Friday, 27 February 2009
The Futility of Multi-tasking and Clean Windows
Day 58, Friday, February 27 - Who says men can’t multi-task?
It is 9.11am. This morning I have 1) rolled out of bed 2) made Emma’s school lunch 3) fed her breakfast 4) fed myself breakfast 5) washed up 6) dried the dishes 7) played my three piano pieces 8) washed the French door windows inside and out 9) had a hot lemon juice 10) done a couple of cursory physical stretches 11) set up the ironing board and ironing 12) started to sub-edit a book 13) taken out the rubbish 14) ambushed Clare and told her about my five lengths of crawl yesterday (she tries hard to conceal her admiration but I can sense it all the same) 15) written this blog 16) served Jan her breakfast.
And what have I ended up with? Some smudged French windows, a cracked plate, Mary Had A Little Lamb played in the wrong key, Jan unhappy with the coffee I made and a bad neck.
Worse still, Jan is sitting right next to the French windows and has not apparently noticed that you can now see out of them.
It's not that men can't multi-task. They just don't see the point.
PS It's now 9.20am and still no mention of the windows... I was going to do the skylights later today but I'm reconsidering.
It is 9.11am. This morning I have 1) rolled out of bed 2) made Emma’s school lunch 3) fed her breakfast 4) fed myself breakfast 5) washed up 6) dried the dishes 7) played my three piano pieces 8) washed the French door windows inside and out 9) had a hot lemon juice 10) done a couple of cursory physical stretches 11) set up the ironing board and ironing 12) started to sub-edit a book 13) taken out the rubbish 14) ambushed Clare and told her about my five lengths of crawl yesterday (she tries hard to conceal her admiration but I can sense it all the same) 15) written this blog 16) served Jan her breakfast.
And what have I ended up with? Some smudged French windows, a cracked plate, Mary Had A Little Lamb played in the wrong key, Jan unhappy with the coffee I made and a bad neck.
Worse still, Jan is sitting right next to the French windows and has not apparently noticed that you can now see out of them.
It's not that men can't multi-task. They just don't see the point.
PS It's now 9.20am and still no mention of the windows... I was going to do the skylights later today but I'm reconsidering.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
More About Fragrant Wife...
Day 56, Wednesday February 25, 1pm: I’ve got a soft spot for Fragrant Wife (see posting January 3).
She’s one of those people with a real talent but without the confidence to match (I’ve always preferred a diametrically opposed approach, myself – overbearing arrogance based on nothing of any consequence).
I dropped in unannounced on FW the other day and demanded a cup of cha. FW blushes as she opens the door. It’s another of those endearing qualities. She blushes at dropping hats. She turns crimson when greengrocers say “tomatoes” and Welshmen “Aberystwyth”. That’s just how she is.
FW, if you remember, resolved to do a sketch a day to try and resuscitate her art. She admits, though, that she has already fallen way behind. Could I, though, see some of the sketches she has completed? FW blushes. No, I can’t.
Halfway through the cup, though, she changes her mind and fetches her book. She really can draw, can FW. There is a gorgeous still life of a pineapple, and an exquisite sketch of her two sons.
There’s also one of her husband, Boot Boy, but it doesn’t look anything like him. FW has made him look far too young and handsome and relaxed. He should be in Dr Martens, holding an axe handle and bellowing.
Perhaps that is just the way she perceives him. Which is rather sweet, however misguided.
She’s one of those people with a real talent but without the confidence to match (I’ve always preferred a diametrically opposed approach, myself – overbearing arrogance based on nothing of any consequence).
I dropped in unannounced on FW the other day and demanded a cup of cha. FW blushes as she opens the door. It’s another of those endearing qualities. She blushes at dropping hats. She turns crimson when greengrocers say “tomatoes” and Welshmen “Aberystwyth”. That’s just how she is.
FW, if you remember, resolved to do a sketch a day to try and resuscitate her art. She admits, though, that she has already fallen way behind. Could I, though, see some of the sketches she has completed? FW blushes. No, I can’t.
Halfway through the cup, though, she changes her mind and fetches her book. She really can draw, can FW. There is a gorgeous still life of a pineapple, and an exquisite sketch of her two sons.
There’s also one of her husband, Boot Boy, but it doesn’t look anything like him. FW has made him look far too young and handsome and relaxed. He should be in Dr Martens, holding an axe handle and bellowing.
Perhaps that is just the way she perceives him. Which is rather sweet, however misguided.
Friday, 20 February 2009
The Day The Russian Artillery Shell Missed Captain Nolan
Day 51, Friday February 20, 9am: Captain Louis Edward Nolan died 150 years ago, give or take, courtesy of a red-hot splinter from a Russian artillery shell at Sebastopol.
He supposedly gave out a blood-curdling scream on his way to his Maker.
The bit that really fascinated me as a boy, though, was that Nolan remained upright in his saddle, his sword held out before him, despite being very much dead as his horse galloped off the battlefield. That’s military discipline for you, that is.
Anyway. You may, or may not be immediately familiar with the Charge of the Light Brigade (even after my warning shot across the bows, see blog posting Feb 5). You may be wondering what I’m on about. But bear with me. In my mind, Captain Nolan and his commanding officer, Lord Cardigan, are inextricably linked with my New Year resolution of trying to be tidier about the house.
But back to 1854 and the Crimean War.
Historians disagree, of course – don’t they always? But the most popular hypothesis suggests that Nolan, suddenly realising that Cardigan and the Valiant 600 (actually about 673 horsemen took part in the charge, but don’t let specifics get in the way of a good poem) were about to ride into the Valley of Death, tried to intervene by riding across the front of the brigade. That, unfortunately, was when he copped it. Cardigan, being an absurd British toff, thought Nolan was showboating and trying to steal his thunder. “Damned impudence,” I hear him saying as he hurtled on towards the awaiting Russian guns (typically, Cardigan was one of the few to survive the charge, his eyebrows only lightly singed. He spent the evening drinking champagne on his yacht in Balaclava Harbour).
My point?
Simply, I have come to the conclusion that, domestically at least, there is more Cardigan in me than Nolan.
I keep charging off, doing things I find exciting and stimulating, even when the Nolan side suggests: “Look, perhaps this is not a great idea after all, those guns do look a tad menacing, why don’t you slow down, stop even, take a rain check, perhaps go and polish your stirrups or clip your sideburns rather than waving that sabre about in such a bellicose way?”
I simply will keep on doing the things which promise to quicken the pulse.
Which is why I go to the golf range (okay, okay, it might not quicken your pulse but it does mine), or practise my piano, or swim, rather than hang up my coat in the right place, take the washing out of the washing machine, hang up my ironed shirts or clear out the study.
Oh? Haven’t I mentioned the study yet? This is what this is all about, really. The study dominates everything, if I’m honest. It’s a boulder that I carry about with me in the haversack of life. It’s a monster lurking in my shadows. I know it’s there but I refuse to acknowledge it.
The study – actually, the whole house, to be honest, the study has just become the metaphor for my domestic incompetence - is now so untidy and cluttered that it’s impossible to traverse without falling over. I avoid going into the study whenever possible. If there’s paperwork that needs filing, I post it under the door.
Fact - I’m allergic to our study.
Which would be fine except that Jan sometimes works from home. I get ordered to tidy up and what do I do? I carry all the stuff from the study to another room. Then, when she complains about that room, I carry it all back.
It has taken my 49 and a half years, but I’ve just realised this is a waste of time. I was having a cup of tea with Lydia yesterday (aka Fragrant Wife, see posting of January 3) and she said she had cleaned up one of her sons’ rooms because she was sick of paying the mortgage for the three-bedroom house when her family appeared to be living in a two-bedroom home. Good point, I thought.
Lydia’s right. Things must change. No golf range today.
I am going into the study. I’m going in. I’m going in… (if I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it).
It’s time for Captain Nolan to stop Lord Cardigan for once. It’s time for the Russian artillery to miss.
He supposedly gave out a blood-curdling scream on his way to his Maker.
The bit that really fascinated me as a boy, though, was that Nolan remained upright in his saddle, his sword held out before him, despite being very much dead as his horse galloped off the battlefield. That’s military discipline for you, that is.
Anyway. You may, or may not be immediately familiar with the Charge of the Light Brigade (even after my warning shot across the bows, see blog posting Feb 5). You may be wondering what I’m on about. But bear with me. In my mind, Captain Nolan and his commanding officer, Lord Cardigan, are inextricably linked with my New Year resolution of trying to be tidier about the house.
But back to 1854 and the Crimean War.
Historians disagree, of course – don’t they always? But the most popular hypothesis suggests that Nolan, suddenly realising that Cardigan and the Valiant 600 (actually about 673 horsemen took part in the charge, but don’t let specifics get in the way of a good poem) were about to ride into the Valley of Death, tried to intervene by riding across the front of the brigade. That, unfortunately, was when he copped it. Cardigan, being an absurd British toff, thought Nolan was showboating and trying to steal his thunder. “Damned impudence,” I hear him saying as he hurtled on towards the awaiting Russian guns (typically, Cardigan was one of the few to survive the charge, his eyebrows only lightly singed. He spent the evening drinking champagne on his yacht in Balaclava Harbour).
My point?
Simply, I have come to the conclusion that, domestically at least, there is more Cardigan in me than Nolan.
I keep charging off, doing things I find exciting and stimulating, even when the Nolan side suggests: “Look, perhaps this is not a great idea after all, those guns do look a tad menacing, why don’t you slow down, stop even, take a rain check, perhaps go and polish your stirrups or clip your sideburns rather than waving that sabre about in such a bellicose way?”
I simply will keep on doing the things which promise to quicken the pulse.
Which is why I go to the golf range (okay, okay, it might not quicken your pulse but it does mine), or practise my piano, or swim, rather than hang up my coat in the right place, take the washing out of the washing machine, hang up my ironed shirts or clear out the study.
Oh? Haven’t I mentioned the study yet? This is what this is all about, really. The study dominates everything, if I’m honest. It’s a boulder that I carry about with me in the haversack of life. It’s a monster lurking in my shadows. I know it’s there but I refuse to acknowledge it.
The study – actually, the whole house, to be honest, the study has just become the metaphor for my domestic incompetence - is now so untidy and cluttered that it’s impossible to traverse without falling over. I avoid going into the study whenever possible. If there’s paperwork that needs filing, I post it under the door.
Fact - I’m allergic to our study.
Which would be fine except that Jan sometimes works from home. I get ordered to tidy up and what do I do? I carry all the stuff from the study to another room. Then, when she complains about that room, I carry it all back.
It has taken my 49 and a half years, but I’ve just realised this is a waste of time. I was having a cup of tea with Lydia yesterday (aka Fragrant Wife, see posting of January 3) and she said she had cleaned up one of her sons’ rooms because she was sick of paying the mortgage for the three-bedroom house when her family appeared to be living in a two-bedroom home. Good point, I thought.
Lydia’s right. Things must change. No golf range today.
I am going into the study. I’m going in. I’m going in… (if I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it).
It’s time for Captain Nolan to stop Lord Cardigan for once. It’s time for the Russian artillery to miss.
Monday, 16 February 2009
Whining (2)
Day 47, Monday, February 16, 11.45pm: You won’t believe me so there is no point in writing this. But I will anyway.
I had a glass of wine on Saturday. Oh alright… I had two glasses of wine on Saturday.
Which may suggest (see Resolution 7) that I have in some way failed.
I would argue, though, that Saturday and Resolution 7 are perfectly consistent.
In fact, I'd got further. Saturday was a show of strength.
I didn’t drink because I needed to, but because I wanted to. Jan and I had a film to watch and a nice meal to eat. The wine was the obvious accompaniment. I could have abstained. I chose not to.
I know, you don’t believe me. I said you wouldn't. But I believe I’m now a person who doesn't drink unless there's a good reason to do so. Before, I was a person who drank unless there was a good reason not to. I reckon that’s a fundamental shift.
I’m back to abstaining now, by the way. Until the next good film and the next good meal.
Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything to watch this evening. My pizzas were pretty good, though. Ask Jan. She has a glass of wine with hers.
I had a glass of wine on Saturday. Oh alright… I had two glasses of wine on Saturday.
Which may suggest (see Resolution 7) that I have in some way failed.
I would argue, though, that Saturday and Resolution 7 are perfectly consistent.
In fact, I'd got further. Saturday was a show of strength.
I didn’t drink because I needed to, but because I wanted to. Jan and I had a film to watch and a nice meal to eat. The wine was the obvious accompaniment. I could have abstained. I chose not to.
I know, you don’t believe me. I said you wouldn't. But I believe I’m now a person who doesn't drink unless there's a good reason to do so. Before, I was a person who drank unless there was a good reason not to. I reckon that’s a fundamental shift.
I’m back to abstaining now, by the way. Until the next good film and the next good meal.
Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything to watch this evening. My pizzas were pretty good, though. Ask Jan. She has a glass of wine with hers.
Sunday, 15 February 2009
Whining
Day 47, Monday, February 16,
So I won't.
It will save us both time to get on with other things.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
The Mildly Mad Magistrate
Friday February 13, 8am:
Let me introduce Matt The Mildly Mad Magistrate.
Not, I admit, a particularly accurate sobriquet. Matt is not yet a magistrate and he is not mildly insane either. He is totally so.
Matt – who I last met aged 13-and-a-half, until, that is, he turned up on my doorstep the other day as a Friend Reunited – has arguably out-resolved the rest of TRSNYRC by a fair distance.
He does, to be honest, have time on his hands after retiring early.
He also, however, has Go-For-It. Particularly for a man needing a kidney transplant and with knackered hips.
Here are his resolutions:
1) ride 100 miles in a day on the way to losing weight (while eating and drinking whatever he wants – cakes and alcohol most welcome).
2) Prepare for a Masters degree in Maths. So as to carry out research at the Dept of Cosmology and Gravitation. So as to get a Phd. So as to stick two fingers up the doctors, consultant and anaesthetists living in his road (if Brian May can do it, why can’t Matt?)
3) Climb
4) Rebuild his Z1000 Kawasaki and upset his neighbours (Matt was never a Hell’s Angel, he tells me, just leather jacketed, anti-social, immature, heavy drinking and belligerent).
5) And, of course, become a magistrate (thus giving him the power to incarcerate leather jacketed, anti-social, immature…
Mind you, these are mere resolutions, Matt. The proof will be in the pudding.
And you have a lot of catching up to do. We already have a fairly large pike in our keep-net. And I don’t want to crow but I wrestled my way through two entire lengths of crawl today before asphyxiating. I appear to have hurt my back in the process, and tweaked a hamstring but, for a sedantary 49-year-old would-be athlete, that's real progress, that is. Mount
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Tony Not The Fish (Tony The Greco-Roman Wrestler)
Day 42, Wednesday February 11, 8.30pm - I blame my Dad. Except that my Dad was wonderful, so that can't be right.
It must be my fault, although I find that very hard to believe.
It turns out that I can't swim. Well, not properly, anyway. I am fish-unlike.
To be honest, I'd suspected as much for some fair while. I've been watching Seven-Year-Old's swimming lessons and been left confused by some of the instruction. Dad never taught me like that. Or perhaps I wasn't listening.
Anyway, I went to an adults' class today. There was a fair mix of abilities, with non-swimmers on the one hand and triathletes on the other. I was left floundering somewhere in the middle.
I was there, I told the teacher, because I seem to run out of breath while doing the crawl. I reckoned I could do about four lengths at most, as opposed to 10 lengths of breast stroke.
Put through my paces, I discovered that I could, in fact, only manage one length of crawl.
Teacher says, to be perfectly honest, I'm not really swimming at all. I'm Greco-Roman wrestling the water. My head's in the wrong position, my shoulders are tense and bunched up and I'm not breathing out vigorously enough, meaning that my lungs soon fill up with carbon dioxide. I also rock too much from side to side.
By the end of the half-hour, I was managing about half a length before spluttering to a standstill.
Swimming 20 length of crawl is not going to be easy. I am not, it turns out, a natural. I have the swimming aptitude of a brick, rather than of a Phelps.
It must be my fault, although I find that very hard to believe.
It turns out that I can't swim. Well, not properly, anyway. I am fish-unlike.
To be honest, I'd suspected as much for some fair while. I've been watching Seven-Year-Old's swimming lessons and been left confused by some of the instruction. Dad never taught me like that. Or perhaps I wasn't listening.
Anyway, I went to an adults' class today. There was a fair mix of abilities, with non-swimmers on the one hand and triathletes on the other. I was left floundering somewhere in the middle.
I was there, I told the teacher, because I seem to run out of breath while doing the crawl. I reckoned I could do about four lengths at most, as opposed to 10 lengths of breast stroke.
Put through my paces, I discovered that I could, in fact, only manage one length of crawl.
Teacher says, to be perfectly honest, I'm not really swimming at all. I'm Greco-Roman wrestling the water. My head's in the wrong position, my shoulders are tense and bunched up and I'm not breathing out vigorously enough, meaning that my lungs soon fill up with carbon dioxide. I also rock too much from side to side.
By the end of the half-hour, I was managing about half a length before spluttering to a standstill.
Swimming 20 length of crawl is not going to be easy. I am not, it turns out, a natural. I have the swimming aptitude of a brick, rather than of a Phelps.
John The Fish or John The Photoshop?
Day 42, Wednesday February 11, 1 pm: A belated tribute to John The Fish.
While the rest of TRSNYRC were quaffing wine and eating muffins last Saturday, he was out braving the West Country snow in search of that 20lb pike of his.
As many of you will know, he returned home having caught two fine specimens - one weighing in at 19lb 8oz and the second at 17lb 3oz. So near and yet so far...
I have, incidentally, tried to post his pike picture but the blog does not seem to like it.
I am wondering why.
Perhaps it is because I am technologically inept (see Head Sloth's resolutions).
Or perhaps the picture has been doctored some way. I gather Photoshop can pretty much do anything nowadays, in the right hands. Perhaps John The Fish has airbrushed his face onto a photograph of someone else? Or perhaps he airbrushed the pike in, after catching a 3oz goldfish?
Answers on a postcard.
Keep letting the rest of us know of your successes, be it with rod or Photoshop.
While the rest of TRSNYRC were quaffing wine and eating muffins last Saturday, he was out braving the West Country snow in search of that 20lb pike of his.
As many of you will know, he returned home having caught two fine specimens - one weighing in at 19lb 8oz and the second at 17lb 3oz. So near and yet so far...
I have, incidentally, tried to post his pike picture but the blog does not seem to like it.
I am wondering why.
Perhaps it is because I am technologically inept (see Head Sloth's resolutions).
Or perhaps the picture has been doctored some way. I gather Photoshop can pretty much do anything nowadays, in the right hands. Perhaps John The Fish has airbrushed his face onto a photograph of someone else? Or perhaps he airbrushed the pike in, after catching a 3oz goldfish?
Answers on a postcard.
Keep letting the rest of us know of your successes, be it with rod or Photoshop.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
The Indian Mutiny (War of Independence) Mark II
Day 40, Tuesday, February 10, 3 pm: I sense a new Indian Mutiny. Or rather - apologies to my New Delhi friends - a new Indian War of Independence.
I refer, of course, to Kuldip's comment to Monday's post "TRSNYRC First Meeting Declared a Grape Success."
The man is clearly beginning to question his own resolve to halve his own body mass. All we asked for was a progress report and Kuldip immediately hides behind his admittedly sharp sense of humour...
(It's the sort of comment Boot Boy would have posted, if he weren't ignoring us. You remember the one - he with Fragrant Wife who refused to have anything to do with TRSNYRC - see January 3 posting.)
So, Kuldip, you have challenged us. Now it is time for us to challenge you - what have you managed to do towards your resolution so far?
Best wishes,
Head Sloth
PS I am down from 83.4kg to 79.5, in case you wanted to know)
I refer, of course, to Kuldip's comment to Monday's post "TRSNYRC First Meeting Declared a Grape Success."
The man is clearly beginning to question his own resolve to halve his own body mass. All we asked for was a progress report and Kuldip immediately hides behind his admittedly sharp sense of humour...
(It's the sort of comment Boot Boy would have posted, if he weren't ignoring us. You remember the one - he with Fragrant Wife who refused to have anything to do with TRSNYRC - see January 3 posting.)
So, Kuldip, you have challenged us. Now it is time for us to challenge you - what have you managed to do towards your resolution so far?
Best wishes,
Head Sloth
PS I am down from 83.4kg to 79.5, in case you wanted to know)
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Charging the Wrong Guns
Day 36, Thursday February 5, 7.30pm - I've just has a Road to Damascus. Like Captain Nolan did, at Balaclava.
There I was, happily having my 25th green tea and ninth raw carrot of the day while answering emails, and it suddenly came to me.
"Get a life", I'd concluded this morning and in my last post. But I don't need to get a life.
That was my 1999-2006 problem, when I spent most of my time being less than healthy and feeling sorry for myself.
I'm fine now, though. I've got a life. The trouble is, it doesn't work.
What I need - what my family needs, I think - is a life that works.
It was easy before Seven-Year-Old Daughter. Jan and I went to work and that was that.
You don't need to be particularly organised when your life is full of work and bereft of any other content apart from the odd Medoc, late-night film and recuperative holiday.
But now I want all of us to have more time, even at the expense of a fat wallet, those foreign holidays and the latest generation of MP3 players. I want us to concentrate more on where we are now, rather than the commute. I want every day to be a holiday.
So many of us seem to live to work. Gordon Brown can't get enough of the stuff and wants the same puritanism for us.
I'm happy to work, but it's the living part I'm really after.
I want to halt this Charge of the Light Brigade and reconsider. I think I may be hurtling in the wrong direction.
What has this got to do with New Year resolutions? Well, they're the bits that I like about my life, I suppose.
I thought this TRSNYRC lark was a blogging game but perhaps it's more than that.
As from today, I'm on holiday. I'm turning around. I'm not sure I'd know what to do with a battery of Russian guns even if I did manage to capture them.
There I was, happily having my 25th green tea and ninth raw carrot of the day while answering emails, and it suddenly came to me.
"Get a life", I'd concluded this morning and in my last post. But I don't need to get a life.
That was my 1999-2006 problem, when I spent most of my time being less than healthy and feeling sorry for myself.
I'm fine now, though. I've got a life. The trouble is, it doesn't work.
What I need - what my family needs, I think - is a life that works.
It was easy before Seven-Year-Old Daughter. Jan and I went to work and that was that.
You don't need to be particularly organised when your life is full of work and bereft of any other content apart from the odd Medoc, late-night film and recuperative holiday.
But now I want all of us to have more time, even at the expense of a fat wallet, those foreign holidays and the latest generation of MP3 players. I want us to concentrate more on where we are now, rather than the commute. I want every day to be a holiday.
So many of us seem to live to work. Gordon Brown can't get enough of the stuff and wants the same puritanism for us.
I'm happy to work, but it's the living part I'm really after.
I want to halt this Charge of the Light Brigade and reconsider. I think I may be hurtling in the wrong direction.
What has this got to do with New Year resolutions? Well, they're the bits that I like about my life, I suppose.
I thought this TRSNYRC lark was a blogging game but perhaps it's more than that.
As from today, I'm on holiday. I'm turning around. I'm not sure I'd know what to do with a battery of Russian guns even if I did manage to capture them.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
TRSNYRC gets set to party...
Day 36, Thursday, February 5, 8.30 am - The Really Serious New Year's Resolution Club meets for the first time this weekend. I wonder if anyone will turn up.
It will be odd. I intend to bake a few cakes and open a few bottles of red, then watch everybody else indulge while I sip green tea and nibble on rice cakes. What a fun guy I've become...
I also wonder how many of our members realise that we're already a tenth of the way through the year?
I've been panicking ever since realising.
And I've also been panicking at my apparent inability to stop my resolutions proliferating.
We're meant to be returning to the warm embrace of the sofa by now and jettisoning all those ridiculously good intentions, but I seem to be collecting more and more on a daily basis.
I began with three main resolutions:
a) contact as many old friends/colleagues from my over-populated email inbox (I had no idea that 900 unsorted emails in your inbox was out of the ordinary until one of my neighbours burst out laughing).
b) get back to my 1989 weight (11st 7lbs - more laughing).
c) learn to play the piano to at least grade 3 (whatever that means - I think grade 8 is 'A' level standard, but I may be wrong).
I can report that:
a) I have to date received 174 emails from people I'd lost touch with over the years.
b) I'm down from 13st 3lbs to 12st 8lbs since the start of the year (although I seem to have hit a buffer over the last week) and
c) I am entered for my first piano exam in March (it's for buffoons, apparently, but it's a start).
Since then, though, there have been additions.
d) I won't eat crisps or sweets or drink alcohol for a year (that last one is copied from m brother-in-law and, amazingly, I'm still on track)
e) I will get myself the first six-pack of my life (I don't appear to have any stomach muscles at the moment, nor do I ever remember having any - how do I manage to stay standing up?)
f) I'll read at least two German books this year (no progress there, I'm afraid) and learn rudimentary Spanish (no progress).
g) I'll make more money than I did last year (which won't be very hard - all I need to do is get a paper round)
h) I'll learn how to blog (I reckon I've cracked that one) and try to master more domestic technology (I can't work the video, our cameras and I'm barely literate when it comes to computers. Jan's taught me how to use the Dyson, unfortunately).
i) I'll swim 50 lengths in one go at the local swimming pool (yet to find my swimming trunks)
j) I'll finish unpacking our removal boxes (we moved into our current house three years ago - or was it four?) and I'll put up a few pictures and paint the odd wall or two (no progress).
k) I'll start my own website (no progress).
l) I'll play at least one round on golf to seven over or less (I last picked up a club three months ago but I intend to make a comeback once the snow has melted).
m) I'll improve as a cook (Jan is getting food poisoning a lot less so the signs are good...)
n) I'll eat more fresh fish.
o) I'll do some DIY and clean some of the house at least once a week (I'm considering relegating that to once every two weeks).
p) I'll sort out the study so that we can at least get in the room (no progress at all).
q) I'll stop making so many stupid resolutions and try to get a life...
It will be odd. I intend to bake a few cakes and open a few bottles of red, then watch everybody else indulge while I sip green tea and nibble on rice cakes. What a fun guy I've become...
I also wonder how many of our members realise that we're already a tenth of the way through the year?
I've been panicking ever since realising.
And I've also been panicking at my apparent inability to stop my resolutions proliferating.
We're meant to be returning to the warm embrace of the sofa by now and jettisoning all those ridiculously good intentions, but I seem to be collecting more and more on a daily basis.
I began with three main resolutions:
a) contact as many old friends/colleagues from my over-populated email inbox (I had no idea that 900 unsorted emails in your inbox was out of the ordinary until one of my neighbours burst out laughing).
b) get back to my 1989 weight (11st 7lbs - more laughing).
c) learn to play the piano to at least grade 3 (whatever that means - I think grade 8 is 'A' level standard, but I may be wrong).
I can report that:
a) I have to date received 174 emails from people I'd lost touch with over the years.
b) I'm down from 13st 3lbs to 12st 8lbs since the start of the year (although I seem to have hit a buffer over the last week) and
c) I am entered for my first piano exam in March (it's for buffoons, apparently, but it's a start).
Since then, though, there have been additions.
d) I won't eat crisps or sweets or drink alcohol for a year (that last one is copied from m brother-in-law and, amazingly, I'm still on track)
e) I will get myself the first six-pack of my life (I don't appear to have any stomach muscles at the moment, nor do I ever remember having any - how do I manage to stay standing up?)
f) I'll read at least two German books this year (no progress there, I'm afraid) and learn rudimentary Spanish (no progress).
g) I'll make more money than I did last year (which won't be very hard - all I need to do is get a paper round)
h) I'll learn how to blog (I reckon I've cracked that one) and try to master more domestic technology (I can't work the video, our cameras and I'm barely literate when it comes to computers. Jan's taught me how to use the Dyson, unfortunately).
i) I'll swim 50 lengths in one go at the local swimming pool (yet to find my swimming trunks)
j) I'll finish unpacking our removal boxes (we moved into our current house three years ago - or was it four?) and I'll put up a few pictures and paint the odd wall or two (no progress).
k) I'll start my own website (no progress).
l) I'll play at least one round on golf to seven over or less (I last picked up a club three months ago but I intend to make a comeback once the snow has melted).
m) I'll improve as a cook (Jan is getting food poisoning a lot less so the signs are good...)
n) I'll eat more fresh fish.
o) I'll do some DIY and clean some of the house at least once a week (I'm considering relegating that to once every two weeks).
p) I'll sort out the study so that we can at least get in the room (no progress at all).
q) I'll stop making so many stupid resolutions and try to get a life...
Piano Man's In Need Of A Plastic Head
Day 35, Wednesday, Feburary 4, 12.21pm - My piano teacher has some good news for me, and some bad.
(Oh, yes, sorry, I'd forgotten to mention. Learning the piano is my third NYR, after (i) getting back to my 1989 weight and (ii) emailing as many as my old friends and colleagues as I can find in my email box).
The good news?
I am not, it transpires, tone deaf, as I had always imagined. And I could learn to sing, he says, I really could.
"Not that I would necessarily pay to listen," adds Neil Piano Teacher after forcing me to hum 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Apparently I have never recovered from being humiliated by my prep school music teacher, who used to make each pupil stand up in front of the class and sing. As a result, my vocal chords have been tied in the tightest of knots ever since. Appropriately, that acutely short-tempered teacher was called O'Kill and still stalks my nightmares to this day.
The bad news? Well, after four lessons and a fair few hours of practice, I currently perform - and I use a direct quote - like a "buffoon". I'm willing enough, apparently, but my fingers do not appear to be capable of obeying the simplest of commands, my timing is erratic and I have the disconcerting habit of humming the wrong tunes while clapping out a piece of music.
"I'm not sure I could do that if I tried," says Neil Piano Teacher, secretly impressed and not-so-secretly exasperated.
Apart from that, everything is fine.
To my utter surprise, I am rather enjoying this introduction to crotchets and quavers, even if much of what NPT says seems to be in medieval Latvian (what the heck are tonics and mediants and sub-dominants? - answers on a postcard. I just nod whenever Neil strays into Latvian, press down the nearest available key and smile simply at him while hoping the question will go away.)
Emma, meanwhile, who is also having lessons, remembers everything. She just plays. She just does. I think, she does. I ponder and she presses keys. Apparently, it's something to do with mental plasticity. She's malleable and flexible and open and I'm hard-wired and ancient and as pliable as ironing boards.
My measurable goal, incidentally, is to get to grade three within the year. I was told by one of my School Mum Chums that I'd struggle to get beyond grade two, so I'm determined to show her.
One current form, I'll do well to find middle C by December 31.
(Oh, yes, sorry, I'd forgotten to mention. Learning the piano is my third NYR, after (i) getting back to my 1989 weight and (ii) emailing as many as my old friends and colleagues as I can find in my email box).
The good news?
I am not, it transpires, tone deaf, as I had always imagined. And I could learn to sing, he says, I really could.
"Not that I would necessarily pay to listen," adds Neil Piano Teacher after forcing me to hum 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Apparently I have never recovered from being humiliated by my prep school music teacher, who used to make each pupil stand up in front of the class and sing. As a result, my vocal chords have been tied in the tightest of knots ever since. Appropriately, that acutely short-tempered teacher was called O'Kill and still stalks my nightmares to this day.
The bad news? Well, after four lessons and a fair few hours of practice, I currently perform - and I use a direct quote - like a "buffoon". I'm willing enough, apparently, but my fingers do not appear to be capable of obeying the simplest of commands, my timing is erratic and I have the disconcerting habit of humming the wrong tunes while clapping out a piece of music.
"I'm not sure I could do that if I tried," says Neil Piano Teacher, secretly impressed and not-so-secretly exasperated.
Apart from that, everything is fine.
To my utter surprise, I am rather enjoying this introduction to crotchets and quavers, even if much of what NPT says seems to be in medieval Latvian (what the heck are tonics and mediants and sub-dominants? - answers on a postcard. I just nod whenever Neil strays into Latvian, press down the nearest available key and smile simply at him while hoping the question will go away.)
Emma, meanwhile, who is also having lessons, remembers everything. She just plays. She just does. I think, she does. I ponder and she presses keys. Apparently, it's something to do with mental plasticity. She's malleable and flexible and open and I'm hard-wired and ancient and as pliable as ironing boards.
My measurable goal, incidentally, is to get to grade three within the year. I was told by one of my School Mum Chums that I'd struggle to get beyond grade two, so I'm determined to show her.
One current form, I'll do well to find middle C by December 31.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Where's Aikido Phil when you need him?
Day 35, February 4, 0.25 am - I found myself wishing I were Aikido Phil the other day. Or, at the very least, that I'd had him by my side.
Aikido Phil, for the uninitiated, is just that - Phil who teaches Aikido in Brighton. He's fit and fearless. His New Year resolution is to get into boxing as well.
I'm Head Sloth, unfit and as brave as a snake with a yellow underside.
So there I was, in the Tube late at night, when wild-eyed Man A for no apparent reason takes a sudden dislike to bespectacled, studious-looking Man B and begins hitting him.
This, of course, is where Phil would have moved in, quietly and calmly defusing things with i) a few quiet words of warning or, failing that ii) a few quickt Aikido blows to the head which would have rendered Man A unconcious.
But Phil is not there, just me and my knocking knees. Man A punches Man B again and I ponder, along the lines of:
Reasons to take action - Man B looks like he could do with a little help/it's the right thing to do/nobdy else seems to be reacting/how would I feel if I'd had the misfortune to be bespectacled or remotely studious-looing?
Reasons not to take action - Man A might have a knife and is, incidentally, young and fitter than I ever was/I've damaged my ankle following an argument with a factory gate and would not be much help to Man B even if I wanted to/I'm a committed coward.
And while I prevaricate an elderly gent who looks a more wrinkled and significantly less fit than me (which is saying something) charges into the fray, kicks Man A, brands him a good-for-nothing bully and chases him off.
There is not a knife to be seen and I go all the way home with my tail between my legs.
And I think: "I wish one of my resolutions had involved Aikido or boxing or bravery."
But it didn't. My first resolution involves losing weight and my second, even more uselessly, involves learning the keyboard.
If I'd had my keyboard with me, I suppose I might have used it to hit Man A over the head.
Or, if my lack of courage had not even permitted that, I could at least have tried giving him a headache with an erratic, error-strewn rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
Aikido Phil, for the uninitiated, is just that - Phil who teaches Aikido in Brighton. He's fit and fearless. His New Year resolution is to get into boxing as well.
I'm Head Sloth, unfit and as brave as a snake with a yellow underside.
So there I was, in the Tube late at night, when wild-eyed Man A for no apparent reason takes a sudden dislike to bespectacled, studious-looking Man B and begins hitting him.
This, of course, is where Phil would have moved in, quietly and calmly defusing things with i) a few quiet words of warning or, failing that ii) a few quickt Aikido blows to the head which would have rendered Man A unconcious.
But Phil is not there, just me and my knocking knees. Man A punches Man B again and I ponder, along the lines of:
Reasons to take action - Man B looks like he could do with a little help/it's the right thing to do/nobdy else seems to be reacting/how would I feel if I'd had the misfortune to be bespectacled or remotely studious-looing?
Reasons not to take action - Man A might have a knife and is, incidentally, young and fitter than I ever was/I've damaged my ankle following an argument with a factory gate and would not be much help to Man B even if I wanted to/I'm a committed coward.
And while I prevaricate an elderly gent who looks a more wrinkled and significantly less fit than me (which is saying something) charges into the fray, kicks Man A, brands him a good-for-nothing bully and chases him off.
There is not a knife to be seen and I go all the way home with my tail between my legs.
And I think: "I wish one of my resolutions had involved Aikido or boxing or bravery."
But it didn't. My first resolution involves losing weight and my second, even more uselessly, involves learning the keyboard.
If I'd had my keyboard with me, I suppose I might have used it to hit Man A over the head.
Or, if my lack of courage had not even permitted that, I could at least have tried giving him a headache with an erratic, error-strewn rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
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