Christmas Journal 2012 (How To Mend A Broken Heart)
How To Mend A Broken Heart
Ode to an Unknown
"There's a little magic land somewhere inside my heart where we both stay
Yes it is a dream, that much I know, but I still love you anyway
Somewhere in a land of fantasy where broken hearts do not exist
Everybody wants to find this place but I won't get there 'til we've kissed
You are wonderful in the extreme...you are beautiful to me
I can see the stardust in your eyes, it makes me think of happy times
Every time I see you time stands still, my head fills up with nursery rhymes
Has anybody ever said to you that you have these enchanting eyes
I don't even know your name it's true but you have left me hypnotised"
(my laptop has no question-mark button....so I'll use exclamation-marks instead...and copy and paste a load every few days for you to put in appropriate places)
Christmas Eve 2012
Hickory Dickory Dock...two mice ran up the clock...the clock struck one....the other one got away!
Yeah yeah...I know it's puerile. I'm just trying to retain a modicum of decorum through the strands of humour I'm still able to cling onto at this dark swirling Christmas time in the land of the dumpee.
Everything was magical in my life with Tamara....we had been co-horts in court-ship for three years. Thirty-six months of enchanted emotional contentment. The letter came out of the blue. She's gone back to live in France. I wouldn't mind...but she's not even French....she's German!!! Completely dehors de la bleu.
Thank you Tamara....but I will survive :)
Christmas time. The worst time to be lonely....made even worse when you've been dumped. I've decided to fall into the arms of Samuel Pepys...not literally...he's been dead for over 300 years...and make a diary. It's not a stand against people who end relationships....far from it...they have their reasons. It's a challenge....to see if I can mend my own broken heart through words and conjectures borne of emotional curiosity.
This 'diary of a dumpee' goes out to all the jilted folk...past and present...who have come to a shuddering halt on the impassioned and hysterical journey that is 'assumed true love'
To the Demi Moores...and the Russell Brands of the world....I'm with ya!
Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Lopez, Keifer Sutherland.....we took one Hell of a beating!
Rachel Hunter, Hugh Hefner and Les Dennis.....I feel your pain!
Come with me and we'll see if I can....mend a broken heart.
Watching Bowie...and Lou Reed...and others.....Lulu is there. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before Iggy comes on.
Oh....by the way....here's a song I wrote to try to save our relationship....but before I could record it we were over....so she never did get to hear it....lol x
Baby Don't Break Up With Me
I'm looking for a way to make you see that you should not break up with me
I never wanted you to go...although you have the right to do so
And every time we fall apart it leaves me with a broken heart
I need you here eternally...so baby don't break up with me
Oh baby don't break up with me...I don't need this possibility
I'm trying hard to make you see...that you should not break up with me
Oh and every time we say goodbye I sit right down and I start to cry
I want you right back here with me...oh baby don't break up with me
And every time we disagreed...I broke right down and I concede
I wouldn't know just what to do...if you said to me 'Babe...we're through'
I even made two copies of the song......one in French....the language of her new domain...to reflect the delicate and elegant conjugation of the 'emotion de la Francois' in relation to the violation of our affairs of the heart.....and one in German....because I like BMW's
Bowie plays 'Heroes'
So....I'm sat here with the cats. Flash and Mussolini.(Flash cos she is black and white....Mussolini cos he likes to hang upside-down from the local petrol station)
'How can you say you've lost the love of your life!'
said my best mate, Harry, on the phone...26 minutes ago (yeah....I'm so sad I'm logging my life in minutes now)
'How can you say you've lost the love of your life!'
he said....28 minutes ago.
''You were only together for 3 months'
'So what!!!' I spat
'It's long enough for me to know that I've found my true love'
'Ha ha' he scoffed
'Love of your life! 3 months! That's like a substitute coming off the bench and scoring a hat-trick in the last 10 minutes...and being named Man of the Match'
Harry supports QPR
Thanks for the phone call.
I pour another cider. I've had quite a gutful. I lift the glass to the hole in my face where the money flows in.
Dumped at Christmas. It's not even a comforting word. Dumped.
Jack dumped Jill
Tessa dumped Tony
Hansel dumped Gretel
Why can't they soften the blow....these verbalisitic merchandisers of the English language!
Jack relieved Jill of her ever-changing emotional duties.
Tessa released Tony from the oxidising chains of their floundering romantic entanglement.
Hansel....well...he should never have been dating his sister in the first place....especially whilst living together in a house in the forest...made out of cake and confectionery. That's the house made out of cake and confectionery...not the forest....though both are ludicrous concepts.
People shouldn't get dumped. We have feelings....emotions...that can only descend into utter capitulation when subjected to derogatory connotation.
Old clapped-out cookers get dumped.
Fridges...way past their chill-by date get dumped
Say what you will about me...but I'm not a fridge....and you can't just chuck me in a frosty glade in Chislehurst (probably) with my door ripped off.
(Despite the Refrigerator safety act of 1958, in US alone 163 kids died from suffocation in fridges between 1956 and 1964 and 96 between 1973 and 1984....please dispose of your fridges as careful as you would dispose of your relationships)
Bowie plays 'Fashion'
Anyway...in the same way that you can't control the weather but you can set your sails accordingly...I'm re-organising my perception to my current heart-rending situation.
From here on...I wasn't 'dumped'...I was 'let go'....the faithful old one-eyed pooch who could no longer chase the stick...put out to graze in the dog's great Valhalla....senile canine philosophy. Cheers.
I pour another cider. It's made from apples, you know!
At least the cider won't 'let me go'. Cider and myself are massive friends....been together a long time...and the apple never falls far from the tree.
Ah...trees. At this point....as I try to work out why she left me...I concede that my propensity to fotograph trees may have played a part in the decision. Is it wrong to take fotographs of trees!
I love trees. They do no harm. (If you would like to see some of my fotographs of trees...please e-mail me on firstname.lastname@example.org) That always irked her. My tree fotography.
I pour another cider.
It's the little things
Mussolini spies a beetle...as it crawls across Joey Ramone's jacket...on the autographed Ramones poster spread out on the laminate floor. (RightGroove...New England Oak...£11.99 per square metre...at CarpetRight)
I might get £500 for the poster...on e-bay.
The beetle is probably a bread or biscuit beetle...judging by the obvious impressed lines on the wing-cases and the serrated antennae...and the tell-tale sign that it has a Cadbury's Chocolate Finger hanging from it's gob.
It hasn't really....poetic licence.
Well...it's not a biscuit beetle any more...it's now an Inside-Mussolini Beetle (which is a sentence I've probably never used in my life before)
I glance over at the beech-coloured coffee-table (£22.99 from Ikea)
I see her packet of pencils. So many things to remind me of her. It's the small things. It's the little things I miss. Her eyes.....her smile...the reptilian way she held her teutonic Staedtler Noris as she sketched her pictures of skeletons in Nazi great-coats. A common theme...for her. I guess I should have seen the signs.
(insert jokes about drawing my own conclusions right here...if you please)
It would definitely be easier to get over this if there was a reason.....apart from my 'fotography of trees'....for her to dump me......sorry...to let me go. There was no reason though...she just ditched me in a copse near Orpington....with my door torn off.
It would be easier to move on...if...say...she was having an affair with my best friend. Oh dear....my best friend is Harry. These ciders are kicking in. Now I'm angry at Harry.
Mussolini knocks my glass over.
Strongbow cider (£3.15 for 2 litres at Tesco) splashed all over Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Marky.
Starting price on e-bay goes down to £250
Flash is curled up on the sofa
I decide to destroy her pencils
Not Flash's pencils
She doesn't have any.
I am going to destroy the pencils of the one who let me go....to the mesmerising sequence of the chords C F Dm7 G....which is scientifically proven to be the angriest chord structure known to man and maestro!!!!!
Robert Fripp plays guitar....jamming good with....oh fuck it...........
C F Dm7 G
I have to go to bed...before Christmas Day kicks in.....come back and see how I feel in the morning xxxxx
ph ph ph ph ph ph ph
Please replace the 'f's on the beginnings of my fotography words
We're not in America now!!!!!
No Iggy Pop yet........................
A LITTLE PLEA FOR A FAVOUR
IF YOU HAPPEN TO HAVE BEEN AMUSED...ENTERTAINED...OR BEWILDERED BY THIS ON-GOING JOURNAL...I WOULD VERY MUCH APPRECIATE IT IF YOU WOULD COME BACK AND READ WHAT I HAVE TO SAY TOMORROW. WHO KNOWS WHAT MY MOOD WILL BE!!!!
AND I WOULD APPRECIATE GREATLY IF YOU WOULD SHARE THE LINK...BE IT ON FACEBOOK OR ON TWITTER. YOU NEVER KNOW....I MIGHT JUST FIND A SOLUTION TO MY PROBLEM
Oh....here's Iggy.....Lust For Life xxx
Christmas Day 2012
Spending Christmas Day dreaming of doing the things we should have been doing….cos that’s how I roll. The little things. Eating trash food. Watching nonessential television programmes.
TV shows…they could be about the potential advantages and disadvantages of adopting a tran-diagnostic perspective as regards clinical psychological disorders.
They could be about soaring eagles…and weasels….being sucked into jet engines.
They could be about a little bacon-y pig called Peppa…who likes to dress up, eat spaghetti and jump in muddy puddles.
It doesn’t matter what the programme is….not if you are watching it with your loved one.
Yeah….Christmas Day….and it’s the little things I miss.
Playing guitar….quite badly really. Bad guitar-tistry.
It doesn’t matter.
Chatting about snowmen.
Spilling a drink.
Cleaning it up with Delta De-Luxe….the Ultimate Stain Remover (5 bottles for a score…Hempstead Valley Shopping Centre)
Ruining the carpet.
Arguing about the ruined carpet.
“Polypropylene is bleach-cleanable” she growls
“Why didn’t we get a polypropylene carpet!”
I mutter something about teaching my grandmother to suck eggs*.
Suddenly….I realise that I’m not doing all these things….on Christmas Day. I’m not hotly debating the consequences of purchasing the wrong domestic floor-covering.
I’m actually sitting…instead…in a huge void…wrapped up in a yawning gaping chasm of vacuumized nothingness…cloaked in a blanket of hollowness. No matter. (I hope you can see what I did there)
*Egg-sucking is the art of removing the egg-contents whilst keeping the shell intact. It’s easy really. You make a small hole at each end of the egg…and you suck the contents out…so the shell can be painted ornately…or used for other decorative purposes…without it going rotten inside.
My Christmas has gone rotten inside!
Ah well…all this talk of eggs and bacon…I have decided to make an egg and bacon sandwich….but I have no eggs. Well…I do have some eggs….but they are empty…and painted ornately…in garish colours.
A bacon sandwich then.
It’s better than nothing…..which leads me to a logical paradox…to help me shake off the feelings of utter heart-break.
My bacon sandwich is better than nothing.
Nothing is better than true love.
Therefore…my bacon sandwich is better than true love.
Or to put it in computer-slang
Bacon Sandwich > Nothing
Nothing > True love
Bacon Sandwich > True Love
Or to put it in visual representation
I’m tasked with finding a way to enjoy my Christmas Day….and I don’t feel like dressing up, eating spaghetti…and jumping in muddy puddles.
I’m going to start on the renovation of my dilapidated heart tomorrow….determined as I am to not let my Provencal-residing German dream-mangler ruin this special 25th day of December 2012.
They say that only time heals a broken heart…and that some hearts may never mend. Internet searches for ‘how to mend a broken heart’ just give you the usual commonplace counsel of mediocrity….telling you how much you’re hurting…and what you have to do to beat it. Yeah yeah…we know all that. We know you have to move on…and change your habits…and stop going to places you used to go to together. We know you have to step back and view it from the outside and break all contact. We know you have to keep busy and throw your self into new projects. Sometimes it’s a lot easier said than done.
You walk into a bar and a certain record comes on and pitches you straight back into the memory-zone.
Her favourite film comes on the TV and you remember the times you watched it together…before the split.
A butterfly floats by…reminding you that she has an honours degree in Lepidoptery from the University of Wurzburg…..where…incidentally…the X-Ray was invented by Wilhelm Rontgen in 1895.…reminding you of the night you spent with her…listening to the X-Ray Spex album…Germ Free Adolescents (£9.85...Amazon)
A sparrow flies by…..she likes Johnny Depp!
You see an apple tree….she has an apple tree in her garden!
You see a cherry tree…..she doesn’t have a cherry tree in her garden!
You hold an orange in your hand…and peel it with your fingers…and you are struck with the crashing realisation that she has hands and fingers too!
Hands that held the iPhone 3GS….and fingers that created that heart-crushing text.
Tap Tap Tap
“I’m changing my Facebook status to single”
Hard to beat…but I’m going to beat them…and I’ll re-organise my mind with the help of this daily emotional and motivational soliloquy.
Right now I’m about to watch A CHRISTMAS CAROL….the great Dickens story…which…ironically…is probably the most neuro-linguistic piece of popular fiction in modern literature.
Have a great Christmas Day people.
PS…..for those who want to mend their broken hearts using the commonplace solutions given out in internet searches….I’ll summarize it all for you in a poem…to save you hours and hours of lonely research. It might not work…but it’ll give me something to do for half an hour xxxxx
PPS…..please come back for my Boxing Day contemplations xxx
HOW TO MEND A BROKEN HEART
Boxing Day 2012
Traditionally the day that the workers and the poor get their Christmas Box from their employers and from the affluent…or…as I like to call it….Blood Money.
Blood in a box…which is about right if they give you a plasma tv.
Not a lot has changed since yesterday
Mussolini’s off his biscuits.
I’m drinking cider and green tea
My throat is as rough as a file….probably a Bastard File…ha…that reminds me of one of my favourite jokes:
A man goes into an ironmongers and says “I’d like a really heavy-duty file, please”
“Would you like a Bastard File, Sir” asks the assistant
“No” the man says….pointing to a file in the display cabinet
“I’ll have that little f*cker there”
If you’re thinking of passing that joke on…I wouldn’t bother really…cos in order for the joke to work the listener needs to know that such a tool as a Bastard File actually exists…and in these days of soft-technology over hard-mechanical industry the Bastard File has slipped down the rank (and file) somewhat.
A recent ‘Ironmongery In The UK’ survey…in fact…showed that only 2 out of 100 know what a Bastard File is. That’s why you’ll never hear great comedians like Stewart Lee or Jason Manford crack this joke. They’re not daft. They know that telling a joke to 750 people with the potential of only 15 people laughing is just not cutting the mustard. Oh…and that’s only if those 15 file-aware people actually found it funny.
So…I’m on the green tea….hoping to drink myself into shape…being generally healthy. Green light on the green tea.
One cup of green tea….for every four bottles of Strongbow.
Green tea….living on the edge…though it’s not exactly crystal meth.
It’s bad enough for me.
Boxing Day……the Tetra-Paks are on me.
My life is all about boxes now….boxes of tissues to dry my tears….boxed-up belongings to distribute ex-wards…boxed-up feelings kept close to my psyche…boxes of beautiful photos of trees…KFC boxes and pizza boxes filling my box-like plastic wheelie bin…first-aid boxes with reparatory sticking plasters to cover the gaping wounds of my emo-breakdown…the Pandora’s Box that has opened up and spewed out it’s evil contents before me at such a delicately sentimental time…the unrelenting and cold-blooded news that sprang out and hit me full in the face like some vicious horizontal hook from a prize-fighting Jack-In-The-Box…the pugilistic destroyer of the corrugated fibre-board that encases the rectangular sensitivities of my inner spirit…mutilating the erst-while protective folding cartons of my heart.
Not that I am bitter ;)
Another lonely…empty gift-box…left upon the shelf…waiting to be lifted down and filled with precious gems.
Heading for the coffin….the box we will all call our final home….our cubby-hole to the stars.
10-inch Bastard Files….£5.49 at Jewsons!
Flash eats a biscuit…mocking Mussolini’s inability to raise an appetite
Not much to do really…I don’t suppose you can play that ‘boxes’ game on your own. You know the game….don’t you!
You and a friend...or a sibling....joining up the boxes!
We didn’t need computers back in the day…we just needed pen and paper…and we learned our lessons in life and the games we played would shape our future. Whilst some of my more boisterous adolescent peers played British Bulldog…Tag and Oranges and Lemons…I was squirreled away in the library with my pen and paper….playing the parlour games that would shape the lives of many people like me.
BOXES: helped to shape you into a well-organised and tidy human-being…practical and logical…lessons to be learned as you closed the boxes and tightened your grip on theoretical realisation…in orderly fashion…making you intolerant of shoddy work-manship for the future. It also helped to instil an ethic of greed…nothing else mattered…you just had to acquire the most boxes. If you want your kid to grow up to be a team person…don’t teach him how to play boxes!
HANGMAN: a psychoanalytical approach to spelling which shaped your ruthless kill-or-be-killed disposition…dependant on whether you were presenting the word or guessing the word. How often…as a kid…did I despatch a friend to death via hanging by the neck because he couldn’t spell BAY CITY ROLLERS or SUZI QUATRO. How many times did I execute a class-mate for CORONATION STREET unfamiliarity. I recall the summer of ‘74 when I myself was doomed to pendulous destiny by a class-mate for not knowing a Newcastle United striker. I think it was Malcolm McDonald…the class-mate...not the striker.
It doesn’t matter now.
It mattered then though…it mattered then…that I was strung up in French Oral for a Magpie called Supermac…but I did let his tyres down in the bike-sheds later.
My class-mates tyres tyres…that is…not Malcolm McDonald's.
CONSEQUENCES: This lovely little parlour game to get the creative juices flowing….except you always ended up with rubbish ‘stories’ like this old one I found in a box of childhood memories:
Lionel Blair met Shirley Temple at 10 Downing Street. He said ‘I don’t usually like red balloons’ She said ‘Over the summer holidays we had fish-fingers’ He said ‘Stop eating all the green jelly babies’ She said ‘I’m in a phone-box….half-way up’
The consequence was….they got married and had kids and the world ended in a theoretic nuclear winter in a period of extreme cold…and reduced sunlight caused by massive amounts of soot…smoke…and dirt…and dust debris…yeah…five million tons of soot really…will descend upon the earth from the stratosphere and it’ll be dark and catastrophic and it will destroy the o-zone layer which protects us from the sun’s ultra-violet rays…but it doesn’t matter because we’ll all be dead anyway.
Ah well….I’ll carry on with my Boxing Day pursuits of sodoku, solitaire and word search…who knows….I might just pick up a Rubik’s cube.
I’ll let you all get on with things then. I hope you’re having a great day….whatever you are doing….be it visiting distant relatives to exchange ill-favoured festive gifts…or watching over-paid prima-donnas kicking a bag of air across a windy park…or braving the elements to cherry-pick the reduced goods in the UK’s shopping malls. I salute you all. Have fun!
Right now…I’m about to write a little tribute story for a friend who passed in the early part of this year after a lengthy battle against anorexia. I always called her ‘Haribo Girl’ because that was all she would eat. If the story works out to be nice I’ll add it to my diary…maybe tomorrow...but it needs to be a worthy and fitting tribute…..so we’ll see.
Best wishes to you all….see you tomorrow xxxxx
December 27th 2012
Well….it’s the 27th December and technically it’s still Christmas so I’m not about to begin the ‘mending’ process just yet. The Christmas period ends on 5th January…though I’m not going to leave it that long. I’ll certainly wait until I’ve stopped eating the Christmas food.
Today is about music, food and whatever else comes to mind.
My music of choice today comes from one of my favourite composers….the rather excellent Felix Labunski. Not only is he one of my pet manufacturers of classical sound…it’s his birthday today….he’d be 120 if he was still alive. (insert pun about him being a de-composer here…if you so desire…but I’m not going to bow to such cheap and obvious witticism)
So…he’s 120 today and it’s very apt that I play his Polish Renaissance Suite, from 1967, whilst I go about my ponderings.
Not that I need to plan my pursuits around anniversaries and birthdays.
I mean…WW1 Canadian Flying Ace Alfred McKay would have been 120 years old today as well…but I’m not going to fire up the Sopwith Camel and engage in daredevil dog-fights over Bazalgette Rise in battle with my pal, Deano William Andrews*, playing the part of The Red Baron….in his Fokker Tri-Plane.
Manfred von Richthofen….you can rest easy today.
Fighting is bad at this time of year…or actually…at any time of year.
Lay down your weapons!!!
The pen is mightier than the sword….the old adage goes.
Having said that…if it all kicks off in the pub car-park late one Friday night I know which weapon I’d go for.
You take the PaperMate flexi grip ultra……and I’ll have the Claymore.
Whilst I remember….I wrote the Haribo Girl story…I hope you don’t mind me putting it here.
‘Hello little stick-insect’ he whispered softly in her ear…lifting her gently out of her kaleidoscopic dream.
‘What…what the heck are you doing here?’ she croaked…when she realised she was curled up in her bed…in her own bedroom…and he was sat over her…holding her hand
‘Your messages scared me. It sounded like you were dying or something’
‘Don’t be so silly….I was a bit drunk…I had 3 Stellas and a quarter bottle of vodka. I’m fine…how the f*ck did you get in?’
‘I paid your sister off….£20 f*cking pounds….but she’s gone out for an hour…she'll probably spend it on a DVD...so we have an hour together’
‘Well….you shouldn’t worry about me…I’m fine…I’m always fine’
‘Well look’ he said…pulling a little brightly-coloured bag out of his jacket pocket
‘I got you these….Haribos….shaped like stars and spaceships. I know you’re not eating…but I’m sure you’ll eat these…and you can dream of travelling to the stars in a sticky little spaceship’
She shuffled….but very slightly…in her warm cocoon.
‘Thank you Mister Moratova’ she said with a wink
‘Put them next to my phone…I’ll eat them later’
‘Course I promise….look….you have to go. If my mum comes back she’ll kill you and she’ll kill me’
‘Okay baby….but as long as you are okay?’
She smiled….very weakly…but he could see the spirit was there.
‘I am fine….just very very tired….just go….go on…shoo…..I’ll text you soon’
He slipped his fingers out of hers….stroked her little cheek…and made his exit….happy knowing she had got her spirit back.
‘Make sure you eat those little spaceships baby’ he said…as he left the room. Her little return smile made him very happy.
A few hours later and he was at the bar….drinking….writing….popping in and out for cigarettes.
She reached out for her phone by the bed. The bag of Haribos were still sealed. Slowly….her fingers crept against the buttons in her phone…as she spelled out a short text. She was quite weak. It took a little effort to even press ‘send’
He sat at the bar….thinking of spaceships and journeys to the stars. He spoke to himself…he didn’t care who could see him.
‘I’m gonna make that f*cking happen for her one day…take her to the stars’
She laid back on the bed….she was smiling….thinking of the beautiful stars in the sky. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the time display on her phone as the seconds ticked up to 10pm.
He caught the barmaids attention
‘Same again please…just the one more'
He gave over a handful of change as he read the words of the poem he was writing.
‘Going to the stars in a spaceship baby…our love is out if this world’
His thoughts were interrupted by the text alert. He opened the text.
‘I love you x’
He smiled and lifted his pint. As he tilted his head to sup his beer he saw that the clock had hit 10pm.
Her phone slid from her hand and hit the floor with a clunk. A tiny little smile….a peaceful little smile…formed on her thin little lips as her sister played her newly purchased DVD in the other room.
He finished his beer and slung his khaki coat around his shoulders to face the brisk walk home.
Her little head flinched on the pillow as the stars twinkled in the night sky outside her window. The bag of Haribos remained unopened.
The stars spread their glitter and glimmer above in the night scene for both of them.
He exhaled deeply to beat the cold
She inhaled softly….for the last time….never to see the stars again.
The moonlight shone into the bedroom window…casting a glow across the unopened Haribos….and creating a small spotlight over the face of the sleeping angel…bathing her small weak smile with a cloak of light.
He stopped at the front door….with a sudden pang of realisation as he looked up at the starry sky.
‘Goodnight my sweet beautiful bag of bones’ he whispered…tears rolling untethered down his frozen cheek and onto the stiff khaki.
‘I will love you forever’
* In retrospect…Deano is a Spurs fan…so it’s highly inappropriate for him to be portraying a fighter pilot of German origin.
While you were reading that little story of mine I scuttled off to e-bay….to seek out a Claymore….in case it all kicks off on a Friday night. Not much luck I’m afraid…just a few plastic replicas and some whisky glasses.
But I did pick up a nice Sopwith Camel for £17,500
The spirit of Labunski plays his little neo-classical heart out…and I browse through some photographs of trees. People mock my fascination with trees…but I’m no tree-hugger…not that I’m knocking anyone who is.
I mean…I’m no hysterical zealot when it comes to my fondness of trees. I don’t have that many photographs…maybe…ten or maybe twenty….thousand. It’s just nice to see these living things that have been around for such a long time….a lot of them for longer than all the buildings we see around us. You can walk up the road and see a block of council houses that have been there for 80 years…and then you can take a 10-minute walk over the fields and see a tree that has been there for 5 times as long. You can only speculate as to how many people have climbed that tree.
All the little kids from the Smith, Brown, Parker, Butler, Thompson, Hennessy families who lived in council houses over the years.
How many conkers that came from the local horse-chestnut tree have died in agony around the class-rooms of the local neighbourhood schools…smashed to smithereens on the end of a bootlace!
How many cherries from the tree at the foot of my garden…huge tree that it is…have ended up in single cream at the crib of the Willow Pattern bowl!
Trees do so much for us….they help purify the air that we breathe by absorbing the carbon-dioxide……they provide shelter and warmth and act as sound-barriers and they lower the air temperature by evaporating water in their leaves.
They provide food and shelter for wild-life.
They provide glare and reflection control for drivers..
They provide material for snotty-nosed kids to make catapults…and go-carts…and tree-houses.
Trees make paper…paper makes books…books about trees
In 12 months a tree can absorb as much carbon as can be produced by a car driven for 8’500 miles.
In 12 minutes a school-boy (maybe called Nigel…or Stan) can climb 13ft up a particularly difficult to climb oak tree.
In 12 seconds a schoolboy can tumble to the ground (probably Nigel…Stan is a better arborist)….breaking his bones…perhaps resulting in a forearm fracture…bloody painful that…or even a badly broken leg.
On a positive note…broken legs on humans can be healed…Nigel wouldn’t have to be shot…like a horse.
Please don’t let your horses climb trees.
Or if you do…insist they use ropes and hard-hats…and stick to the safer trees like ash, apple, sycamore and oak…..avoiding the willows, poplars and horse-chestnuts…which are more hazardous.
Here’s a picture of me in my tree-library
It's the only time I smile really....when I am in my Tree Library.
I am very tired...it's been a long day...and it's a full moon. I've tried to be happy today...tried eating Haribos...and then Jelly Babies. I'm worn out and I am looking forward to getting out of 2012. Only then can I begin to create a new life for myself. 2013 is my big new start...stick with me and humour me for the next four days...then I'll light the touch-paper on a new dawn.
Full moon....Jelly Babies....boredom.
I decide to make The Jelly Baby Centipede
See you tomorrow...maybe xxx
Sleep well xxx
December 28th 2012
I suppose I'm being a bit more serious today...because...as the new year gets closer I know I have to have made some progress...otherwise the whole of 2012 has been a waste. So...I'm thinking about things...and I've realised that when the chips are down I need diversionary stratagem...things to steer my mind away from the norm. Sometimes....when I need a diversion from the sameness...I use what I call The Black Screen. No...it's nothing to do with computers. I've used this tactic on and off since the late 90's. How can I explain...without it coming across as a jumbled mess! Basically...here's the premise...as explained in a diary entry from March...1998.
The Black Screen
That was such a wonderful lie-in this morning. I just laid on my bed with my eyes closed….and as the sun was shining in through the window my vision was bathed in an orange-yellow glow. Yeah….it was like a yellow screen. I kept my eyes closed…because I wanted to think about something I am facing at the moment….and I had to reflect. I suddenly realised just how bad my situation is…and I inadvertently put my hand over my eyes….even though my eyes were closed. I muttered something like ‘Oh God’ and felt very low. Frightened. At the same time I was rather amazed at the sudden way the screen in my head….in my eyes…went to BLACK. I moved my hand away and kept putting it back over my eyes….and the sudden switch from orange-yellow to black never ceased to astound me. I looked out to the sun…eyes closed…..then slid my hand up over my eyes….and I saw the change. It shows how things change in the order of life….everyone lives…and everyone dies. I decided that life has to be lived. It’s selfish to ignore the changes. Suddenly I began to paint lovely little colourful scenes on the Black Screen….an elephant with a yellow hat….a seal balancing a beachball on it’s nose….a young boy kicking an apple along a windy road…a broken teddy-bear….some yellow Victorian lettering that said I always see the positive in every situation
So that’s my little story today...about change
That’s a WINDY road….as in winding all over the place….changing…not as in WINDY road….blowy and blustery making your life sad.
end of entry
Yeah....so that was an entry in my diary from 1998. Soon after I began using The Black Screen to escape from reality. Sorry...I know this is really going to be a boring entry now...this 28th of December...but It's my journal...ha ha...so I'll roll on.
Remember...I'm not mad....quite boringly straight and sane...in fact...and I don't do drugs.
So....here I was...in 1998...and I was getting over a bad accident....broken tibia and fibula....damaged head-bones...and I had the great fortune to meet Celine...she came over from France to study osteopathy. It was seen as an alternative medicine in France at the time.
I showed her my Black Screen technique,,,and we experimented on it together and she encouraged me to go into Black screen mode whilst she made experiments on the pain-relief aspect of my situation. As I went off to my far-off lands and put myself into my surreal situations..she started off by pinching my arms...and then exerting pressure on my damaged limbs...and by the time I was flying over the chimney-pots of Victorian England she was actually sticking pins into my legs...and I didn't feel a thing. I didn't even flinch. We soon realised how powerful this could be...as an anaesthetic. To cut a long story short...I know I can use the tactic now...when I need it.
Back to today...I went Black Screen...and it kind of came out in a regression way. Usually I'll go to places which can be seen as imaginary pseudo-placements. Today it seemed different...and I might just have found an early memory...in the recesses of my mind. I don't know...it could be imagination...but here's how I saw it...if I can explain it properly:
My parents are watching a film on television....I'm propped up in a wing-chair...with a quilt around me. The quilt is heavy and cold...but it keeps me warm. My dad is talking to my mum...he asks her to buy some boot-polish tomorrow. He's holding a shoebrush in his hand...he rests it on the couch...next to my chair. He puts his hand against the side of the chair I am propped up in. He says it's getting too hot. My mum asks him to move the chair. He does. He draws up the fire with a huge copy of the News of the World. I see a headline as the flames roar behind the broadsheet. 'LUNAR V Space Station Launched' I stare at the headline....then my attention goes to the shoebrush. It has a name stamped on it. W.Stubbs. My mum carries me to bed. I can't sleep. It must be the film. Flickering black and white with sharp piercing screams and splintered music. I cry and I scream. The water tank in my bedroom is splashing like the back streets of Whitechapel at the height of the reign of Jack the Ripper. The bang of the pipes in the tank is the click-click-clicking of a skeleton...tapping against the sides of the witches cauldron. All in my room.
back to life......
I wonder if those things really happened! I'll have to ask my mum.
That's it for today....but I did say at the start that this one would be boring.
December 29th 2012
Firstly I'll apologise for yesterday's journal entry...which was dull...sombre...and reflective. I'd had an odd day. It was Friday...and I was reading the Kent Messenger (local paper). I was in a cafe in Gillingham (roast lamb with veg...open the potatoes with a knife to let the heat out...pour gravy into the pale flesh of the potatoes...sprinkle of salt...kills two birds with one stone...flavours and cools the pots...so you can eat the whole meal within 30 minutes to beat the parking restrictions on Watling Street)
Anyway...reading the KM...turned a page...and there's a photo of Rio. I didn't expect to see that. Aren't they obliged to let me know first...if they are going to publish a photo of Rio...from my private collection...which they can only have downloaded from my FaceBook page! Grrr.It pissed me off a bit. God Bless you Rio x
So....many apologies for going off-key yesterday.
It's today now.
I had my photograph taken with a hippo
We are just good friends!!
I also saw a young mother wrench her little kid's arm almost out of it's socket outside the Early Learning Centre.
'You don't wanna go in there' she yelled...as she dragged the poor little mite out of the doorway
'It's only toys!'
It's like dragging an alcoholic away from a pub doorway screaming
'You don't wanna go in there...it's only lager'
I'm sitting in my lounge-diner. The lounge-diner...that great new advancement in 70's house-hold chic. If you had a lounge-diner in the 70's you were the 'dog's B*ll*ks'
I hate that phrase. Who invented it!
Who originated that canine couplet!
Who invented the lounge-diner!
Probably the Romans.
Back to the early learning incident.
It's like dragging a junkie away from a crack-den
Back to the 70's
"Ron and Dorothy have a lounge-diner"
"Oh really! They were always so very cosmopolitan and hip"
"Absolutely....they had the first K-Tel Knitmaster in Kidderminster...way before we even had the Ronco Buttoneer....and their Salad Spinner was the talk of the neighbourhood"
"Oh happy days"
"As seen on TV"
Yeah....so what I'm saying is...we all like gadgets...but back in the 70's the gadgets were terrible. The buttoneer left you looking like a sale item in a shop window...tagged for the New Year Sale...at Allied Carpets....probably. Easier to use cotton
I also had a Ronco LP Album Mutilator that masqueraded as a record-cleaner. Oh well....didn't want that Top of the Pops album anyway.
AS SEEN ON TV
Just toys! It's like dragging Billy Bunter away from a pie-shop.
So...if you had a lounge-diner in the 70's you were the hounds mounds (made that one up myself) You were cutting-edge.
Better than a serving-hatch
Any idiot can cut a hole in a wall and call it a serving-hatch.
You don't need a serving-hatch
You're in a 3-bed semi at Paddock Wood...you're not in the frigging Dorchester.
Lounge-diner....the mutt's nuts.
Tell ya what....to save you time you can make up your own canine couplets which depict greatness.
bow wow, cur, doggy, flea-bag, hound, man's best friend, mongrel, mutt, pooch, pup, stray, tyke,dog.
balls, b*ll*ks, gonads, cullions, nuts, rocks, testes, testicles, repro-organs, genitalia.
Just mix and match
Cur's Cullions sounds good
It's like dragging a 12-year old away from a Justin Bieber concert
I also had a K-Tel Cassette Tape Splicer...which was brilliant...cos I could tape the top 20 countdown and then splice out the DJ's comments. Awesome....until I discovered that it messed up the other side of the tape. That's when I invented mix-tapes.
I also had a Ronco Rhinestone and Stud Setter...which was brilliant for fixing studs to the back of a denim jacket. I done all the local girls. Let me rephrase that....I put DONNY and DAVID on the jackets of all the local girls. DONNY OSMOND for the girls...STATUS QUO for the boys.
I was into Rod Stewart at the time.
I think I made a Rod for my own back.
The only thing I need studded on my back now is CAUTION...WIDE LOAD
Or something like that.
My K-Tel Spleen-Remover is still in the cupboard...gathering dust.
Could start a shop......Jesus Christ
My New Shop
see you tomorrow
December 30th 2012
I started the day with some punk rock and some new wave as I got myself ready for work. A bit of early Suzie and the Banshees (yes....I know it's not Suzi....but I sure as Basingstoke ain't gonna attempt to spell Siouxsie....oh....done it)
The Undertones too
You don't get bands like this now....bands that capture the spirit of the day. (I won't attempt to spell zeitgeist. Oh...just done it)
Siouxsie's Happy House
The Undertones' True Confessions
The Pistols' God Save The Queen
Hmmm....how did I Never Ever Was A Beach Boy by The Jags get onto this mix-tape!
I suppose I'm getting old...but I still say you don't get stuff like this now....everything is so over-produced.
Listening to a lot of this old stuff....you get the basic drums that sound like they were recorded from miked-up skins in cold rehearsal rooms littered with Skol cans.
You get bass-lines that follow the melody of the vocal cos that's all the player knew (and needed) of music and structure. Easier to follow the vocal than to create misaligned contrasts.
I'm getting old
Twenty-five years in one house.
I need to get out.
Bricks and mortar hold you back like nothing else holds you back
'You know there ain't no place like home....to make you feel so all alone'
Stiff Little Fingers.....Gotta Get Away
1,300 weeks in one house
Almost half my life
14,324 cups of coffee
182,012 cups of tea
3,137 songs written....that's only about 125 a year. Most were crap
1,625 hours of Coronation Street (not counting repeats)
112 spag-bols (home-made)
11,001 spag-bols (ready-meal)
19,222 cans of Kronie 1664 (oh fuck)
(La Premiere Biere Francaise)
7 cats, 1 dog, 1 mouse, 1 brontosaurus*
5 new households to RHS
3 new households to LHS
4,541 pints of milk
12 television sets
82 new light-bulbs.
Gotta Get Away
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