Another Night

It's the second time you wake up after a night spent sleeping on an Oxfam bag full of vomit that really makes you think. The first time is like a battle scar a story about a Friday or Saturday night  'I was so mashed last night. I woke up in some guys flat. I was sleeping on the floor just resting my head on a Oxfam bag full of vom' is obviously a hilarious story. It invites the kind of competitive storytelling that usually ends with Steve telling us about the time he fucked one of the dinner-ladies from high school. As I was pulling myself into a standing position I took stock of the night, this time was subtly different. I cast my mind back through the night to make a  Monday morning story and found myself board of listening to my own memories. There was no joy in the night.  Sometimes we don't know when to stop.

Rebirth

...stepped out of the sea, slipshod and dripping in a suit, davy dark with cuffs all seafoam and polished pebbles. Even with the evidence that was impossible to imagine him waiting on gamely into the ocean, or even diving slick like a salmon noiselessly into the waiting sea. I knew then, salt tongue on my tongue, that I’d witnessed a kind of birth. Not the usual screaming battling and forced unknowing free from the womb. It was dignified and conscious. Rebirth, rebirth. You know it when you see it. It’s not always a dramatic shivering emergence . Sometimes its a first step on a street or first tortured syllable drawn from a new tongue.

This case however was dramatic. Complete.

One doesn't simply leave an infant alone wailing its first breath of cold dry air. at least no one with a heart pumping warm blood. I spent some time plastering a comforting smile on my face. I put my left arm most of the way round his shoulders and waited until dusk. When no one came to collect him I took him from Twilight’s bleak beach and swaddled him. Stopped him from shivering.

Talc white scholar’s robes began the process of teaching.  Teaching him was like assembling an endless bouquet.

Part five

Have you ever heard a pub go silent?  I have once it was an ordinary night. Dan, bit of an arse but sound really, was giving it some guff about Beirut. Standard shit young men say. I was there  I’d...  We should just go in and shoot the lot of them doubt they’ll put up much of a fight. This old bloke in a grey flat-cap piped up. 'it's not a game, son'.     He didn't shout but it’s a small pub.  Everyone heard. Dan tried to brush it off. But, as is typical of old men in flat-caps, he wasn't so easily brushed off. As it transpired,he’d been in the war. He told about fearing for his life. About shooting high and praying to miss and numbing feeling that comes when god doesn't listen. About looking a dead friend in the face and only being able to feel relief that it wasn't you. For almost five whole seconds you could have heard a pin drop.

Part one here

Part four

I remember, before the end he looked so old. so much older than his ninety years. he was so fragile. thin birdlike limbs and paper thin skin like an x-ray on grey crépe paper. he barely reminded me of the man who loved his dog more than he loved me. or the man who turned from me in racist hate for the man I married. or even the old fool who had been taken for a ride by audacious teenage degenerates, I feel so guilty for noting that he spent my inheritance on cocaine. he knew I needed the money. I couldn't spurn him then though, on his death bead. couldn't turn away from him as he had me so many times. I desperately wanted not to care. we laid him out in his grey suit. I was stoic but my tears betrayed me in the end.

Part one here.

Next part here. 

Part three

He was so handsome when we met. A real gallant soldier in a uniform with bright shiny buttons. He looked so fierce then he was marching with his men behind him cowering slightly every time he barked an order. But he spoke so tender to me. I was only a girl and I thought I loved him. So of course as they always do things took their course. Not after the first time but soon he shipped out. He left me with a gift. A little boy with his face. It was hard in those days to be a single mother. But I wasn't the only one with a soldier’s bastard and things were easier than they had been. I never married. In the beginning I hoped he’d come back. But of course he never did. I knew he was alive when I started getting cheques in the mail. I imagine him sometimes old and grey, I wonder if he’s as lonely as I am.

Part one here.

Next part here.

Part two

It was the kind of party that ended in shattered glass and bleeding feet endlessly dancing blood into a cream carpet. I remember the solution to this was to impregnate the carpet with white cocaine powder which has the handy side effect of being a topical anesthetic especially in damp (or blood soaked) environments. This was considered a practical solution by our host. He was an elderly gentleman wraith-like and sober, but seemingly with a voyeuristic dedication to debauchery. He liked to see the young things dance. Frenzied two steps seemed to be the the style that predominated even the dubious grace of the Charleston was impossible to strung out kids. But he liked to watch young bodies move I suppose. We all took him as a joke, sober as a judge in a grey suit. Everyone kissed him of course, it was that kind of party.

Part one here.

Next part here. 

Part one.

Have you ever noticed someone for the first time only by their absence. When I was a child I took the train to school. So by necessity I took the same route at the same time every day. Four o’clock has a rhythm, you know. You start off with a wave of your peers with bawdy jokes and general rambunctiousness. It gets quieter as time goes on. When you are eventually walking alone, in-between prosaic adolescent concerns, you notice your community. I remember one day when I noticed that I didn't see the grey-faced old man who I habitually acknowledged the existence of with a vague nod while he was walking his dog. Then I never saw him again. I never knew his name but I remember being certain that he was dead. He was my first brush with the reaper.

Next part here. 

Lives of the saints: Saint Patrick

For a long time saint Patrick made me uncomfortable.  The story you hear is that St Patrick drove all the snakes from Ireland which is either an ecological disaster or a metaphor for gross religious intolerance. But I have recently discovered St Patrick's whole story which brought him up in my estimation. When he was a young boy in either Scotland or Wales (suspect suspiciously definitely not England, St Paddy isn't English). One day he was stolen away from his parents and sold in Ireland as a slave. In his childhood he suffered greatly, swearing revenge without fail each day before bedding down in straw like a dog.

One day the young St Patrick escaped and found his way to England, to become a soldier and have his revenge on the heathens who had so wronged him. On his way to join the army, he met with a wandering monk. They paused on the road to break bread together. Patrick told the monk of his life and his imminent vengeance. When he had told all there was to tell, the monk was silent for a few minutes. Then the monk spoke of forgiveness and turning your cheek. While the monk spoke God put forgiveness into St Patrick's heart and called him into the church. Patrick that very day decided to abandon his quest for vengeance and to go with the monk to the church that he may learn to forgive.

In the next years Patrick became a priest then a bishop. All this time he never forgot his youth spent as a slave with the pagans across the water. As time passed and his pain grew distant he began to feel sorry for them. He grieved that they would never know the love of God that he swam in. Next comes the part of the story which is usually told; He went to Ireland with a mission and drove all of the pagan snakes from Ireland.  To my mind this is the least important part of the tale. The conversion of Ireland is a great achievement to be sure, but it's hardly an equal to the courage of Jude, the kindness of Nick or the faith of Joan. The conversion isn't what makes Patrick a saint. It's the miracle of his forgiveness that makes him a saint and an inspiration.

I'm a staunch atheist but one thing that I like about Christianity is its focus on forgiveness (preached, if not always practiced). St Patrick embodies this. The fact remains that he didn't go over the water with fire and steel but instead brought with him the peace and love which he believed would save his tormentors souls. I wish I could be so forgiving.

Why we celebrate this man by drinking Guinness until we piss black is beyond me.

My next post will cover my St Patrick's celebrations in a catch up, in which I will not speak of St Patrick once (although my brother is home from Uni, his name is Patrick but he isn't a saint)

* (or a great crime depending on your perspective)

Catch up 1: Change is as good as a rest?

Okay this is hard I have a confession to make. I work in a call center. I'm one of those black hearted bastards who unerringly call you just when you need to take your souffle out of your home or shortly before 'Le petit mort' or just after the double legectomy (transfemoral amputation). Please leave abuse in the comments but do try for originality of heard it all before.  Okay anyway is being tense, really tense, for a few weeks. There's been a stink of uncertainty and doubt.  This week was the payoff it was positively Wagnerian.

On Friday were told that everything that is the way we work was changing will be going on to PAYE and we didn't really know what was going to happen or what this meant to us. I spent the weekend worrying. Monday opened with an impassioned speech from our boss telling is about the bleak new pay scale and bonus packet and her resignation. At the time she made it sound like is her resignation was on on ideological grounds. Then there was an old almost a mass walkout when we were told that we would be on minimum wage and we would find our appointment bonus cut. The problem was not so much the minimum wage for the adults but, because of the way minimum wage works in England, would have been a disaster for the under 21’s in the call center. Where I work there are a lot of under 18's and minimum wage would have been a big hit for them. Our old boss seemed to go to bat for them as though trying to get some kind of all equality. But it eventually came out to that everyone would be paid the same minimum wage.

Tuesday opened with our new boss (bafflingly absent Tuesday) announcing a 21p pay rise to show us some respect. He also gave a speech about how things were to change. He  promised us a new professional environment, incentives on top of commission clean, off this and an overall new climate friendly competition and professionalism. He also asked us to let Facebook know what was happening (which is why I am speaking about this. Work stuff like this is something that I feel doesn't really belong in the public sphere) and for the record it seems the so far they'vebeen true to their word and it seems that our new boss is scattering around incentives like confetti. Really expensive confetti, with metallic sparkly bits. Wednesday was fairly free from work drama (except me being in a tense race for The top seller incentive, nearly gave me a heart attack. It was dreadful, I don’t like myself when I get competitive) several family bits going off, here are the usual plumbing and genetic tests, basically a standard day.

Thursday we had had my mum's friend (well also at this point my friend, but she was my mum's friend before I was born so it seems an aptdescription) come round for her birthday feast. She came round and we had a lovely night her spinach and Gorgonzola pasta and some champagne. It was really quite pleasant. I also let her daughter read the current draft of my story (in a bizarre twist of fate she's writing one which is broadly similar, apart from every single one of the details). so that being read for the first time was nice although I must point out I did publish a version 46 drafts ago on this very blog before I deleted it because it was Eugggh and unfairly unfinished.

Friday 

I went to work I came home I ate Thai curry, wrote this blog post, and went to bed I feel very content.

Louis Barabbas and the Bedlam Six: Year of the Bitch

Some song lyrics are really good. But song lyrics particularly of less well-known bands often go without any appreciation or thought and you listen to the song you enjoy the song and the meaning sometimes filters through. But I think there is a place for listening closely to lyrics and thinking about them. This is the first in what I hope will be a long series of posts which looked to analyse the lyrics of some signs a little. But I don't to do all the work I hope for lively discussion in the comments. I prefer to do little-known bands as I have dreams (or may be grandiose delusions) of that this being a way to promote bands that I like which I don't feel have achieved sufficient prominence. So although I love a lot of Bowie lyrics I probably won't be talking about them.  any song  suggestions leave in the comments.

,

Year Of The Bitch

Next year is the year of the bitch
No one will get lucky and no one will get rich
And we’ll be telling lies when we say we don’t know why
We talk about this world as if it’s all in bits

This became part of the song is really speaking about how we all contribute by our apathy to the wreck described later in the song. There's also an element of blame avoidance going on here but I don't really know what to make of that.

Next year is the year of the bitch
The panicking will peak at a piercing pitch
And everyone will hate
And obsess about their weight
And waste away in want for the things that they once ditched

This is one of my favorite verses. The several reasons are first I really like the way the rhymes work it's A A B B and then a slant of the A rhyme which is something that always makes me smile. I also love the way it so contemptuous about the things that we in our modern society find very important and it shows how poisonous our obsession with image and acceptance can be. 

Where were you when we changed our minds
Put our ideals on ice and our hearts into brine
Where were you
When we fell?

This first chorus is a very accusatory it asks the listener directly why they allowed to the state of the state of the world is in to come about.

Next year is the year of the bitch
We’ll package up our lives and take them to the tips
And sit back in our chairs
Assuming fancy airs
As it all falls round our ears drip by drip

This file is about how will probably just keep going into more and more into decadence as the world falls apart. Instead of doing something which could actually have helped we'll just get on with smoking and drinking and snorting and injecting and consuming because that seems to be the least my generation's reaction to quell hopelessness and disenfranchisement. 

And people all just stood around watering their lawns as the cities fell down
I could barely make out the time
As the air turned to ash and the sea to slime

I love the image here of the whole world and all of nature falling to pieces that almost everybody keeps bizarrely well irrigated patch of useless grass that the sake of appearances. I love the idea of a crumbled city seen from from the suburbs with a woman watering her grass in the foreground, just a really powerful image (Your Yard is Evil)

Where were you when we changed our minds
Put our ideals on ice and our hearts into brine
Where were you
When we fell?

Next year is the year of the bitch
We’ll swallow all their lies like hungry little chicks
Every consonant and vowel
Wretched, rank and foul
We’ll cling to every word like tiny little ticks

This is the only place in the cell where it seems like it's trying to blame somebody else I feel like it lashes out at the media and at the governments but really it's just another more subtle self flagellation swallowing their lives and clinging to their words doesn't sound particularly good for us. In the final analysis we let them get away with it and they did most of it in our name.

Where were you when we changed our minds
Put our ideals on ice and our hearts in brine
Where were you when we fell?
where were you when we lost ourselves
where were you?

I'm not going to do conclusions in these. I think we should conclude together in the comments.

Look at me acting as if I'm going to get comments.

Go here to buy the whole album for a price of your choosing.

8 Things I miss about Hungary.

I've recently spent almost a year of my life living in Hungary. Now I've been back for more than two months and decided to compile a list of the top eight things which I miss about Hungary. So without further ado.

1: Coat racks.

In Hungary there is always a coat rack. In offices, cafes, pubs, hallways of immigration offices, cake shops, or in fact anywhere you can reasonably expect to be to be staying inside inside for a considerable length of time. So instead of putting your account on a chair or table you can simply hang it on a coat rack which strikes me as rather civilized.

2: Good coffee

Proper coffee is everywhere in Hungary, even in places you wouldn't expect you an instant coffee in England (corner shops for instance). This means that cafes et cetera don't get a coast on having an espresso machine. Therefore I feel that the average cafe (if such a thing exists in Hungary there seems to be wild variation) has a little more pride in its particular coffee.

3: Sensible trains.

In England the cost of a train ticket is based only is based on an arcane calculation and include such there which includes such variables as crossing county boundaries, the number of stops, phase of the moon, the colour of some poor animals intestines and other auguries beyond the ken of ordinary men. In Hungary is based on mileage.

4: Sun, or a least predictable weather.

I was unsure how to name this one because when I left hungrywe had been having (past perfect continuous bam! I knew we used it.) Fairly bad weather. But this is only to be expected, in Hungary one can expect rain in the autumn. Whereas in England sun is always a surprise even in the summer. In Hungary you can reasonably expect at least eight months without needing your brother every day you can leave it at home. And it seems to me that neither winter nor autumn are endless marathons of grey.

5: My pickle lady

In a total of only market, the one opposite into spiral there is a woman who sells various pickles (lots of pickles and hungry) I am unaccountably fond of she's she's an old chrome of a woman who just happens to have the magical combination of doing really good pickles and being willing to be friendly through a significant language barrier.

6: The lake

in And there is a lake and the one which I can never remember the name of, the bomb which is very close to Tesco's (why are all of my locations in relation to supermarkets) all that is there is a field a small pond and some trees. There's also hope with beer and questionable food but it intends to be a bit of an oasis of calm in the city. I often went there with my friends and fed the ducks and turtles.

7: Budapest

a fantastic city which I find a new reason to love every time I visit. I'll do a post next week about the city. I'm being brief.

8: My flat

when I lived in hungry I lived alone, which I seem to enjoy. I love both of my flat. I liked the location of the first one which was very very close to work and the fact that I had a room that I wasn't using it all ready was totally empty. I love the abundance of furniture and decoration in the second flight which although everything choosing myself I'm able to say the top may have made similar decisions.

And of course the most important bonus number nine

in no particular order: Melinda, Marian, Monica, Monica, Tibi, Tibi, Zoltan, Zoltan, another Zoltan, Bori Laszlo Erica, Mark, Kata, peti, atilla,Tomas, Balint, Budai, Barby, Nate, Nikki, Adorian, Dori, Bianca, csilla,  Bea, Adam Danni Agnes,one more Zoltan, my groups Memphis, California, Shireoaks, Retford, Atlanta, the spring company group, the RB group bawtree,ramby and all the shires, all the summer camp kids, And of course The pickle lady. 

Dragon.

This is the first of my blog posts overrating using my new voice recognition software. So please forgive any lack of punctuation or bizarre word use that may not particularly make sense, I expect homophones to be a particular nightmare, as I’m writing this fairly late at night and don’t intend to read it properly. I think this is likely to be a blog post about the process of dictation rather than actually anything of interest but we will see something unexpected may come out of it.

Those of you who know me know that I voice found the physical act of writing difficult. Please see my post on and dyslexia and dyspraxia for further elaboration. So my handwriting is totally unreadable and also takes a really long time to achieve anything even close to being properly illegible. And typing, though significantly more legible than handwriting, remains a chore. This explains why never been much for text communication (although I’ve never been much of phone calls either so that may be more to do with me not liking to communicate at a distance) dynamos had kind of a romantic fascination with the mechanics of writing for example I only typewriter and aspire to own more older typewriters I also grieved by my total lack of Fountain pens or ability to use them. I somehow feel the typing stories into a computer lack the connection to history that these other methods of have. Which of course is interesting because dictation to a text recognition system mirrors the very first form of getting stories out to be so is almost a return to the oral tradition that I find myself focusing much more than the sound of the words. Maybe the associations with the method of recording reflect the differing natures of their literature throughout time because I find modern literature has a very temporary and also oddly communal set to it well you know that now authors and readers can communicate in a very different ways that they ever have before. Maybe if we start writing more books (if that’s even the right word for what we can be doing) I dictation we would be more likely to replicate the kind of the lyrical literature of the Victorian age return to the fabulous grand sentences of Oscar Wilde, which seem to fall into use by now only in mediocre theatre but do without doubt please the ear.

On the morality of Gok Wan

On the morality of Gok Wan

           
There is a certain sort of television program that I find absolutely fascinating they have names like; 10 years younger; Gok’s fashion fix; or my personal favourite snog, marry avoid.  I’m going to focus on snog marry avoid because it is the most illuminating for the purpose of the discussion I intend to have, as well as being the most oddly presented and incomprehensibly preachy and jingoistic of the breed.  Perhaps I have given an indication of my opinion of the show but I’ll forge on.  The premise of this entire genre is that some people are incapable of dressing themselves properly and in fact sport clothes that make them look either; frumpy, or weird, or too made up or something else equally meaningless. Then someone, the prancing stereotype reinforcing queens of queer eye for the straight guy* for example, Tuts throws petrol on the old clothes and forces (sometimes roughly) the often unwilling victim into what the current style consensus dictates is the most appropriate thing to wear.

            


My question is this are these sorts of shows morally sound.  This sounds like a ridiculously petty issue and I think it is but it does open up discussion about a number of moral issues at the very edge of their applications and I believe that if we are to have a moral code it should be applicable to all situations where it applies.  Firstly I will discuss what is probably th6ye prevailing moral philosophy in my own life, aestheticism.  Perhaps the response of aestheticism should be simple these persons who I should really stop calling victims are taken from presenting themselves in an unattractive way to a state where even if they don’t become a famous beauty they are at least no longer shambolic avatars of bad taste. However, and perhaps this is just me, there is something distasteful about a unique, if iffy, visual experience becoming an easier one. From the point of view of the participant this experience could be one of two types of emotional experiences it could be a confidence boosting lesson in making the best of ones assets, this is Gok Wan’s style, or it could be that the participant has created for his or herself state a dramatic style statement that represents her freedom and individuality being quashed and their public face normalized. I suppose that the first kind is a tolerable, if embarrassing, learning experience. But the second is less tolerable it represents nothing less than the obliteration of a unique thing and perhaps the ultimate crime of trying to paper over this newly formed gap with something utterly banal.  What is never done is refining and perfecting an already established style. The sloppy Goth is never transformed into the Goth she dreamed of looking like she is instead thrown directly into autumnal coulours or high waistbands, hipster chic or what the Americans call preppy. 

If this method of changing a person’s outward appearance is in fact an immoral destruction of uniqueness then what of the myriad other forms of influence especially those that are infinitely more important than mere appearance.  I speak of the kind of influence wielded by parents, teachers, and Lord Henry. It was Lord Henry who himself said of influence “there is no good influence… because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. he does not think his natural thoughts or burn with his natural passions”*²  and I think that in principle I would agree if it wasn’t for one pseudo- Newtonian fact. An immutable law in human interaction as in physics any influence exerted has an equal effect on both the person influenced and also, albeit more subtly, influences the other party as well be it as small a change as fortifying ones belief in oneself or as monumental as abhorring the change you make in another and changing oneself in response. This is I suppose where the beauty is in social life it is a glittering constantly shifting web beset on all sides by the tidal forces of the media and politics as well as religion all interconnected and in flux. One man’s changes beget another’s alterations. And all this seems chaos but patterns emerge concealed as fads and fashions waves of change building person by person into a tidal surge of acceptance or appreciation. This I would argue is the core of all social change this interconnected web of personal change. Each convert strengthening the cause and passing eternally onwards until that one perspective or mannerism dominates the web then is swept away by something new.  Occasionally a group of people will encounter a shining other who changes their world whist seeming to be themselves unchanged. I am no theist but I imagine that that is what it would be like to be in the presence of a great teacher like Jesus or Ghandi. A man becomes a ripple a ripple becomes a wave then an ocean.  The other side of the coin is that in society change is often resisted. This manifests itself as the religious opposition to gay marriage or campaigns against Tesco’s in Harrogate.  This is perhaps best shown in the picture of Dorian grey, one character Basil is concerned with keeping the young Dorian grey pure and unchanged in order to preserve his natural beauty whereas Lord Henry consciously decides to fill Dorian like a vessel full of his influence and see where the pieces fall.  People who know Oscar Wildes masterpiece will know that this does not end happily. However the story of influence and resistance is not always tragic think of the influence of Ekendu on Gilgamesh or Whoopi Goldberg’s Influence on the kids in the choir in sister act 2.   I suppose the question boils down to weather makeover shows are more like Lord Henry, Whoopi Goldberg, Basil or that kids mother who doesn’t want her to sing for some unknowable reason and whether the distinction between the four makes any moral difference.

* Its ok I have F word privileges and you know what they say most Fs ares Qs. I have strong views on what I will call privileged words but am too scared to do a blog post about it due to lacking N word privileges and recently having my T word privileges revoked (there used to be a reciprocal agreement but now it’s messy)

*²This is probably the last sensible discussion of makeover shows in this blog the rest consists of a rambling discourse on the nature and morality of influence (you know how I get, or if you don’t welcome to an incomprehensible whitter)

Exquisite Words

Language is an incredibly beautiful thing is the foundation it is the seed of every civilisation, every conversation, every love, every hate, every rivalry, and every friendship. And furthermore it has the ability to stir us in ways that otherwise entirely inconceivable. This is because, in some ways, it controls even our perception of beauty. A contemporary psychological theory is posits an intimate connection between our language and our perception.  For example in a particular tribal African language  red and orange are all under the banner of a single word this in itself is as uninteresting as any other linguistic quirk. What is, however, interesting is that people who speak only this language find it almost impossibly difficult to differentiate the two colours. And I don’t mean subtly orange or subtly red I mean oranges and strawberries. The implications of this are clear.  Lacking a word for orange somehow inhibits the experience of the colour; this is a gross simplification but roll with me, because language forms our reality. Perhaps this is the reason why we English seem incapable of making a good omelette. I suppose at this point it’s important to acknowledge that Orange or perfect omelette texture can be expressed, an almost gelatinous, firm yet yielding, almost creamy texture created by slight under cooking of an egg at high temperatures with butter, this perhaps an accurate description but it lacks a certain quality the precision and evocation of the French word that I believe is something like Vabose, almost a silent onomatopoeia.

Yet even this is not enough language. The fact remains that the English language, I’m going to wax lyrical about English now please edit to include your language if you feel it appropriate, is  pure aesthetic pleasure. Poetry is to me an obvious example. Indulge me by reading the opening monologue to under milk wood out loud http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0608221.txt or listening to it on YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pyI2YOC0rhU. The meaning of the words is unremarkable the scene described the events almost entirely prosaic. But the shapes of the words as you pronounce them, the cadence and phonetic form of each sentence pushes the monologue beyond mere meaning into the intoxicating realm of art. I love that sort of pleasure and it gets me in trouble sometimes.  The problem is that I sometimes get carried away and say things that I don’t entirely, or indeed even remotely, mean because it sounds pretty or rolls off the tongue.

Language is everything; pleasurable and practical; all reality and all fiction.

 This post didn’t really ever find its point but if you enjoyed it I think we can live without a point just this once.

A recipe in lieu

As I have spent so long trying to post a chapter of the pastry and given you nothing I have decided to favor you with a  recipe from my personal selection.

Noodle soup

This noodle soup is a dish that my brother and I often whip up for lunch the recipe here is a somewhat idealized version of it, as the ingredients often change according to what is in the fridge.  It remains a stalwart favorite  its a dish ruled by personal preferences so where i have left off measurements add however much you think you would like. 

·         Egg Noodles	Sweet chilli sauce
·         Soy sauce	1/2 lime (juice and zest)
·         Ginger	Paprika
·         Garlic	Coriander
·         Red chili	Good veg stock
·         2-4 green finger chilies	Scallions
·         Peas	Sesame oil
·         Baby sweet corn  (Halved)	Beansprouts
·         Moungetout
·         Sugar snap peas
·         Onions cut into lengths

1.       The first step is to heat your pan to a high temperature.

2.       Whilst your pan is heating great or finely mince your ginger and garlic chop your chilli into ringlets  

3.       Stir fry quickly the baby sweet corn, sugar snap peas ,onions and mangetout in the sesame oil for just under a minuet.

4.       A dd the ginger chilli and garlc to the pan along with the kaffir lime leaves continue stir frying for another minuet

5.       Add the stock, soy sauce, paprika and finger chillies.

6.       Add the noodles

7.       Add the sweet chilli sauce and lime you may need to experiment to find the right balance of sweet and sour.

8.       When the noodles are cooked add roughly chopped coriander,  finely cut scallions and beansprouts  as a garnish serve immediately.

The true story of the tortoise and the hare

Once there was a hare who believed he was the fastest creature in the Forrest

So he challenged every creature in the Forrest to a race but everyone knew his reputation

He challenged squirrel, who refused he said he was busy.   

He challenged all the creatures of the Forrest but they were all suspiciously incapable.

One day a visitor to the Forrest arrived it was tortoise.

Tortoise had come to visit his friend squirrel.

Squirrel told tortoise all about Hare.

And so tortoise agreed to race hare with all the forest watching

Tortoise organised a great race and invited hare along to race.

On the day of the race hand tortoise waited on the starting line.

The starting pistol was fired and the race began.

The hare was quick off the mark.

The tortoise was slow.

The hare was quick across the field.

The tortoise was slow.

The hare won the race.

The moral of the story is this sometimes a person is arrogant because they are good and sometimes you loose the race because you are too slow.

Ollie Mollie the boy who works too hard

Ollie Mollie was a young boy who always did the write thing

Ollie wanted to go out and play

but Ollie had work to do

he helped his mummy clean the pots 

he helped his daddy change the oil in his car

he helped his granny to make a soup

he helped his granddad to weed the garden

and this made him happy

Ollie Mollie grew up and went to school

Ollie Mollie wanted to go out to play with his friends

but Ollie had work to do

he toiled to learn how to do algebra

he studied the work of Shakespeare

he wrote his essay

he worked and worked and worked until all the work was done

when he had finished he went outside to play but all his friends had gone to bed

on friendship

            Friendship is a word we use a lot in the modern world. On Facebook I have friends that are only vaguely connected to me a friend of an acquaintance or someone I went to school with 5 years ago and haven't talked to since. I think we can all agree that the Facebook definition of friend isn't what a friend is.  Which makes me think what is the definition of a friend?  The dictionary defines it thusly 

–noun

1.

A person attached to another by feelings of affection orpersonal regard.

2.

A person who gives assistance; patron; supporter: friends ofthe Boston Symphony.

3.

A person who is on good terms with another; a person who isnot hostile: Who goes there? Friend or foe?

4.

A member of the same nation, party, etc.

5.

(Initial capital letter) a member of the Religious Society of Friends; a Quaker.

           What we see here is that the word friend covers a large variety of things, leaving the Quakers apart, from not being openly hostile, surely a prerequisite for any type of relationship, or being attached by bonds of love and respect.  These are clearly very different ideas as are the other definitions of a patron or a member of an in group. 

           Are these definitions of the same thing but in varying gradations?  I think not. Someone could be a patron of the art but hate the artist.  A person could be on civil terms and not an enemy but could certainly be considered boring or vapid meaning that they are not attached by affection and personal regard.  And we can hold great affection for one not of the same class, nation or party as ourselves.  So I think we can show that these are separate, if not mutually exclusive.

            I think many writers would then conclude that friend means many things I say no to that.  The meat and potatoes of today’s blog are new words that could be used for certain types of relationship. Perhaps during this we may learn something about the nature of friendship or maybe I’ll just whiter on and on unnecessarily feel free to comment on which it was

            Firstly we need a word for that sort of people you feel compelled to nod at as you walk past them in the street. You sometimes know their name sometimes not; you met them in a bar at, the theatre, at a mutual friend’s party: You may or may not have had a conversation with them but no more than two.  These are people we recognise and probably can count on not to be an enemy. I propose we call these people recogmates.

The second group is the worst to bump into whilst out people in your social network that you don’t really have much to do with but you are both compelled by the ties that bind both of you to other people to stop for a chat.  The problem is that neither of you have anything to say you know each other too well for ‘getting to know you chatter’ it’s neither the time nor place for that but it would be better than what inevitably occurs.  The conversation goes like this

‘Hey not talked to you for ages’

‘No we haven’t how are you’

‘OK you’

‘I'm OK’

If it was just this it would be fine but this isn't enough for social convention perish the thought you have to stand, in the cold, in dreadful silence until one of you mentions the weather. Then another silence until the football is mentioned, my least favourite bit, then the blessed lie comes. 

'Oh I have to go I've not got much time I've got to catch a bus'  

Or meet someone or catch a plane or anything to end the awkwardness. These people are people you sort of know, and perhaps feel you should know them better but your connection is through other people so maybe call them Familiary you are familiar with them but don't know them much better than your third cousin twice removed on your mother’s side.  

Next people who assist you in some way who you have a sort of selfish regard for you may or may not be genuinely fond of them but hey assist you in your endeavours.  These people already have a word and that's ally or if the assistance is monetary patron. These people do not have the same sort of emotional connection that the other people I'm talking about but they could have so I think I have to say this term would be proper to use as well as another term he is my Familary and my patron. 

Another set is the people who you know well and are quite fond of always more charming than tiresome. These I think are what he majority of people think of when they say friends. These are the people whose parties you go to who you tell your troubles to who you lunch with.  These are the people you choose to spend time with.

Then there are those people who are the most important to you. These are some of the most important relationships we have those who are as important to you as most of your close family. Who you don’t have to shield yourself around, unless you want to. People who have already accepted and been accepted people who help define you and who if your honest with yourself you love. Now love is another word that has slippery meaning, English isn’t good at these relationship distinctions, but the love I mean is like the love you have for a sibling nothing less or more than unconditional love.  

dyslexia, dyspraxia and prejudice

            I have considered for quite some time what to write in this the first of my regular blogs. The decision I have made is to talk about my experience living with dyslexia and dyspraxia maybe segueing into a brief rant about prejudice. However, some points need to be clarified; this blog is not about me and my life I aim to keep biographical information out of the blog as much as possible.  What this blog is about is my observations and musings unencumbered by biographical details. Although I will probably slip into using examples from my own life, with names changed to protect the guilty.    

So whittering statements of intent over are you sitting comfortably then we’ll begin. I have dyslexia₁ and dyspraxia₂ and I was diagnosed at a young age. I have all the usual difficulties and idiosyncrasies associated with both.  So from a young age I was aware of certain deficits I have now at this point there are two possible ways for a body to go one either; gives up and accepts a life away from academia, or (this was my choice) attack these piffling difficulties with great fervour.  I think I can trace many of my passions back to this, my love of reading, my love of language its nuts and bolts (English, foreign and dead languages) and my poetic and authorial ambitions. I have seen people go both ways giving up or fighting through adversity. In fact by the time you hit university you have strategies in place that seem to almost compensate for your difficulties, by pouring in effort mainly.  

What is interesting is the response you get from others, especially teachers.  When you go into a classroom a known dyslexic many teachers equate the condition to teaching a blithering idiot. It is assumed that you will need extra help and will probably not be able to cope with the work. This is not a million miles away from being reasonable most dyslexic children will have trouble with written work.  That is to say that they will have trouble with spelling, maybe style and definitely grammar.  What this does not translate to is  a lack of worthy ideas, a lack of understanding or even, as one harridan of a high school history teacher claimed, a lack of care. When I was young I chose to do a history GCSE and this woman told me that due to the amount of written work involved I would probably fail.  This was before she had seen any of my work. History will record that I did rather well in my history GCSE because; it turns out, what a history GCSE doesn’t test is the ability to spell and construct sub-clauses. I suppose the point is that teaches sometimes value presentation more than ideas and from this I suppose I can see where the dyslexia = stupidity idea comes from, nonsense though it is. This prejudice that I have faced forced me to prove myself to each new teacher, educator or support worker.   This hasn’t impeded me too much I am by nature a stubborn, wilful creature who presented being challenged will attempt to overcome. But has this prejudice harmed others being told again and again that you can’t do something has a dire effect on the confidence.

This got me thinking about other predudices. I knew a black man who was convinced that black men couldn’t swim. It is true that black people often have a higher bone density than my Caucasian brothers making it more difficult for them to learn to swim.  So this particular prejudice has a basis in fact. The question is where does fact and observation become prejudice?    

1 Dyslexia is a difficulty in reading and spelling often manifesting as slow reading, poor (read dreadful) spelling, poor organization and time management skills.

2 Dyspraxia, for me fine motor skills difficulty and extreme clumsiness and lack of balance.       

Why I think that if my handwriting could be read I'd own a quill

            I feel that my attitude to technology is quite an odd one. That is to say I don''t know many people who feel the same; or I know few who, feeling the same, act and acquire in a similar way to me. Since it has been possible for me to download music or films I have not deigned to use such outdated formats as the CD or DVD. Digital, I often pronounced was better. It is indeed more convenient, cheaper and more flexible than traditional media. However present me with a record player made 30ish years before I was born and I will fawn all over it like a cat presented with a tuna fish covered in catnip. Records, I am wont to argue, feel different when you listen to them almost live. I will squeal with ill-concealed delight at the crackling sound the needle makes when it is first lowered to the exquisitely solid and, usually, black ridged disc that somehow, with voodoo I assume, transmits sound. I happily weather skips and scratches whilst pointing out that the fact you can't choose a track preserves the artists intention  for the album, even when forced to listen to four truly horrid Bonnie Tyler tracks to get to total eclipse of the heart.  
  
             Whilst this seems a relatively minor eccentricity (it is I wont apologise for that because if this blog is for nothing else its for discussion of inconsequential topics in a grandiose whitttering style.) it becomes more odd and difficult when attached to my creativity. I cannot handwrite legibly yet I absolutely insist on writing poems with a  pen on preferably Mokeskine paper note pads. To an outsider it seems an idiotic folly for me to write illegibly on  expensive paper especially when what I am writing is often important to me. to defend my sanity I say this; I find it hard to write when I have the backlit screen of a laptop blaring back at me. Quite beyond this I love the experience of writing on high quality creamy paper.  I enjoy savouring the experience of writing. The only black spot the one thing that bothers me, beyond my not infrequent fury at being able to read the slice of genius that I wrote the night before, is the pen I use the mass produced brio. Its as crass and soulless as the computer I avoid. I cannot reasonably use a fountain pen because... well you can only clean up so much ink before it gets old. I have recently come upon an idea to cure this preposterous difficulty, and now the idea's in my mind it is inevitable, I intend to buy an antique type writer to write poetry, fiction and most likely shopping lists and notes and other miscellanea on.

            Why this obsession with outmoded formats and antique tools? I think if I was to try and explain it i would have to use the word weight. The older something is the more solid it seems in an almost spiritual sense more real. When you write on a mokeskine note pad the very paper seems to say what is written here matters. Not only to me but because the notepad itself has a, questionable, history connecting it to my heroes; Van Gough, Hemingway and Picasso among them. Not an odd and shallow and faddy aesthetic principal but an appeal to history.