Greetings Mudpuddlees, I trust the day finds you well? I have been thinking today, which is always a good start for a blog entry. I've been thinking about love, or more specifically, about that particular type of rare and cherished love that goes beyond the Sid James smuttery that accompanies the activity of lust. I am talking about being completely smitten. Rather than just thinking about it however (nice though as that is), I have given some thought to how difficult it is to put into words that particular feeling. So it seemed only fair to give it a go, a blogual celebration of smittenness.
The eyes..... oh, the difference when smitten in how you look at someone! There are times when I could quite happily have drowned in a pair of eyes - just to catch the way the light plays on them, or to wait, breath baited, for that flash of playfulness when you share a joke. When you fall, you fall into the eyes, and you can see deeper into them, even behind them than anyone else. They sparkle for you like they do for no other and you can gauge in one glance the mood of your beloved. There is something trult beautiful about the eyes, and something remarkable about love that makes them react differently, look different than in the normal course of events.
Another thing I have noticed is how ludicrous it feels to try and explain ahy you are smitten to anyone else. I have found myself looking at someone and been totally lost for words. How can you not love this girl?! How is it that you are not, as I am, lost in the most tantalising dream whenever she is around? There are, of course, no words, that is the point. The feeling of total devotion cannot be explained in words, it is a statement painted in your actions, it is demonstrated by the person you are whenever they are around you. If you can see that I love her, then no words are necessary.
Sometimes, early in a realtionship especially, you think what would be a romantic gesture, what might be something to show them you think they are quite the catch. The difference when smitten is that you stop thinking of what you'll do and start doing things you know they will love, and why they will love them. Rereading that it is a ridiculously obvious thing to say, but in truth it's an enormous change in a relationship - it is the point you go from trying to impress to doing the things that make the person you love happy. It all links back to the eyes, who wouldn't want to see those eyes melt into an adoring smile, all for you?
The most important differnce though is the difference in how it feels inside to what you could ever describe. As I said, it is so difficult to describe to someone else that is not in the relationship what you feel and why you feel it, and even if you wanted to, the best we can often manage is a lame description which often tails off into embarassment and introversion. How different to the voice inside you though! The voice within that screams at the same time - because her eyes make me melt, because she smells of summer, because I adore her terrible jokes and the shape of her feet makes me giddy inside. Every time I wake up I can't stop grinning when she is next to me, we fit together as spoons better than anyone I have ever known. She makes awful spaghetti bolognaise, so she makes it just for us to laugh at. She understands me, I understand her, we make perfect sense. There is nothing about her I don't fancy totally. Sometimes I stand outside when she is due home because the sight of her coming down the road makes me want to cry with happiness. It's safe to be soft with her, she never teases me for it, and she has my back, always.
Inside, the voices are screaming that. That's when you know you're smitten.
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Rock the heartbreak
It started with flirting, quite random
The way your twenties-self does with abandon.
Lunch morphed into date with no pause,
Had me falling for her in one course.
Of all loves that now lie in past tense,
This was the one that made the least sense.
I was wearing another man's style,
Fooling her I was all that for a while.
Of course, it came to a juddering halt,
Somehow everything was dead, and my fault.
It was all nonsense, a mistake, filthy lies
Yet I'd still drown myself in those eyes.
So remembering brings nought but profanity,
For our love was a raging insanity.
Possessed by regret and the harsh lessons learned,
Tormented, demented, lamented and spurned.
The way your twenties-self does with abandon.
Lunch morphed into date with no pause,
Had me falling for her in one course.
Of all loves that now lie in past tense,
This was the one that made the least sense.
I was wearing another man's style,
Fooling her I was all that for a while.
Of course, it came to a juddering halt,
Somehow everything was dead, and my fault.
It was all nonsense, a mistake, filthy lies
Yet I'd still drown myself in those eyes.
So remembering brings nought but profanity,
For our love was a raging insanity.
Possessed by regret and the harsh lessons learned,
Tormented, demented, lamented and spurned.
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Shadow Boxing
I've come to the uncomfortable realisation that I spend far too much time shadow boxing. When there are some fairly hefty bad guys to wade in to (figuratively speaking you understand), there you'll not find me. I'll be the dude working out and warming up at the back and I'll probably still be there when the trouble has come, gone and mostly been forgotten.
What I am saying, of course, is that I am great at working out what I need to do, how I should proceed, and I am equally good at planning it all out. I am dreadful however at actually facing the problem and implementing the solution, however entertainingly bizarre the solution I have cooked up.
Shadow boxing Dave would no doubt be quite happy with those two paragraphs, they neatly sum up the problem - no need to get all messy sorting it out now is there? However, even I am not lame enough to QED myself on my own blog. Why am I a shadow boxer? For what reason do I not make it past the planning stage and into Last Action Mudpuddling?
Truthfully, I am terrified of starting and not being able to stop. Having one of those addictive personalities and being held captive by the OCD stazi, I tend to get hooked on things, used to them, comfortable with them, in need of them. So, if I implement a plan, do I end up taking it too far for fear of letting it go? If your toenails need cutting (First Floor Stoneham 1990 - talons, I tell you they were talons), you don't cut the leg off. You don't - but it's the sort of stupid thing (some on, still figurative here!) I do in the pursuit of addiciton satience.
So therein lies the rub - how do I go from the comfortable planning stage, to the terrifying action stage and out the other side without loitering? Tis a puzzlement. In any case, a cadre of angry bad men just turned up at my front door, so I need to go and warm up...
If anyone has a solution, would be grateful to hear. Alternatively, fix me up with a gorgeous girl and I'll stop whinging ;) (and no, I don't shadow box in the bedroom, fnarr)
What I am saying, of course, is that I am great at working out what I need to do, how I should proceed, and I am equally good at planning it all out. I am dreadful however at actually facing the problem and implementing the solution, however entertainingly bizarre the solution I have cooked up.
Shadow boxing Dave would no doubt be quite happy with those two paragraphs, they neatly sum up the problem - no need to get all messy sorting it out now is there? However, even I am not lame enough to QED myself on my own blog. Why am I a shadow boxer? For what reason do I not make it past the planning stage and into Last Action Mudpuddling?
Truthfully, I am terrified of starting and not being able to stop. Having one of those addictive personalities and being held captive by the OCD stazi, I tend to get hooked on things, used to them, comfortable with them, in need of them. So, if I implement a plan, do I end up taking it too far for fear of letting it go? If your toenails need cutting (First Floor Stoneham 1990 - talons, I tell you they were talons), you don't cut the leg off. You don't - but it's the sort of stupid thing (some on, still figurative here!) I do in the pursuit of addiciton satience.
So therein lies the rub - how do I go from the comfortable planning stage, to the terrifying action stage and out the other side without loitering? Tis a puzzlement. In any case, a cadre of angry bad men just turned up at my front door, so I need to go and warm up...
If anyone has a solution, would be grateful to hear. Alternatively, fix me up with a gorgeous girl and I'll stop whinging ;) (and no, I don't shadow box in the bedroom, fnarr)
Thursday, 17 March 2011
The strange case of the generous Genie
So, Mudpuddlees, I was doing a little preparatory work for a day's decorating - in the sense that I was in the thinking about it phase, when the glint of something caught my wandering eye. What else would it be but a golden lamp? Rubbing it as fervently as a man who hasn't had any in far too long, I was greeted by a friendly looking sprite. He told me his name was Gene, and that David Bowie was a filthy abuser of his name, but that is beside the point, we got into the whole wish thing.
I wasn't really satisfied with 3 wishes (his opening offer), seemed rather trite and hackneyed to me, and he quickly dismissed any possibility of me wishing for infinite wishes, so we got down to some hard bargaining. I wanted twenty minimum, but he was a hard bargainer and seemed set on 'no more than 5'. Now, those of you that have a real life experience of the Mudpuddler himself will know that I can spin the occasional curve ball, so I waxed all too lyrical about there not being enough silliness in the world. It must have touched his spritely heart, because he relented and gave me ten wishes.... on condition they were rather silly. In hindsight, I should have taken the three and gone for the money, sex and fame triumvirate, but what the heckfire, here are ten wishes, coated thinly with silliness.
1) I wish I could dance, in a modern equivalence, like Shakin' Stevens.
2) I wish I could remember 90% of the events that happened after 10pm and before dawn on any given night from Oct 1990-July 1993.
3) I wish that all my friend's cereal packets would mystically refill to the top tonight.
4) I wish I could call 'Raedwald' out of the door and the cat I plan to get and call Raedwald would come running.
5) I wish grey slip-ons with tassles would come back into fashion
6) I wish I was well known for my decorative curtains
7) I wish it could be Christmas every other day
8) I wish the singulsr of sheep was shoop
9) I wish PMQs featured a highly sarcastic talking bear
10) I wish this wish to be left open for Mudpuddlee silliness
I wasn't really satisfied with 3 wishes (his opening offer), seemed rather trite and hackneyed to me, and he quickly dismissed any possibility of me wishing for infinite wishes, so we got down to some hard bargaining. I wanted twenty minimum, but he was a hard bargainer and seemed set on 'no more than 5'. Now, those of you that have a real life experience of the Mudpuddler himself will know that I can spin the occasional curve ball, so I waxed all too lyrical about there not being enough silliness in the world. It must have touched his spritely heart, because he relented and gave me ten wishes.... on condition they were rather silly. In hindsight, I should have taken the three and gone for the money, sex and fame triumvirate, but what the heckfire, here are ten wishes, coated thinly with silliness.
1) I wish I could dance, in a modern equivalence, like Shakin' Stevens.
2) I wish I could remember 90% of the events that happened after 10pm and before dawn on any given night from Oct 1990-July 1993.
3) I wish that all my friend's cereal packets would mystically refill to the top tonight.
4) I wish I could call 'Raedwald' out of the door and the cat I plan to get and call Raedwald would come running.
5) I wish grey slip-ons with tassles would come back into fashion
6) I wish I was well known for my decorative curtains
7) I wish it could be Christmas every other day
8) I wish the singulsr of sheep was shoop
9) I wish PMQs featured a highly sarcastic talking bear
10) I wish this wish to be left open for Mudpuddlee silliness
Saturday, 12 March 2011
A hopeless case
He mumbles idle chatter, and hides from those three words,
He understands the bees alright, but knows nothing of the birds.
His endearing lack of confidence makes him play the waiting game,
Panicking his voice will crack next time he calls her name.
She is everything he admires, her heart as soft as his
And yet he cannot vocalise how magnificent she is.
On it will go, this foxtrot, until, at last, he breaks;
Just tell the girl you're in love with her, for both your wondrous sakes!
He understands the bees alright, but knows nothing of the birds.
His endearing lack of confidence makes him play the waiting game,
Panicking his voice will crack next time he calls her name.
She is everything he admires, her heart as soft as his
And yet he cannot vocalise how magnificent she is.
On it will go, this foxtrot, until, at last, he breaks;
Just tell the girl you're in love with her, for both your wondrous sakes!
Thursday, 10 March 2011
The Rise Of The Anti-Dream
We have all, in our time, had dreams. Everyone has a goal they aim for, or burning ambition inside that will never be quelled. Whether mini Mudpuddler or Augustus Gloop in stature, 'tis good to dream.
Today, however, I have given some thought to the antithesis of dreams - that which I shall call (very originally) the anti-dream. Anti-dreams are all the things you absolutely do not want to do or experience in your life. Had I just had a shocker of a holiday in Clacton-On-Sea (a very possible possible), I might vow never to return there. I would have the anti-dream of going to Clacton. You can see what I am doing here - I'm using English, badly, but I have started now and I intend to finish. I have an anti-dream to bin things that I have begun you see.
Anti-Dreams, I insist, can tell us just as much about a person as their positive dreams. For example, the anti-dream I have to get my heart broken again tells you where my fear lies and why I am reticent on occasion in pursuit of my dream of attracting a mate. Perhaps behind every dream there lurks a cadre of anti-dreams to pervert your course and fustigate.
Anti-Dreams can also be instructive in how I relate to the anti-dreamer. I can tell little when informed that someone has the dream of meeting the Queen, however were they also to let slip their anti-dream is to meet Megan Fox, well then I know they are a tasteless buffoon with whom I shall have no truck. For my anti-dream is to not meet her.
Finally, and in all seriousness, what a person dislikes tells us so much more than what they like. To quote Montgomery C. Burns I may not know much about art, but I know what I hate. And I don't hate this.
Today, however, I have given some thought to the antithesis of dreams - that which I shall call (very originally) the anti-dream. Anti-dreams are all the things you absolutely do not want to do or experience in your life. Had I just had a shocker of a holiday in Clacton-On-Sea (a very possible possible), I might vow never to return there. I would have the anti-dream of going to Clacton. You can see what I am doing here - I'm using English, badly, but I have started now and I intend to finish. I have an anti-dream to bin things that I have begun you see.
Anti-Dreams, I insist, can tell us just as much about a person as their positive dreams. For example, the anti-dream I have to get my heart broken again tells you where my fear lies and why I am reticent on occasion in pursuit of my dream of attracting a mate. Perhaps behind every dream there lurks a cadre of anti-dreams to pervert your course and fustigate.
Anti-Dreams can also be instructive in how I relate to the anti-dreamer. I can tell little when informed that someone has the dream of meeting the Queen, however were they also to let slip their anti-dream is to meet Megan Fox, well then I know they are a tasteless buffoon with whom I shall have no truck. For my anti-dream is to not meet her.
Finally, and in all seriousness, what a person dislikes tells us so much more than what they like. To quote Montgomery C. Burns I may not know much about art, but I know what I hate. And I don't hate this.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Forty Year shuffle
I've been having another of those 'eek 40!' days today. It's creeping up awfully fast, the thirties are already busy packing up the case and wondering where it might be nice to have a holiday to, once all the work of being in the them is done with, meanwhile we have the forties measuring up for curtains and muttering about 'change, and not a moment too soon'.
Even in our longer lived world, 40 still feels a bit halfway house, in the middlish, the top of a hill, or at least somewhere near the summit. Such places are always good to pause and have a long, hard think about this for one and that for another. Talking of this and that, I got to thinking what would I like to be able to say, conclusively, once the 3 at the start of my age has the op and becomes a 4?
I'd like to think that my hardest grafting sporting days are behind me, and that future sports will be a far more sedate affair. Bowling 12 over spells of medium pace shennanigans into the wind on 40 fags a day is no mean feat, and even without the smoking these days, not one I'd care to go back to in a hurry. Worry not though, for the 5-13 in 12 overs at Belton, the 6 saucy Overstranders sent back to the hutch on one of my feistier days, and especially the portly local legend who declared 'he can't bowl for toffee' shortly before having his off stump cartwheeled are well and truly banked. From now on I can be the guy that used to be a bit handy on occasion with the new ball and now just enjoys a bit of sloggerific batting, a plateful of sandwiches and cake and one or two more beers than he used to. The summer game, on wistful days, carries all the glory of old England.
I'd also like to think there has been a fair amount of rascally behaviour in my time. Not through any malcontent, but because the best people are rogues. That is to say, the people I get on the easiest with have a rascally stripe to them. Once again though, I don't think I have too much to worry about on this score. There is, somewhere deep within the memory banks, evidence aplenty of 'stuff what I plum got away with' - all of course perfectly harmless and whimsical. At least, it is now looking back at it ;) In any case, you can't make an omelette without sneaking off for egg and chips and a few jars whilst the stage arrives and you're in charge of putting it up and ensuring a few hundred people have a thoroughly good time. That's the correct proverb, right?! Pick your favourite Dave moment and picture me, grinning. That's pretty much the moment summed up.
What is this post all about though, really? It's really a long-winded and Mudpuddled way of me coming to the point I really want to make. I want, when I am 40, and indeed when I am 80 or 120 for the people I love to know that they are loved. Those I have loved intimately to know I treasure the memories we share, those I love in my family to know how dear they are to me, and how much I am always speechless at the patience, kindness and love they have given me, never failingly, for my whole life. Even in the coldest times, it has been toasty in my family, for that I am lucky, and blessed. To my friends, I want them to know how much I love them for their friendship, each different, each with their own wonder. Everybody I count as a friend is so for a reason, and it is because of the thing that makes you 'you' to me - it's different for every single one of you, but it's what makes me love you and why I'll always be here for you, should you require a slightly battered old nut for any reason. You get that for life. Thank you for the things you have done to make me smile, dry my eyes or simply wrap me in a warm embrace. Even when you didn't know you were doing it, but it was everything I needed right then.
What's next?
Even in our longer lived world, 40 still feels a bit halfway house, in the middlish, the top of a hill, or at least somewhere near the summit. Such places are always good to pause and have a long, hard think about this for one and that for another. Talking of this and that, I got to thinking what would I like to be able to say, conclusively, once the 3 at the start of my age has the op and becomes a 4?
I'd like to think that my hardest grafting sporting days are behind me, and that future sports will be a far more sedate affair. Bowling 12 over spells of medium pace shennanigans into the wind on 40 fags a day is no mean feat, and even without the smoking these days, not one I'd care to go back to in a hurry. Worry not though, for the 5-13 in 12 overs at Belton, the 6 saucy Overstranders sent back to the hutch on one of my feistier days, and especially the portly local legend who declared 'he can't bowl for toffee' shortly before having his off stump cartwheeled are well and truly banked. From now on I can be the guy that used to be a bit handy on occasion with the new ball and now just enjoys a bit of sloggerific batting, a plateful of sandwiches and cake and one or two more beers than he used to. The summer game, on wistful days, carries all the glory of old England.
I'd also like to think there has been a fair amount of rascally behaviour in my time. Not through any malcontent, but because the best people are rogues. That is to say, the people I get on the easiest with have a rascally stripe to them. Once again though, I don't think I have too much to worry about on this score. There is, somewhere deep within the memory banks, evidence aplenty of 'stuff what I plum got away with' - all of course perfectly harmless and whimsical. At least, it is now looking back at it ;) In any case, you can't make an omelette without sneaking off for egg and chips and a few jars whilst the stage arrives and you're in charge of putting it up and ensuring a few hundred people have a thoroughly good time. That's the correct proverb, right?! Pick your favourite Dave moment and picture me, grinning. That's pretty much the moment summed up.
What is this post all about though, really? It's really a long-winded and Mudpuddled way of me coming to the point I really want to make. I want, when I am 40, and indeed when I am 80 or 120 for the people I love to know that they are loved. Those I have loved intimately to know I treasure the memories we share, those I love in my family to know how dear they are to me, and how much I am always speechless at the patience, kindness and love they have given me, never failingly, for my whole life. Even in the coldest times, it has been toasty in my family, for that I am lucky, and blessed. To my friends, I want them to know how much I love them for their friendship, each different, each with their own wonder. Everybody I count as a friend is so for a reason, and it is because of the thing that makes you 'you' to me - it's different for every single one of you, but it's what makes me love you and why I'll always be here for you, should you require a slightly battered old nut for any reason. You get that for life. Thank you for the things you have done to make me smile, dry my eyes or simply wrap me in a warm embrace. Even when you didn't know you were doing it, but it was everything I needed right then.
What's next?
Saturday, 5 March 2011
The drinker
Messy mind, it tortures him, thoughts stretched to ruin on the rack,
Hopes, contentment crucified, the future hides in black.
Just live for now, or perish here, comprehend your fate;
Mortal man, undignified, breathes spite and rage and hate.
Back over shoulder, mesmerised, the lies of years ago,
Downfall brought to memory, reliving blow by blow.
Trapped mind will wilt in feedback loop, the shattered mirror falls,
In pieces for another night, ‘To Oblivion!’ he calls.
And grasping now the bottle neck, to incapacity he’ll sink,
Swill it back, erase the pain, become one with the drink.
And so to wake another day, regretful and ashamed,
On shadow men, and broken heart, is all his folly blamed.
Hopes, contentment crucified, the future hides in black.
Just live for now, or perish here, comprehend your fate;
Mortal man, undignified, breathes spite and rage and hate.
Back over shoulder, mesmerised, the lies of years ago,
Downfall brought to memory, reliving blow by blow.
Trapped mind will wilt in feedback loop, the shattered mirror falls,
In pieces for another night, ‘To Oblivion!’ he calls.
And grasping now the bottle neck, to incapacity he’ll sink,
Swill it back, erase the pain, become one with the drink.
And so to wake another day, regretful and ashamed,
On shadow men, and broken heart, is all his folly blamed.
Friday, 4 March 2011
Eco Dave versus suburbia
Thought I might update the blog with the latest progress report on my conversion to the full bumpkin in my alter ego (fast becoming my actua-ego) Eco Dave the land-owning, produce-growing, sheep-worrying hero of stage and screen. In other words, how's it going in the new house, Dave?
I have ordered and will soon take delivery of a new shed. This is a fairly standard thing for someone with a largish garden to do, and, I'll wager, isn't making anyone tremble with delight. Except, for some strange reason, me. It's a Pent Shed, it's shiplap, and I am a little bit in love with it - moreover the good folks at Scott Sheds and Fencing (Costessey and Horsford) having quoted 4 weeks for delivery are doing it in one week, much kudos to them.
The shed is HQ, main base, Ice Station Alpha, the epicentre of all things produce. It is a haven from where my taming of and cherished victory over nature will be planned. It is a logistics centre, an armory, a bunker and storage facility. It is everything an outbuilding can be, or should be. The shed, I put it to you, is the dog's dangly bits. Like I said, I'm just a little bit in love with it.
That's not all, however. I have staked out some beds - I now know where the strawberries shall be found, from whence I shall retrieve potato, the location of salads and, most importantly of all, the mini orchard/fruitery has taken shape in my rather excited little mind. I have found the ideal sunlit upland for my greenhouse. It's all starting to take shape, rather nicely.
I have also been making friends. The cows in the top field came down to have a nose at what I was doing today. We traded comments on our respective cup of tea and fresh grass and agreed, in an unexcitable and respectful way, that life is quite sweet really.
And so it is.
I have ordered and will soon take delivery of a new shed. This is a fairly standard thing for someone with a largish garden to do, and, I'll wager, isn't making anyone tremble with delight. Except, for some strange reason, me. It's a Pent Shed, it's shiplap, and I am a little bit in love with it - moreover the good folks at Scott Sheds and Fencing (Costessey and Horsford) having quoted 4 weeks for delivery are doing it in one week, much kudos to them.
The shed is HQ, main base, Ice Station Alpha, the epicentre of all things produce. It is a haven from where my taming of and cherished victory over nature will be planned. It is a logistics centre, an armory, a bunker and storage facility. It is everything an outbuilding can be, or should be. The shed, I put it to you, is the dog's dangly bits. Like I said, I'm just a little bit in love with it.
That's not all, however. I have staked out some beds - I now know where the strawberries shall be found, from whence I shall retrieve potato, the location of salads and, most importantly of all, the mini orchard/fruitery has taken shape in my rather excited little mind. I have found the ideal sunlit upland for my greenhouse. It's all starting to take shape, rather nicely.
I have also been making friends. The cows in the top field came down to have a nose at what I was doing today. We traded comments on our respective cup of tea and fresh grass and agreed, in an unexcitable and respectful way, that life is quite sweet really.
And so it is.
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