The Boiled Egg of Infinity

It’s been a few months since I started this blog, and it strikes me now that I should be starting to expand the look a little beyond the basic Blogger template. And so, I turn to you, my readers, for a little feedback. Anything you would like to see changed? Any blogs that have a feature you’ve loved and would like to see ripped off – er, that is, implemented with a loving homage – here? Let me know. I have some design skills and it’s time to try to bring my A game on this one.

Also, my blogroll will soon be getting tidied up and expanded a little, as will my website list. The egg is about to expand – and I need your help to make sure it expands in all the right ways.

MCF recently invited his readership to judge five tales, spun in his usual inimitable style. As is usual with the mysterious cloaked figure there was a twist and all of the tales turned out to be true: the only thing was that one of them didn’t actually happen to MCF. One of them did make me laugh, but I suspect not for reasons known to MCF at the time he was writing it.

At one point MCF bemoaned the price of gasoline in his area, which at one point rose to a whopping $3.75. Now I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that was per gallon. So you can imagine the laugh that escaped my lips today when I went to put some petrol in my car and found that unleaded was up to 93.9 pence per litre. Note that that isn’t per gallon, it’s per litre. Per fucking litre. I’ll leave the maths up to the Americans in the audience. My name is Fawndoo, buyer of expensive petrol. Look on my prices ye Americans and compare.

One day I will share with you my bitter rant about how I’m tired of the government lining up in a neat queue to kick me in the balls just because I own a car. One day I will share with you the plea I run through every time I see the petrol price rise three times in one week. One day I might even share with you the hope that one day the Chancellor and his cronies will take a break from kicking me in the bollocks and might actually try to cut down on some of the highest fuel excise duties in the industrialised first world.

But not today. Not today.

Today my better half and I hot a local shopping mall for a little wander. Motivated by the sunny weather, the fact that we needed to go by the post office to pick up a parcel and the distinct lack of funds available since this is the last week before payday, we decided to make this a “window shopping” trip. You know the sort – you spend a lot of time looking in shop windows going “ooooh” because you can’t afford to spend anything else inside the shops. That said it gives us both a chance to indulge our inner shopping snobs by looking at stuff that we just wouldn’t give house room to, so it isn’t so bad.

Among the sights and sounds of the day, some of my favourite moments include:

1) Sitting in Subway having a sandwich and watching a young boy sit down outside with his father and gaze lovingly into a shopping bag which contained his brand new PSP. I’m not kidding, this kid was looking at it with genuine love in his eye and a goofy grin on his face. If I was that PSP I would be expecting a candlelit dinner and a walk in the park based on the look he had on his face. Of course there would be no peripheral action and he would only get to my circle button, because I wouldn’t be that kind of handheld console.

2) Seeing some poor sod dressed up as a dragon handing out leaflets for a child play area that parents can use to park their brats while they get some shopping done. We don’t have many hot days in Scotland, but bless me if this unlucky bastard didn’t manage to get to wear the heavy dragon costume on one of them, and have to pose for pictures with just about every child that approached him. I might moan about my job, but they haven’t made me dress up like a mythical creature yet. That said I haven’t checked my work email today, so you never know.

3) Being called over to my better half’s side while we were wandering in Whittard’s tea shop, and looking on in amazement as she pointed at a packet of tea and with some disgust whispered to me, “Look at that! Monkey pickled tea! Ewwwww!” While she wondered whether the monkeys pickled the tea or were pickled in the tea (and, presumably, whether or not she shouldn’t call this one in to the RSPCA), I bent down to pick up a pack of this most curious stuff, only to find that the label actually read “Monkey picked tea“, a reference to days gone by when people trained monkeys to climb to inaccessible areas and pick the choicest tips for fine tea. They don’t do that anymore, but the name has stuck. As has the image in my head of a poor teamaker fighting with a chimpanzee and shouting “Get in the jar, you bastard!” as it “oooh ooooh”s back and flings faeces with a fierce intensity and frightening accuracy.

Of course, I never misread things, oh no. 100% accurate, that’s me. I didn’t look at a book titled “White Ghosts” and think for a moment it was actually “Shite Ghosts” because there was a price sticker in the way. I didn’t once look at a newspaper stand with the headline “Mobs deface Dewar statue” and think they were talking about some famous statue of a conscientious objector and not realise they were in fact talking about a statue of our now dead First Minister Donald Dewar (thinking it meant de-war like de-commission or de-grade). Oh no. 100% accurate me. Always thinking.

Well, it’s done. Cases finished, closing speeches delivered, verdict reached and given. My jury duty is over, my little experience as a small cog in the large machine of the British justice system is at an end, and not a moment too soon. I did my job, I did what I was instructed to do and I acted to the best of my ability as my conscience and the facts demanded, but it’s something I hope I never do again. There are some nasty things in the world, and the last few days have served as an unwelcome reminder of that for me.

I promise things will get cheerier from now on, but for now I find I am looking at things in a much darker light than I usually do. I’m pessimistic by nature, but seeing a little glimpse of the nastiness that the world can contain has put me beyond my usual Eeyore-like state of being into an entirely darker mood altogether. Churchill called it his black dog. At the moment I am spending a bit more time with my better half, just enjoying seeing her smile, hearing her laugh and indulging in the simple pleasure of spending some time with her. I’ve said before that I get too tied up in work and I do, but seeing what I have seen over the past few days has reminded me that there is more to life to enjoy, and plenty of nastiness happening, so I should enjoy myself a little more. And guess what? I’m going to try.

One thing that has made me smile though – in looking up a page for the Churchill link above, I happened upon this page, detailing some of the peculiarities of past Prime Ministers. For anyone who wants to further enhance in their own minds the British stereotype for general eccentricity, this is an essential read.

Tomorrow I get to see and do something new when I report to the High Court in Glasgow for jury duty. Putting aside for a moment my worries about the British Justice system having gotten so desperate that they’re having to call me up, it should at least be an interesting experience. I don’t think there will be any Denny Cranes but there will hopefully be old men in black robes and comical wigs, and any day that has old men in comical wigs can’t be bad. It’s just, well, the law.

My only real worry is that if it is a serious case, it can take weeks to work through, so if I suddenly go quiet for the next fortnight you know what has happened. Knowing my luck I’ll be on the jury deciding the fate of a serial killer with a photographic memory. Must remember to take along a fake moustache and glasses.

And mere days after granting Jerry’s wish, I now wave my magic wand and grant one of Wendy’s. You want to see a photo of me? Done. And not only done, but taken on a better camera than I usually have access too, on a sunnier day than we usually enjoy, and with a nice outfit on too. All in all, a good deal: extra bang for your buck, you might even say. Just head on over to FlickrDoo to see the first photo from the wedding I was at on Friday. More on the day itself later, including the almighty shoe fuck-up, but for now enjoy the photo.

Seems one-time BBC newsreader Michael Buerk has had enough of these damned women taking over the reins of power and has decided to fight back. Blasting most of modern society in a bizarre freak show rant that is only just this side of “not insane”, Buerk displays frustration at so many women walking the corridors of power at the BBC. Maybe they brought too many flowery curtains? An overabundance of soft cushions? Or was he just sick of the constant smell of pot-pourri and perfume? Whatever those damned high-heel jockeys did, it set old man Buerk off on one and now he’s a one man crusade to take back the Beeb and return it to the hands of men. Presumably men who smoke pipes, have moustaches, wear cardigans and possess time travel technology to allow them to commute to work from the year 1955.

The man’s outburst would be funny if it weren’t quite so pathetic and tinged with a sad, fist-shaking rage at the modern world. I mean, let’s have a look at some of his more salient points (and I use that word with as much tongue in cheek as I can manage without looking like someone who’s trying to swallow a golf ball):

Mister Buerk, he say: “Products are made for women, cars are made for women – because they control what is being bought.”

Damn women! Damn them! First they fight for the right to earn the money, and then they expect to spend it on things that are made with them in mind? Bloody cheek, if you ask me. Oh, it starts of small, just a rubber grip on a razor for their legs, but where does it end up? APOCALYPSE, THAT’S WHERE! I’m just saying, fuck with a man’s toilet products, that’s where you end up. Hell. I’m just saying, is all.

Mister Buerk goes on to proclaim, “Almost all the big jobs in broadcasting were held by women – the controllers of BBC One television and Radio 4 for example. These are the people who decide what we see and hear.”

When I read this statement all I can hear is a quiet little voice, layered with years of embittered anger, saying over and over again, “Why won’t they get back in the kitchen? Why do they need to talk?” Buerk’s position seems to be that women controlling BBC One and Radio 4 – out of all of the millions of channels, news outlets and media organisations out there – will somehow herald the beginning of the end. Can anyone else smell brimstone? No, didn’t think so. I just love the kneejerk reaction there, as if women being anywhere in positions of seniority is a very bad thing. I might also point out that for years those damned women controlling so much of the BBC decided to let you on the air Mikey, but I suppose you just forgot about that did you? So if women being in charge all those years was SOOOOO bad, you’ll be in a hurry to return all the wages you earned in that time, won’t you? Hello? Micheal? Are you still there?

Another high point was when Mister Buerk cried havoc and let slip the dogs of fucking idiocy with: “The result is men are becoming more like women.”

For this one my handy-dandy patented Sexist bigot translate-o-matic says “I don’t buy moisturiser, and I don’t trust men who do.”

And finally, mister Buerk laments the loss of position men seem to have suffered in society: “All they are is sperm donors, and most women aren’t going to want an unemployable sperm donor loafing around and making the house look untidy.”

That BOOM you just heard was my Sexist Bigot Translate-o-matic blowing up after overloading. Come on Michael, you used to be a journalist for one of the world’s most respected news organisations. You must have had an analytical mind, a sharp intelligence and have been able to see other perspectives. Or did you just luck out when you answered the BBC entrance exam questions randomly? (and just for the record, I think “Unemployed sperm donor” would look so good on a CV).

There are a lot of people on the TV and in the news saying things about men and women. Men do this, women like that, men don’t like the other……hours of radio and TV, miles of newsprint and a lake of ink have been spent on the subject. As if there is only one type of man, and one type of woman, and that’s it. It always surprises me that in this modern era where there is so much focus on equality, freedom and access to opportunity for all, that so many people seem to be in a headlong rush to categorize the sexes into two neat, contained camps. Men no cook. Men make fire. Women swoon. It’s all the biggest lot of total crap I’ve heard in a long time, and Michael Buerk just fell into the middle of it all. I’m just annoyed that this sexist doodie-head (you’re welcome, Jerry) didn’t say all this when I actually hosted a Blog Party for the out-of-touch old coots among us.

Best wishes Mikey boy, I’m sure the Pulitzer’s in the post, you complete and utter arse.

The Old Coot blog party is now dearly departed, and it leaves us all with a clearer understanding of how we and those around us perceive this ever-changing world of ours. With reactions to the various party entries ranging from “Oh, I never thought of that.” to “Phew! It’s not just me, then?” I think it is safe to say that the party has been something of a success, even if I do say so myself. With that in mind I would like to thank everyone who attended for bringing their perspectives to the party, along with many delicious (and false-teeth safe) nibbles.

When my own entry to the party turned out to be a little more melancholy than I had originally intended, it was nice to see some others taking a more light-hearted approach. One such was Wendy, who opened up her tirade of wrinkled fist waving with a blast at cartoons, and the sheer amount of choice kids have these days with satellite TV and cable channels. Not like that in our day, no sir. She then went on to reflect on how movies – and attitudes to movies – had changed. After that clothes were mentioned, with a lament on how kids dress far older than they need to these days. Finally, she regretted that books did not seem to play such a large part in kid’s lives these days, something that had me nodding along a little in sad agreement. Wendy was last seen heading in the direction of the jar of boiled sweets, muttering something about her skull being eggshell thin.

In Wendy’s comments another old coot, SarahD, found the “parent perspective” very interesting and revealed that she can see herself being a fairly controlling old coot–sorry, parent. In these days of kids revelling in videogames and TV, she remembers her childhood spent reading, playing outside and engaging with her friends, which is something she would like to pass along to the next generation of her family. I can almost hear the cry of “run outside and cut me a switch.” as I sit here and type.

Darrell rolled in next, his bath chair rattling over the threshold and nearly knocking over several of our frailer guests. For his advanced years Darrell had a surprising amount to say and punctuated each point with a vicious stab of his walking cane. Someone did ask why someone in a wheeled chair needed a cane, but all they got was another prod. Darrell echoed earlier points about playing outside, and added that it didn’t seem as safe a world to do that in these days, which is sadly true. Videogames came in for another beating (they seem to be a popular target), since they now resemble cartoons and intimidate us older sorts who are more used to Fire Ant, Dizzy and Frogger. This led on to cartoons, and there being so much more choice now (is this perhaps old coot jealousy of the young?) but they don’t seem to make as much sense as they used to. Schoolwork being done by computers, and computers themselves, earned another round of poking with his walking stick, before he grumbled something about political correctness and rolled off in the direction of the bourbon. He’s never been seen since, but we believe several blunt force traumas in the area can be traced back to that damn cane.

Lorna arrived in a dashing lace number and a blast of talcum powder, ready to discuss the ways of the world and release her inner old coot. She had a lot to say and a lot to impart, but kept nodding off halfway through sentences so it took a while to get it all out of her. She railed against the kids, giggling as you’re trying to reminisce, and their damn fashions, which she is sure has been around a few times before now. Of course, all this is for naught if all the knowledge you have accrued is slipping away through your ears. Top Ten lists were next on the hit list, especially when you only get 1 item out of the 10 selected. Speaking of numbers, her inner old coot remembered owning an 8-track. On a more serious note Lorna reflected on seeing history repeat itself through innumerable conflicts, how education and workplace practices have changed, and how her religious feelings, gender and perceptions of age have all shifted as she has gone through life. I was busy nodding along and thinking of all the points she had brought up, so I didn’t notice the men in white coats come and take her away. By all accounts she put up a hell of a fight.

Kelly tried to remember what she wanted to say, then wandered off for a while to find her slippers. When she came back with her slippers on, she found she was in too damn good a mood to rail against anything much. She was a happy old coot for the day, but we won’t hold that against her will we? Her grumbles, because of her good mood, were fairly minor: she regretted shops being open all week, and wished for at least one day that they just stopped for a moment. She also wished there weren’t quite so many of the same shop in the one area, I think because she once wandered in and bought three loads of the same shopping from three different Wal-Marts. Burger King containers were next, but crazy old man MCF thought she meant McDonalds. Alas for both of them, burgers are by now far stronger than their false teeth, so we will never know. Finally Kelly managed to shake her fist at muscled-out athletes, who do not look normal to her.

The aforementioned crazy old man MCF stopped cackling long enough to get some rants off his wheezy chest, starting off with the branding of TV shows, bad editing and those damn logos that block off chunks of the screen. The decline in workplace ethics earned his wrath next, but he did like the rise in DVDs as a format. He also likes computers and how they allow a balance between artistic and technical approaches, as well as the internet. Though just in case he was in danger of throwing his lot in with happy old coot Kelly, he did go on to say that he can only see advertising getting worse, and change will only go on. He was last seen hobbling off with $60,000 in a biscuit tin stuck under his arm.

And there we were, old coots one and all. Thanks for coming along, now shut the damn door. It’s cold in here. Now where was I? Oh yes. I was wearing an onion on my belt, which was the fashion at the time, when all of a sudden J.G. Rockefeller…

P.S. Old coot Dave declined to join the party, citing it’s depressing effects, but if he ever wants to come to the party late, I saved some boiled sweets and a tartan rug for him. Just saying, you know, in case.

As the hot water hits the cool surface of the bathroom sink, I look up at the polished mirror fixed to the wall and consider the face that is looking back at me through the curling wisps of steam. I am struck in that moment by how many changes, both subtle and gross, the years have wrought on me. Sections of my face now sport hair where before there was smooth skin. Other sections possess nothing but smooth skin, having long since given up their hair. At the corners of my eyes, thin spidery lines radiate outward and my beard sports more than one patch of irregularly light colouring. I’m not a vain man, but sometimes the words of an old teacher come back to haunt me. Tempura mutantur, et nos mutamur in illes he said to me. It’s true, but as with most things that are true, it is harsh and sometimes hard to accept.

My hands reach for my razor and my shaving foam, my fingers moving almost of their own accord. Shaving reveals, in its own small way, the comfort that there is to be found in ritual. There is no need to think about what I am doing as I mix up the lather and spread it over my face, no conscious thought required as I scrape the sharp blade over my skin and run it under the scalding hot water. There is just me, the well practiced movement of my hands and the face looking at me from the mirror. As I deftly remove another patch of stubble I wonder who is studying who and I smile at my silliness.

Of course, I’m not alone in this process of change. The whole world is changing from minute to minute, responding in a million different ways as a billion different variables collide in a trillion different ways. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...the words spring to mind over the span of years between my shaving mirror and my old school desk. I’ve changed, the world has changed. It is to indulge in the worst form of cliché there is to say that the only true constant is the process of change, but the statement nevertheless stands with the strength that only the old truths possess.

The face that looks out at me from that chrome-edged disk of polished glass has witnessed so many changes, so many events. My mind wanders as I shave, and I think back to the days of my childhood. Things seemed to be so straightforward then, so simple. I remember the first day of summer holidays, with the whole 6 weeks off stretching out in front of me like an eternity waiting to happen. That is one of the biggest changes that comes with age: a different perception of the passage of time. When I was young and on my school summer holiday, 6 weeks was a stretch of time almost beyond comprehension. I was able to understand “I’m not going back to school tomorrow, or the day after.” but beyond that point it might as well just have read “forever”. Nowadays six weeks is such a short span of time. You celebrate New Year, and before you know where you are the shops are full of chocolate eggs for Easter. You’ve hardly picked one up and got it to the till before there is a suspicion of tinsel and wrapping paper around the aisles. When I was a child an hour’s play definitely had more minutes in it than the mean, stripped down hours I have now, I would be willing to swear on that. Time seems to go faster when you’re conscious of how precious it is, which is a mean trick any way you look at it.

The eyes of the face in the mirror pierce the steam as I shave, and I notice its eyebrows rise as a memory hits me. A memory of feeling old before my time, of knowing that time passes, of seeing a change so bald and so shocking that it stayed with me forever. I was standing waiting for a lift, near a table where two young girls were having their lunch. I remember to this day that they couldn’t have been more than 9 or 10. I didn’t hear anything of their conversation, my mind being on other matters, but just as the lift arrived one raised her voice and said to the other in a tone of some consternation, “Because I’m a virgin.” The lift had one mirrored wall and when I looked up, the younger version of my current shaving companion wore an expression of dull shock. I’m anything but prudish and in fact might be too liberal for some, but I remember thinking “Where did someone so young get old enough inside to be talking about her virginity over lunch?” Children seem on a headlong rush to become adults, only to find when they get there that the whole of adulthood is groaning with desire to go back the other way. Another pretty cruel trick if you ask me.

My mind is drawn sharply – in all senses of the word – back to the present when I nick myself with the edge of the razor. As the familiar sting fades and a thin line of red slowly seeps into visibility, I remember learning about shaving from my dad. The face in the mirror reminds me of him so much: the shape of the nose, the hairline, the arch of the eyebrows, it’s all in there somewhere. My relationship with my parents changed when I moved out of the house and set up on my own. Instead of being in the traditional parent/child positions, the situation more closely resembled that of adults on an equal footing with one another. It took a lot of getting used to. It was years before I would take a beer with my dad. Years before I would speak my mind to them, and relate to them as one adult relates to another. I guess some part of me wanted to hold on to that old relationship and not see it change. Some small part of me tried to defy the process of change, to hold back the progression of the world even just a little bit. I remember reading about some guy who tried that with the sea, and I think he and I had much the same level of success in the end.

With a little more care and a little less of the comfort of familiar ritual, I resume shaving and can’t help but wonder why my mind keeps moving back and forth from the smallest issue to the largest. I remember video games being easier to deal with. Two buttons, and a joystick. Then they changed and suddenly had more controls than the average fighter plane. I remember the world on the morning that planes with a great deal more controls in them were directed on courses that would alter the world forever. I remember wanting to eat sweets all day. I remember watching the news and seeing smoke rise from a train station and knowing that change had come again. I remember losing a member of my family for the first time, and seeing new arrivals. As I set down my razor and look at my hands, I wonder if this is perhaps a natural consequence of thinking about change. Small changes contribute to larger changes, which set off a cascade of other small changes, which build up to big changes, and on and on it goes. Maybe it’s not such a coincidence that the process of change and the fundamental stuff of our bodies both resemble a spiral.

My hands shake slightly, as if aware they are under scrutiny. When did that happen? I turn them over slowly, examining each side closely. Each mark, scratch, scar and callus speaks of times enjoyed, or times survived. Lovers held. Enemies struck. Games played. Hands shaken. Keys pressed. Food prepared. Snowballs thrown. I wish I could pass this on to the young, I wish I could make them listen and understand, but I know in my heart that I can’t. To do that, to achieve that, would be to destroy that which I sought to protect. You can’t protect youth by imparting to it the wisdom of age, because to do that is to give youth the burden of the knowledge that can only come with age. All you can do is enjoy the process of change as your perspective shifts with each new, small, hard won nugget if wisdom.

Anyway, I say to myself. Enough of this, time to get ready for the party. I raise a hand to wipe clear the mirror but as I do, the grey in the hair is revealed to me. The eyes looking back at me are rheumy with age, and the eyebrows above them bristle. The beard has gone, but the hand that held the razor is thinner than I remember, the skin mottled in places with dark spots. As the smell of aftershave mixes with the smell of soap, and as the mirror starts to fog again, I remember in a moment of clarity that I am an old man, and my parties are all behind me now.

Last night I finally bit the bullet and downloaded Firefox for my mac. Since I am on a sllllooooow 56k connection at home it took a while (seriously, seeing me go online at home is like one of those long, elongated moments in movies where someone jumps in front of the president/king/leading lady with a shout of “nooooooooooooooo” as someone fires a gun at them), but I finally got it down and installed it last night. And what a difference it has made – I can now see my blog properly, the “create” section actually HAS the “edit HTML” tab and formatting controls, and sites that either didn’t display correctly or just didn’t display at all are now bright eyed, bushy tailed, ready to serve and all “Would you like something to drink with that sir?” so it wasn’t a bad hours work all in.

Of course just as a disclaimer, all this means is that you’re getting the same old crap but with slightly prettier formatting. Just so we’re clear. It’s an italic button I now have access to people, not some magical “make this fat berk into a talented wordsmith” button (though if you’re listening blogger, I would pay for that, but only if you use that exact wording).

Last night was supposed to be my disciplined “sit down and focus” night. I was supposed to flesh out the rough structure of my Blog Party offering, and then start refining. I was supposed to be (for once) all smug and ahead of the curve instead of being my usual last-minute, in by the skin of my teeth, red all over from the running self. That lasted about five minutes, right up to the point where my better half and I decided to head out to a local Borders for a coffee and a bit of people watching. Focus, discipline and the ways of the force pretty much lose their appeal when faced with the competition in the form of “There will be chocolate cake.” If I ever choose to hop off my agnostic fence I’m so going to hell.

So we went, we people watched, we made jokes and I (as usual) got annoyed at the staff who won’t take an order for “a large cup of coffee” but instead insist you order a “venti soy milk latte with no dash and chocolate sprinkles”. Making me speak that coffee-shop gibberish is bad enough, but what always gets under my skin is that they STARE AT YOU WITH THE BLANK EXPRESSION OF A COW UNTIL YOU ACTUALLY SAY THOSE WORDS (and until you do that, their whole attitude is a mix of the aforementioned bovine stupidity with a little dash of smug “No coffee for you, bitch.”) . We even had a look at some books I fancy, but for once I was able to show a little strength of will and not buy any of them. At this point in the evening my darling better half dropped one of the most hilarious “subtle hints” in the history of subtle hinting.

“Oh look, Robin Hobb has a new book out in paperback in August.”

A line to which I, diplomatically, responded in the affirmative. I then made conversational mention of the fact that my better half’s birthday, which is in August, isn’t it?

“Yeah it is,” she said with a note of (entirely fake) surprise, as if this thought had NEVER OCCURRED to her ever, and all the birthdays in her life ever had all passed her by with nary a sign of celebration. “I really like her.”

The CLANG of that hint hitting the floor could be heard, I think, way up in Discovery. If you heard it last night and it gave you a fright then I apologise. Gotta love the ingenious, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it subtlety though.