage.
For my part, I cannot contain your passion,
Which sends me reeling against the wall,
Lustful for the exquisite pain you deliver.
We boil with hate and love, despair and desire.
And can never give enough, one to the other.
I want to wear all of you, but you just don’t fit,
You want to make me new,
But my rot is set too deep.
We burn in the heat of our dance,
Smouldering in the night.
I can no more quench this inferno than rip
Out my racing heart and feed your ravenous hunger.
I bear your brand and bear the pain for
I am nothing without you, and you are
Everywhere without me, exposed and alone.
We are each other’s last hope,
We are the coming storm.

All about your legacy, man

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?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

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?

The Mudpuddler's guide to food, part the third, Thai broth and Mussels

Thought I'd treat you this week to an extremely low fat, and very fragrant dish that you can have for a light dinner or supper, or as a starter to a formal meal. It features mussels steamed open and served with a fragrant thai broth and is exceptionally easy to prepare.

For the broth

Set a small amount of water to boil and add in a thinly chopped shallot (or two), a finely sliced chilli and julienne ginger alongside a couple of minced garlic cloves. Add thinly sliced spring onions. Allow these to infuse for a bit before adding a handful of chopped kaffir lime leaves and some fish sauce (Nam Pla) along with a glass of dry sherry or rice wine vinegar.

Meanwhile

Prepare the Mussels by washing and 'debearding' them, discarding any which remain open after a sharp tap. The mussels should be added to the broth and allowed to steam open, any which do not open should be thrown out. The mussel liquor will add bulk and flavour to the broth.

And to finish

Chop a good handful of coriander which should be added at the end for garnish and flavour. Whilst this broth is an excellent slimming supper or starter, it can easily be bulked out to main portion size with the addition of vermicelli or rice noodles.

The Mudpuddler's guide to food, Sea Bass Supper

Thought I would share another of my favourite recipes with you, this one is perfect for a supper dish, or a light evening meal or luncheon, and is pan fried Sea Bass fillets with a chunky salsa side.

For the Salsa side (serves 2 good portions)

Put 2-3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil into a mixing bowl and dice a red onion and add. Dice a red pepper into the same size of dice and the same with a half cucumber (cut the cucmber lengthways and scrape out the watery seeds first leaving just the outer flesh). Add to this mixture a half teaspoon of dried chilli flakes and a chopped chilli of your preferred heat and the juice of half a lemon (or the whole lemon to taste) and mix well, seasoning with sea salt and black pepper until the flavour is balanced to your liking. Serve as a side with halved cherry or plum tomatos added.

For the Sea Bass Fillets (2 per portion)

Heat a non-stick pan on high and ensure that you oil the fish and NOT the pan, fry the fillets skin side down for 3 minutes until the skin is crispy (crispy skin is delicious, if you prefer not to eat the skin, 2 minutes here will suffice). Remove the pan from the heat and flip the fillets over, squeezing the juice of half a lime into the pan and allowing the flesh to cook off in the residual heat for 2 minutes (3 if thicker fillets and on the hob for the first minute).

Serve with the remaining half of lime as garnish/condiment.

For a more substantial early summer meal, delicious served with Jersey royal potatos and butter.

Heard on Norfolk cricket pitches

A certain one-time acquaintance of mine, now exiled in Japan, one Oliver Kinghorn recently asked me if I was going to post a blog entry about cricket, which has, it must be said, played a large part in my life thus far. Not being one to let down such a fine fellow as the Kinghorn, I gave some thought as to what I could write about - certainly cricket is not a sport that appeals to all, there are even some daft types that consider it a bit snooty and aloof. They are types, naturally, that have never got roaringly drunk in Norfolk pubs after bad-mannered games of low to medium-division cricket, nor spent an entire weekend being larruped to all corners in a losing cause yet loving every moment of it.

Having thought long and hard, I decided the best approach would be to post some quotes heard on Norfolk Cricket pitches down the years, with a little explanation to each - hopefully, even the cricket uninitiated will appreciate the humour in some of these. I make no apology for being the butt of many of them by the way, as for them to be heard, I naturally had to be present!

I think we'll declare there and have a bowl at you - captain of Kirkley Sports in a hilarious freezing April mismatch with Costessey as they reached 312-3 in 29 overs (of a possible 40). Costessey were dismissed for 22 in front of jeering rugby players still in the bar from the morning match.

How much did you beat this lot by? - Thetford first teamers returning to their club bar where we had played a cup match against their 'A' team - we had won in unlikely fashion (taking advantage of some extreme swing conditions pre-thunderstorm). I have never witnessed such shame on the faces of relatively good cricketers. By now you should be realising that Costessey (pronounced Cossy) are not, always, that good.

That's it Carlos, give him a hernia reaching for it - Bob Ottaway to bowler Carl Ward, putting down his third wide in a row against an immovable opener.

What would your figures be like if you were any f*cking good?? Immortal words uttered to me by a drunken opponent in a Yarmouth bar after I had taken 5-13 in 12 overs.

On another day, we would have easily beaten you - Immortal words uttered by a drunken me to the captain of Ashmanhaugh after losing my first game as captain by 180 runs or so.

Treat yourself to a test match field, you'll never have a better chance - advice of the inestimable Mr Kinghorn to me as we played the Reindeer PH in a friendly. 4 Slips and a gully, sumptuous!

There it is!! - Costessey spinner as the batsman (on 100 plus) put one skywards.

There it goes! - At least 4 members of the team as the same ball disappeared for six over the pavillion.

You have to come back, he dropped it - out of breath Costessey batsman running after his partner, who had nobly walked for a thin edge to the keeper, not realising said keeper had pan-handed it straight to the floor.

You can't bowl that fast to me, I'm in my sixties! - Eaton number 11 trying any old trick to try and survive the inevitable.

Try and win for f.... sake! an exasperated Simon Ottaway at the Costessey tail, tamely surrendering a winning position.

He's such a rabbit I could see his ears dragging over the boundary as he arrived at the square - cruel and unecessary taunting of Carl Ward by an unscrupulous Costessey umpire (who looks a lot like me)

You have 22 yards to land the ball, bloody use them! - Oliver Kinghorn proving he had not lost his charm out at Cantley as a young oaf put down a full bunger.

Some of them were OK, but the rest were pure filth - Young master Kinghorn's eloquent appraisal of a group of girls that had turned up to watch a game.

That's my whole day f***** ruined, then - Jeremy Scarborough having gone for a duck at 2.03 (game commencing at 2pm) and facing 44 and a half overs of sitting about and 45 in the field.

Welcome back, Dave - Mark Rymarz umpiring this year as I played my first game in 3 years (for Rackheath) and launched the first ball bowled at me for four back past the bowler.

How gay is that? - standard Costessey appeal, begun by Chris Gardiner, I believe as a protest at the campness of our appealing.

Good slower ball, Dave - various members of the Ottaway, Rymarz and Scarborough families after I try and bend my back on a delivery - never fails to amuse.

We've got one guy who bats a bit, the rest of the rabbits make a good game pie between them - Optimistic appraisal of our chances at the toss many moons ago.

He's smoking! - Rob Lowe (not that one) with the understatement of the century to Simon Ottaway as Gressenhall's Raven tore us apart on a blistering August day.

Don't bother asking this guy, he gives nothing - Hardingham bowler suggesting to his wicket keeper that my umpiring was frugal and stingy (after rattling our players pads in front of middle)

You don't ask, you don't get - my sage like response

Alright, how was that then?????! - Bowler and keeper decide to appeal

Not Out! - *chuckle*

Away from quotes, a special mention here for some of the silent wonders of cricket-gone-by - from the hypnotic bouncing of the Rymarz twins going out to bat together to younger brother Andy Rymarz's 100 yard run up (including a full stop, vertical leap and delivery). Oliver Kinghorn's gardening at the crease to the extent you could quarry granite out of the wicket after he finished and not forgetting the memorable trips to youth cricket matches in my mashed up old Austin Maxi. Special mentions for Chris Gardiner's car (without which 8 people and the kit would never have made it to games) and the good burghers of Hales and Wrenningham for having amusingly small boundaries.

Happy, happy days.

And the flipside is unchecked mania

Thought it was time for another piece all about what is is to be me. The deconstruction of a legend, or something similar. I have written previously on my blog about the OCD I suffer from and the depression it has caused over the years. On the other side of depression though, and just as troublesome, is what I call mania.

Mania is the emotional opposite of depression, but they are definitely siblings. It is the state I find myself in when the emotion is pulsating and forcing its way out of me, everything needs urgent evacuation or it will fry me from the inside. There are times when I just have to react, dramatically, to events around me - whether that be to shout at the TV news or to laugh outwardly, loudly and embarassingly at a sub-par joke, as if the laughter were the vocalisation of anger at the paucity of the material.

It is not, however, just the big and outward gestures and signs of mania that are troublesome to me. Mania is the little man with the stick who pokes and pokes and won't let up at every opportunity. The force that makes me go that little bit too far, further than my comfort zone in what I say or do. I find myself telling lurid tales just that little bit too lurid for polite company, I am telling tales to shock and I know it. It makes me crave the reaction, sate myself with other's raised eyebrows or disapproving looks. Mania gets off on disapproval, mania is typing these words right now.

I want people to be shocked, I want them to recoil, I want the damn mania (and just who do you think made me type that? poke, bloody poke). It feeds the depression, it is fuel, it is a diaretic for the soul, the two of them are so in cahoots, it is surprising I have ever managed to present a sober and level headed front. At least, that is how it feels when I am manic. Of course it subsides and of course I then find my level.

Why write about it? Well, the mania has coloured parts of my life just as much as the OCD and the depressive episodes have. Every time I have fallen in love I have committed myself to it (at least to my internal satisfaction) completely, the buzz from it is narcotic and I feel it's withdrawal for a long time after the details of her face have faded from memory. In that sense it is helpful - when I get withdrawal pangs when someone goes away, I am normally already starting to fall. Mania is what made Friday and Saturday big nights out in the nineties - hang it all out there and let the weekend blow your mind. It felt like the only option - be out of control and let the emotions rip their moorings.

Mania makes me write poems that illiterate - lest the words miss out on a welcoming world of wonder. Every word I write or say has a purpose when I am manic - it is crystal clarity to depression's haze. This whole piece, by the way, was conceived in a flash on the A47 - one moment's complete overreaction to undimmed headlights and I was writing the why all the way home in my head.

When I am depressed, I don't know how to know myself, when I am manic I HAVE to know myself - a different type of raw necessity - evacuate those emotions and ride the wake behind them waiting until it all subsides into the crushing lows in the immediate aftermath. There's truth, there's truth without reason and there's reason without truth, and I spend my life juggling all three.

I am Dave, and I am manic. And this is an evacuation in words.

Dave's Friday night curry feast - a taste of Dave in your home!

Bet you didn't think you were coming here for cooking tips did you? Well, my fine band of Mudpuddlees, I am thinking of your culinary as well as your cerebral wellbeing.

Today's recipe is for the curry I usually treat myself to on a Thursday or Friday night, it packs a punch but is ideal for the hearty appetite and asbestos lined tums.

Start by sweating off a chopped white onion, a clove of garlic and a thumb of grated fresh ginger in a large, flat bottomed pan, adding in a chopped red chilli of your favourite heat.

Beforehand you will have prepared your curry paste/garam masala. Use a pestle and mortar (or a spice grinder) to grind together half a teaspoon of coriander seeds, cumin seeds and a few peppercorns and add a half teaspoon of turmeric and mild chilli powder. Finish with a sprinkle of sea salt, a quarter teaspoon of chilli flakes, a chopped chilli as above, the zest of a lemon, the juice of half a lemon, 2 cloves of crushed garlic and a teaspoon of coriander paste. Mix together well with a little stock to form a paste.

Add as much diced chicken breast as you desire and turn in the pan to ensure the outside is well sealed before adding whole small mushrooms or quatered large mushrooms to the pan. Once these have mingled together with the base ingredients, add the paste/garam masala and mix well together adding a splash of stock to keep the dish moist.

Allow the ingredients to mingle and marry for about 10 minutes before adding a handful of cherry tomatos and then a dash of double cream to blend into a creamy curry sauce. Once mixed in, the dish is ready, but can be left to simmer until you are ready.

Add a handful of chopped fresh coriander to the finished dish and serve with your choice of rice, or a warm Naan. Hot, spicy and very Mudpuddle.

Next week - Thai broth and mussels

The Ultimate 80s Mixtape

Now thats what I call a Mudpuddlin mixtape!
Yes, friends, it is time for the first in yet another series of one, some or many threads. This time I am looking at the ultimate mix tape - what tape would I play to keep myself happy, were I to be denied access to the 80s forever? We have already seen in an earlier thread that the 80s rule, bar none, so whar are the biggest hits of that decade, and just why do they make it into my list? Read on, and soak up the cloying nostalgia!

1) Footloose, Kenny Loggins - Not only a rip-snorter of an 80s movie, but also has the fantastic Lori Singer in it - puppy love revisited!

2) Life In A Northern Town, Dream Academy - fantastic recurring riff and thoughtful lyrics, sums up the mood of the decade perfectly.

3) Personal Jesus, Depeche Mode - serious outbreak of cool going on iin the video to this, the lover as saviour. Reach Out And Touch Faith! Depeche Mode undoubtedly my band of the decade.

4) Killing Moon, Echo and the Bunnymen - One of the first songs I can remember giving me a real sense of alternative music. Sits beautifully outside the usual genres of the decade.

5) Prince Charming, Adam and the Ants - Has to be included if only for the brilliant video. Especially as it was one of the last appearances of Diana Dors on our screens. That's before we accept that its a severely catchy number. Ridicule? Nothing to be scared of!

6) Life's What You Make It, Talk Talk - another of the hits that first got me interested in the Indie/alternative music of the 80s, great for drumming along to!

7) Ride On Time, Black Box - fantastic beat and rhythm and one of the most dancable tunes of the later 80s - the sort of song you were guaranteed to dance to at the Saturday Night Hall of Residence disco.

8) Vienna, Ultravox - noone should be comdemned to be forever the number 2 behind Joe Dolce and 'shuddupya face'. To be fair, Midge Ure would make it with If I Was as well, but this one has mood and atmosphere to carry it into the compilation easily!

9) She Bangs the Drums, Stone Roses - you weren't anyone at uni back then if you didn't get into a little Stone Roses, and this one is the pick of their 1989 album. Seriously cool.

10) Red Red Wine, UB40 - it's not often a Birmingham Reggae band can add to a Neil Diamond classic, but Ali Campbell and co definitely achieve it with this one. Completely brilliant version.

11) Purple Rain, Prince - Has to be the guitar players choice - wonderful guitar accompaniament to this one, as well as a fabulous bassline.

12) Drive, The Cars - Is my favourite 80s hit. Great song to listen to at the end of the night, but also because of the video. Paulina Porizkova absolutely nails mental illness in the video and even now when I watch it I get a chill down my spine. Awesome song to end the compilation with!

Desert Island Mudpuddler

Good afternoon, Mudpuddlees. Today, all those things you wanted to know about me but were afraid to ask can finally be answered! What exactly makes a Mudpuddler tick? What escapism does he use? What are his musical must haves? Yes, it is time to abandon me on the Desert Island, and find out what I would take into exile with me!

What book would you take to a desert island with you? - There is only one choice. Lord Of The Rings by JRR Tolkein. not only is it long enough to keep me occupied for several weeks, it is deep enough to keep you fantasising about the untold stories for long afterwards. The ultimate Desert Island read.

What music would you take with you? - I would take 3 albums with me. Firstly Automatic For the People by REM and secondly OK Computer by Radiohead - both of which I can comfortably listen to right through without any tracks grating on me. My third album would be a compilation of alternative 80s classics - Personal Jesus, Life's what you make it, Love will tear us apart again, that sort of thing.

What single gadget would you find indespensible? - I'd have to take my swiss army knife with me - covers just about every urgent eventuality, although my laptop would be a useful addition as well!

You can take one complete TV series with you - Not the Nine O'Clock News! Simply the funniest thing to have been on TV in 30 years, could happily watch it over again and again.

Finally, you can take any one feature film with you - This is a close run thing, I am tempted by Dogma for it's humour, but I will plump for Once Upon A Time In The West - brilliant score, dramatic, gritty and eminently watchable!

The shame of Mudpuddlin Dave

I thought it best to update the blog tonight as who knows what carnage will be visited upon it with Wednesday's Comprehensive Buggaring About With Us Review? I might find there are 33% cutbacks in my lucidity and humour, and that simply won't do. Come the revolution, Mudpuddlin will be a 24/7 exercise, the Pravda of the East (of England) However, I digress. I thought tonight I would give some thought to those times in my life I have been ashamed of my actions, and yes, there have been many, and look to set the record straight, or at least give you a good chuckle at some of my recurring and all-too-frequent misadventures.

First, I must address the issue of intellectual copyright theft. The business of my 14 hear old self, one DMTronics, was a cheap rip off of my good friend Simon's Simclair and indeed, the only programme it created, Ronnie Rat, was Simclair's Sam's Scrapyard with a slightly altered UDG for the main character. This is not news to the boards of either DMTronics (me) or Simclair (Simon) however it seems an appropriate time to publically fess up.

To the good burghars of South Stoneham House in Southampton I can say only this - you managed to have me with you for the three years of my life which I chose to indluge in rampant alcohol abuse. I remain grateful for the sumptuous breakfasts prepared solely to bring me out of another hangover and to my beloved bar, sadly long since bankrupted, for putting up with night after night of buffoonery. As to my shame, let's settle upon being found asleep outside my room on the floor by the cleaner having been unable to complete the tricky key/lock interface in my stupour. Shame, but not a little dose of legend.

I'd also like to mention here that not all shame is through appalling behaviour. For example, my first employers had a dumbwaiter style delivery system for post over the different floors. Now the room containing it on my floor had a loose cover and underneath were some fierce looking metal components. A long running debate in the office was whether this was safe, or indeed we risked electrocution whilst awaiting the repair (which arrived several months later). Now, I am not one to let a debate rage on unanswered, so I found out via the 'touch with your finger' route. Yes, we risked electrocution.

There is so much more I could go into, but even I have limits to my candour. Pretending not to know where the condoms are to get out of hangover sex, being rescued on Millenium Eve by a giant mohican bearing punk having slid down Castle Mound on my backside. Pants down dancing on the table in the St Andrews Tavern, knocking myself out in Norwich Arts Centre by leaping into a beam. How about that, I guess there are no limits to my candour after all!

I am legend, it shames me.

Introduction to a new novel

Pete drew the floor length curtains across the lounge window and shut out the late autumn night. He paced about the room impatiently and sighed as he looked over at the phone, still steadfastly refusing to ring. He was waiting to hear from Lizzie, to hear whether she wanted him to visit the next weekend. He realised he spent an inordinate amount of time waiting to hear from Lizzie, nonetheless he turned on the laptop and logged in to his mail account. You have (0) new messages. Pete rested his head on one propped arm and hit refresh lazily, just to be sure.

He lived in a small village in North Norfolk, far enough away from civilisation to be peaceful but near enough to the sea he felt he could escape if he needed. The practicality of this was a side issue and not the point as Pete was a dreamer, so the concept of it was enough. In autumn and winter it could be perishingly cold in this exposed part of the country and Northerly winds would whip the North Sea into a frenzy bringing a surprising amount of snow this far south. It all added to the starkness of these seasons against the mellow warmth and pleasant bounty of spring and summer. However, this was late autumn and Pete had lit a fire which was crackling and trying to be heard above the occasional whistle of wind down the chimney.

Pete was in his thirties, tall and evidently slim in his youth. Age had filled him out somewhat however and his hair was flecked with stray grey hairs he was now too used to to become frantic over. He had a rather far away look and to anyone meeting him for the first time he often seemed to gaze beyond them whilst looking at them, as if he was always straining into the distance. Lizzie would chide him for dreaming again when he did this, but he didn't mind, being chided by Lizzie was akin to punishment from a favoured childhood Teddy Bear.

She was of the same vintage as Pete, although she lived a fair distance away. They had first met on the internet, in that haphazard and random way people have become used to. He tried to describe her to a friend shortly after they had first met, remarking about her natural and unfussy hairstyle, how she was a brilliant height (he had no idea what he meant by that), that she was perfectly at ease with herself, smiling more than not and most of all that her eyes were bluer and deeper than any he had ever seen, hiding a multitude of past tragedies and triumphs, eyes in which he would quite willingly drown himself in seeking to understand her. He hated that he could describe her this way to a friend but was only ever able to tell her she had 'great eyes'.

The phone was still not ringing, but Lizzie had no idea how impatient Pete was for a call. In fact, there were many things Lizzie was unaware of. She was oblivious to how Pete described her eyes to anyone who would listen and she was completely unaware that he was head over heels in love with her. He had, in fact, been in love with her since before they first met. He had begun to fall madly and desperately in love with her as they got to know each other online. Everything she said interested him, the way she saw the world was exciting and vibrant and infectiously engaging. She was naughty without malice and funny without pretention. He would never say she was everything he ever wanted (to himself, of course) as she was more to him than anything he had ever imagined prior to their meeting. However, Pete was Pete and he felt no words he said to her could explain his feelings or do justice to them, or to her and so he stayed silent, hopelessly in love and frantic for every moment with her.

Lizzie knew none of this as she phoned him, tears rolling down her face, no clue of the feelings burning so deeply at the other end of the phone. She had no knowledge of his love as her life imploded around her and as the phone finally rang in Norfolk, neither of them could begin to guess what was about to happen and where it would lead them, against all odds. This was the very last moment the world was normal, as Pete noted Lizzie's number and grabbed the phone to his ear. Then everything changed.

Monochrome World

One thing you might notice if you stop by my blog regularly is that I try not to take life too seriously. I've always used humour and I'll be very honest here, it is a useful shield. That is what makes the contrast with my illness and depression so stark and painful.

Humour is levity and light and I can find little wrong with the world when I am laughing with it, or at it. However, when a bout of depression strikes, it is like a shadow descends over everything and emotion is drawn out of the world as if it were a poison. It is worse than sadness, it is the absence of sadness or happiness, an empty yearning for some sort of emotional response, but the emotion will not come. I have sat and stared blankly at the TV screen when a comedy I would always enjoy is showing, but even classic gags that would have me rolling on normal days wash over me without registering. My face will contort into a phantasm of a grin, a cruel mockery of real enjoyment. Or I will catch something sad on the news, or a moving film and watch dispassionately. At times I have felt a tear run down my face but inside I have no feeling of it - it is merely condensation.

People seem unfamiliar and drab as I desperately scramble to build a cocoon to hide in, they have no impact and are empty shells, vessels drained of all content. A collection of words and movements I long to hide from. Open the window and everything is coming at me through a muffler, the clarity of individual sounds rolled into a constant dull hum, even noise cannot escape the bleakness, it is being strangled. My surroundings are the same, but the colour and vibrancy have fled, leached out by the depression, a pencil sketch of what was a magnificent watercolour.

That is how it is, day after day, living a film noir, forcing myself to do a bad impression of emotional investment into conversations and all the time feeling hollowed out, ruinous. The irony is, I can't even get angry about it as emotions are stuck on the event horizon, inaccessible. In the world but not of it, distant and utterly alone. Then it passes, and I wake one morning as if the previous days hadn't happened and the colour, sound and laughter flood back with the tears.

So, that's really why I use humour - self-diagnosis. If I can laugh, then I'm OK for today at least. That's something I guess.

Management Bullhooey Bingo part 2

Thought I might update today with a second helpful helping of translations of those tricksy phrases management love to grace the office with. Taking a keen interest as I do in phooey, I anticipate more helpful information coming from me in future. Look out for the guide to polite commentary and the Mudppuddlers introduction to the stuff what the other half says and the stuff what they mean, innit? I digress, thus will proceed without delay to today's translations.

See your line manager in the first instance - don't come sniffing round me with your problems, I am far too grand and important, bother someone lower down the food chain.

Let me come back to you on that - you've just made me look like an idiot in front of my underlings. I won't forget.

A significant uptick in business - Help, oh my God help me, I laid off too many staff and we can't cope.

Multi-skilling - Think doing more, more often, for less. Now double it.

Seamless transition - months of chaos with things going missing, deliveries going awry, complaints sky rocketing and at least four versions of the compoany name in use.

A difficult transition - Yeah, we got that one wrong, we're going back to how it was before.

Customer facing role - You talk to them, I can't stand our customers. Is it lunch already?

Each and every one of you has contributed to our success - except me, and I get the bonus, isn't life wonderful?!

This is just the sort of thing that looks great when it comes to reviewing your year - I should know, I've already taken credit for it in my review.

Your name instantly sprang to mind for this project - Here, this is a total mess, do something with it.

Your name is known in high places - Just wait till you see what I have lined up for you, teacher's pet!