The wonder of British Plod.........and the IOM Plod's money-crop on Mad Sunday. :o)

Hi Y’all,
Thursday, and another day of my weeks holiday grinds into life, and with some hope of it being a sunny day too. Here I am, reporting in at the writing station, and I must say it’s getting to be the first thing I want to do of a morning………. to write. that bodes well for November's Nanowrimo. :o)

Mostly it’s emails, mostly to prospective New Chicks. Spurred into productivity, I admit, by my having hit a rich and glinting seam over the last couple of months, it’s golden reflections illuminating the digging and hacking away in the candlelit gloom of Kevin’s Mine of Hope and Comfort Sometimes too, I’ve recently been hitting the blog with some thoughts, random and rambling though they may usually be. Occasionally I’ve written stuff no one will ever read. That’ll be the real Wild Stuff then. The stuff no one would most likely understand. The stuff Plod would love to read.

‘Plod’, being a quaint and old-fashioned term for out great police force, and I actually mean that. The last police force in the world you can tell to fuck off, and not get shot for the indiscretion.

Mind you, it’s been a long time since I expressed such an imaginative course of action for our enforcement officers, the last time being way back in ’98 for leaving a thirty-limit on the Isle of Man, at double the limit I must admit, but, in my feeble defence, just before being outside the limit. They had, quite accidentally I’m sure, set the speed trap up thirty feet inside the limit and with the Goforit, or Golf Lima Foxtrot de-restriction black-stripe-on-white plainly in sight. I was quite upset at what I saw as an unfair and dastardly reaping of a abundant crop, there being some 35,000 of we bikers over there for the TT races, and a fair percentage of us being Adrenaline Freaks on a rush of speed.

(Golf Lima Foxtrot??…… There was hell-up amongst the Politically Correct weenies (small ‘w’) a few years ago, when it was disclosed that it was a common police radio instruction amongst traffic cops when chasing speeders…….. and it stands for, if you haven’t worked it out, Go Like Fuck.)

Let me point out that the spot they picked, quite accidentally I now realise after the calming of the years, was at the bottom of a downhill left-handed sweep and in deep and high hedges in the countryside. The last of the village buildings had been passed, and it was "Whoopy-doo" time with the scent of the speed-unlimited roads opening up again.

On the Isle of Man, there are no speed limits outside of the villages and towns. Let me tell you, it is an Adrenalin Freak’s Paradise.

They pulled me over, and, being a man with a strong sense of what is Just and Fair, I was a bit upset at their apparent cunning. Actually, ..........I was fucking livid, and then some. I suggested, quite graphically, that they might explore the pleasures of inserting the hair dryer up their ass (hand-held speed gun), and that they’d missed their vocation by not seeking employment with the IOM Tourist Board. Throwing the skid-lid across the road (I kid you not. I was bleddy mad as hell), I doubted the authenticity of their parentage, and offered to wipe my bottom with the speeding ticket.

Why was I so upset about such a thing? Well, see, there were a few reasons. Being whacked out on antidepressants that weren’t working, being over there with no chick, and it having been the wettest TT in living memory all added up to my being mentally right down on the floor. It was also the third time I’d been so sneakily ‘had over’ by the cunning IOM Plod in the last three visits to the Island of Speed, and on every occasion it had cost in excess of £160 in fines. That’s each time, so we’re talking about £500 in total (each being in excess of £160), and I do freely admit I was in considerable excess of the limit, before you point it out. :o)

You see, not unsurprisingly I guess these days, they set these traps up all over the place, and one copper over there told me that on Mad Sunday they gather something like 200 of we poor unsuspecting, safety-conscious, Speed Freaks an hour over the whole island. When you go to pay the fine, you just pay the fine, no licence, insurance, or proof of identity is asked for………. Just pay here, (sir), and sign here, (sir), and thank you for your cooperation in the matter, (sir). :o)


And, whaddya mean you’ve never heard of Mad Sunday??? Where y’all been all your lives??? :o)

Briefly, Mad Sunday is a long-standing tradition of mayhem and an open day for we nutters. It’s one mental day, where the mountain Course of the Isle of Man TT circuit of public roads used for the racing are opened up to one way traffic, and so becoming a race-track as it is on race days. Then let loose to all who dare to ‘ride the mountain’ on Mad Sunday. Many don’t dare, and with good reason. Safety is not a word that goes with the day. It’s the single reason I go over there, and quite secondary to watching the fantastic racing, which makes mainstream track races look like a kindergarten tea party.


Have a look…….. have a taste…..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRmNZlEXjQ0

Anyway………. the bottom line is, that our police force really is the best in the world. Mad and wild as I was, those two coppers just politely pointed out that maybe I might consider the pleasures of being arrested if I didn’t calm myself (sir). They just completed the paperwork, explaining that should I use it for the purpose I’d suggested, that more paper would not be provided to complete such an undertaking.

No gun was involved at any point, no handcuffs deemed as necessary, and no sudden appearance of any overwhelming ‘backup’ either.

Then they watched, as I cleared the thirty-limit sign a few yards away, and nailed the bike to 140 down the road away from them.

God bless them all. :o)

K.x :o)

September thoughts....... I use the term 'thoughts' loosely! :o)

September………….

It’s brightened up this afternoon………. sunny, blue skies and white clouds, mixed as a fifty-fifty spread. Lovely day, and here I am writing away again. I’m kinda doing a trial run for the November nanowrimo by writing everything in Word, and then cutting/pasting into wherever they need to be, usually emails. That way I have everything in one document to keep a word-count. Last month’s, running from the 22 to the 22, was 27,000 words, this month’s count from 22 August is 39,550 (right there, at that moment). I’m going to break through 40,000 today if I can, which will mean a daily diet of 1,666 words at least, to make the 50,000 word minimum limit by the 22 September. Even if I don’t do it, it makes 50,000 in Nvember an easyish goal………. All I’ve got to do is write every single day. Skip one or two, and each days ration needs to increase; skip too many, and it will be a struggle. I’m going to reach for 100,000, and go for the impossible. As is in my nature……….. all or nothing.

Anyway, that’s getting way from this lovely day here. I guess I should take the bike, maybe Hoover for a change, even if she is still running like a sick dog. I took her out for a short wakeup spin the other day, and she seemed to be running a bit better. I’ve gotta have another look at the carbs, and I suspect it’s the emulsion jets worn oval. That’s going to be over £80 for four tiny little brass tubes.

Back to today though. A September day, and a typically lovely one too.

Both the happiest and the worst times have happened to me in September. I love the damp chill of it, the sniff of winter to come, but still warmed by blue-skied sunny days. There was a time when sometimes I loved it, and sometimes I hated it, and sometimes just bounced around between the two emotions. Most times I love it these days. It’s a peaceful month.

No other month feels like this one does……….. not even December, with all of Christmas consuming it like a blanket of snow. No, it sure is a strange month, and today feel kinda good, even though yesterday didn’t, especially with all its bad news. It seems it’s rarely a bad month for weather these days…….. our summers seem to have been replaced by sunny springs and Autumns,…… well, Septembers anyway. I checked up on which months are in which season, and, as I suspected, September is actually still summer, and autumn starts in October. Just shows how off course I’ve always been with that then, in considering September to be the start of autumn.

Yup, September is a funny month for me.

I was married in September, and she left me in September too. Just before the tenth anniversary…… ten days before I think……….. I guess facing yet another anniversary when all you wanna do is walk out of the door is a real hard thing to face. It would make you gather your nerve and make that move wouldn’t it?

I had both bad mo’sickle accidents too in September….. different years of course, when I was sixteen and again at eighteen.…….. fractured something like 23 bones, give or take a few ribs, on a life support system both times, an emergency tracheotomy carried out in the ambulance after the second accident, and bed ridded for six months recovering from the first and not fully fit for a year. Started and finished most jobs in and shortly after September too. There seems to be a whole lot around September for me.

Writing that makes me realise that most things were not that good………. getting married the only good one really, so why do I ever think well of this month? Somehow I suspect it was the magnitude of getting married to the young woman I loved so much. That event somehow carries enough weight of importance in my mind to easily balance the ending of that great relationship, and more than balances the other shit that happened in the Septembers before it and after as well.

The mind sure is a funny thing, the way it reckons all the totality of experiences into an overall ‘impression’ that we all carry of most things. When you look at those inner visions, and measure the facts of the parts that form them; the percentages, and importance, they so often just don’t weigh up to what we tend to think, or feel, about something. It goes some way to showing why we can get so many things wrong in our assessments of life, and think of experiences and chunk of life as something so very different from the reality of them. How off key we may be in basing future decisions on those impressions we have.

Come to think of it…………. I used to dread Septembers for a long time after Sue (Ex-Wife) left………. I had it in mind that it was an hugely unlucky month for me, and for an equally longish time, I now feel ok about it. If I was pushed, I’d say it’s no longer a month I don’t like. Sometimes a echo of past dread hovers around, but mostly I appreciate it as a lovely month.

Mellowing with age, I guess, and being so far from the bad times I had when I was younger too. I realise as well, that no month, or any other time frame, is necessarily responsible for any of life’s experiences, good, bad or indifferent. It’s just the way it is, and some things are bound to group up in a time frame from random, or from practical reasons linked to a certain time. After all, you’re very likely only ever going to choke on a sixpence from a Christmas pud at Christmas. :o)

Wadya think? :o)

Woo Hoo.... 40,465 words now! :o)

K.x :o)

An very, VERY ill man, .....and a Horse, ......and those who love them...........

Hi y’all,
Not the best or most cheery of mornings this morning. Got a very short email from ‘J’, someone who I used to work with and who has always supported me in bad times, saying that her husband, ‘R’ had got Cancer. Just had their Sapphire Anniversary (45 years) too.

Stuff like this always suddenly reminds me that you just don’t know what’s around the corner in this life…….. good or bad, and that life is only as long as the next morning you wake up to a new day and all it holds. I guess it’s a 24/7 day or night thing in reality………. It’s only as long as the next second that slides past to leave you still breathing……… or more realistically, having conscious thoughts. You can be alive and dead at the same time. God knows I’ve looked after a few in my job who are no more than the living dead……… and no, I’m not talking about the terminally ill. I look after people with profound Learning Difficulties, as it is so politely and so very politically correctly known these days. For some individuals, calling it any sort of ‘life’ at all is the preserve of only the twisted and unhinged.

We treat our animals far better than we do our own species……… those of us who aren’t sadists anyway. Which brings me onto the next email I had…………

It was from ‘S’, another good friend, and what’s more an ex-girlfriend, and sent to say she was going to have to have her beloved horse put down, as she is just too old to get through another winter.

I’ve been dreading this email from her, because from first knowing her, I knew that one day she’d have to face up to doing this, and bearing the agony that goes with it.
‘A’, her beloved horse is lucky she isn’t human, because if she was, she’d have her life prolonged for as long as possible, and so the struggle to live it too. I had tears in my eyes reading about what ‘A’ meant to her, and how she’d always wanted her own horse…….. the bit that really did it, was the image of a little 3 year-old girl asking Santa for her very own horse every year. I could really feel how especially happy and proud she must have been to ride her for the first time. Her dream come true, and now the horrible pain of it coming to an end, and by her own hand, so to speak, not some accident or natural cause. That would be plenty bad enough.

I can easily imagine the bond of her having had ‘A’ through such bad times as divorce etc., and through the happiest of times too. I didn’t have an animal for comfort at those times, just a series of bikes……… my Guzzi, for instance, and that was a bike that I always said got me through the Winter Of Discontent after my wife buggered off. Having ‘A’ to cry with, talk to, and laugh with too, would be a real big deal, along with all the rest she shared with her, and those twenty years and more when she’d been comforted, pleasured, and cheered by her big horse-heart. I’m not a Horsey type, but I do know they are very special animals.

At least ‘A’ will have been lucky to have had so much love all her life, and taken care of by a woman like ‘S’ right to the end. Few of us can have the same in life.

I sure hope, whatever happens to my other friend's husband, and especially if it’s as bad as it can be, that he doesn’t suffer for long.

God bless you, ‘R’ and I send some thoughts and ‘hope’ over the space around you, and to you 'J' as well.

You too, 'S'......... and, of course, dear old 'A'.

Please take a few minutes and send some focused and good thoughts out for them all too, will you?

Who knows what a difference a few focused thoughts will make .......... quite possibly at least the difference you'd like to feel if you were them.

I know I can count on you.
Thanks...........
K.x :o)

Testing Trevor and Sam's Locost...... :o)

Hi,
Smee again. Blimey, three times in, what a week or so? Wonders will never cease. :o)

Just got back from Westonzoyland airdrome, where Trevor, his son Sam and No-Problem-Pete are giving Trevor and Sam’s Locost Kit-Car it’s first outing on tarmac. There’s a bit of the old wartime airfield that is used for such things, for a suitable donation to the landowner, and it’s just what they needed to flag wilting spirits around the building of this car.

It’s quite an achievement, as Trevor and his young son Sam have been building this car from scratch in a tiny little scabby single garage, with no engineering facilities whatsoever. Trevor tells me it’s been three years in the gestation so far, but I can’t believe that time has goes so quickly……. Well, I can, but don’t want to actually acknowledge it.
It’s been built using the book “Build Your Own Sports Car for as Little as 250 Pounds: And Race it!” by Ron Champion.


















http://www.amazon.co.uk/Build-Your-Sports-Little-Pounds/dp/1859606369

If you’ve had anything at all to do with kit cars, you will have heard of his book. It’s quite an inspiring book, and such is the proof of that is Trevor and Sam’s effort that I drove on the airfield this morning. I’d say get this book, even just for the pleasure of dreaming of what could be. I guarantee that if you’re the sort of bloke……. Or a very, very rare Chick, …….. who likes to make things, you’ll love this book.

It gives you all you need to start from scratch with just a pile of tubing you’ve bought, and something like a knackered ford sierra as a donor vehicle to gather the engine, gearbox, wheels, brakes, hubs and stuff from…….. actually the book uses an old rear-wheel drive ford escort, but they’re like hens teeth to get now.

Not for these two valiant souls was this going to be a traditional kit-car supplied complete with ready-made chassis, body tub and panels cut to fit, seats, brackets and pretty much all you need to assemble into a complete car. Nope, Trevor and Sam, armed with only a book for guidance, went ahead and welded up the entire chassis, all the axle links, the front suspension wishbones, the lot. Pete with his expertise in building fibreglass boats, helped them make the lift-off bonnet, and to modify the rear fibreglass unit to fit their chassis, sourced from e-bay, and meant for an entirely different car.

In building that chassis, clever young Sam soon became something of an accomplished welder, and so for that matter did Trevor. Few boys these days get that sort of opportunity, and it’s something you just can’t put a price on at that age. Quite, quite priceless.

I’ve put my oar in from time to time, mainly in the way of encouragement, and often just by putting things in perspective when it’s all going wrong, and it all seems too much of an uphill struggle. When I point out how well they’ve done considering the garage is so small, and with so little by way of engineering equipment, it usually perks Trevor up.

Sam doesn’t need perking up……… he has the advantage of yoof on his side, and we all know how that flattens mountains, don’t we? :o)

Ok, the car shows it’s rough edges as a reflection of the VERY primitive environment it was built in, and that it was the first attempt Trevor and young Sam have ever made in building a kit car of any sort. Despite it’s home spun appearance, it drove ok, stopped when braked, and we had some fun sliding it about a good bit. It was actually a great success, although there were some fuelling problems with the engine that stopped play several times.

I took some photos, and will load them up on here when I get them sorted out.

These cars are soooooo much fun, some bastard little weenie will soon make it illegal for sure certain. With that in mind, I won’t elaborate greatly on just the sort of antics it encourages, but suffice to say, with your ass sat almost over the back axle and the centre of gravity so low, spending time creatively sliding around sideways is quite impossible to resist. Unless you’re a weenie, of course.

Trevor and Sam’s faces said it all after they got out from their first circuit of the small area of tarmac available to them. It was real good to see that all those, often despairing, hours spent in a freezing cold and tiny little garage were suddenly all worthwhile in just a few minutes on bit of old airdrome.

We are fast losing the last remnants of men (yes, and some women too, but traditionally it’s always been, and still is, mostly men) who traditionally built all sorts of wonderful stuff in sheds and workshops all over this country. The weenies that govern us have all but outlawed it, and hey won’t be happy until they have driven the final nails into boarding up the doors of our sheds and workshops.

It breaks my bloody heart, but a sight like this morning, of a Father and Son, bonded and forged in what they have created together in a poxy little garage gladdens my heart, and it displays to the world that you little weenie bastards out there haven’t beaten us yet.

K. :o)

On fingering with Mavis, and helping your writing stress levels. :o)

Well, here I am, sitting here without a thought in my head as to what to bash out for y’all here. I am determined to get some more entries on here, but what stops me, is the lack of anything which seems at all meaningful to say, so I don’t even start. Starting is sometimes the hardest thing in life…….. often way harder than finishing. To finish, you just have to keep right on going, even if it’s the worst slog in your history, but to start, well, that’s often another thing altogether, isn’t it?

I loaded up an old copy of Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing on the desktop ‘puter upstairs last night, not expecting it to work for a second, as it’s a pre-Windows XP edition, ……….and hey, guess what? It worked!!! (As long as the CD was left in.)





















I had a go at it….. thinking that learning to touch-type would be a brilliant help for the Nanowrimo month on November ( http://www.nanowrimo.org/ ). Naturally I was disappointed that I hadn’t improved my skills after about three minutes, and so called it a night. It doesn’t bode well for the future, does it. (Not that there’s a helluva lot of future left at fifty-bleddy-five!)

Still, it WAS gone midnight, and so way past bedtime for we Old Greasers, despite there being no damp chick there murmuring “Come to bed Big Boy”. That always gets me in the sack for an early night, and I sure miss the good influence of a Chick warming the sheets up for me. (Sigh)

Where was I? Oh yes, giving up on poor old Mavis and her touch typing…… (there’s a joke in there, if I could only think of it, I just know it!). I’m going to put her on this laptop too, and will make a more determined effort to master it before November. I noticed it was bleddy uncomfortable to assume the position, holding your hands over the master keys, those being a-s-d-f on the left and j-k-l-; on the right, doncherknow. :o)

I think I may well be too damn old to get the hang of it, but boy, wouldn’t it be great to be able to not only type way faster, but to be able to look at the damn screen instead of the keys when just using the two fingers. I’m always looking up and realising that I’ve hit the sodding Caps lock key, which is easy to correct in Word, but means retyping in an email program ……. Outlook Express anyway. To sort it in Word, if you’re wondering, just highlight the line(s) of text, hold down the Shift key, and use the F3 key to toggle through the three options… all capitals, first letters capitalised, or no capitalisation…. Brilliant!

Ok, y’all who don’t give a monkey’s about this will just have to cruise on down, but those who hate the Caps Lock PiTA (pain in the ass…….. come on, keep up!) go to this site…..
http://www.xp-tips.com/caps-lock-warning.html (Several good tips and tweaks there) and follow the instructions to enable a warning beep every time Caps Lock, Scroll lock (ScrLk) or Number lock (NumLk) is turned on or off. It’s real easy to do. HEY, JUST DISCOVERED SOMETHING ELSE…. If you hold the Number lock (NumLk) key down for five seconds it will turn the warning on, and if you hold it down for another five seconds it will turn it off. (On my laptop the same key does both functions, and so I have to hold down the Shift key to enable the Number Lock key)

How brilliant is THAT???

How SAD is getting excited at it too, I guess. (Sigh) How did it ever wind up getting like this? A used-to-be Hell Raiser getting excited at finding out how to enable a Caps Lock warning on and off. Jees! I really need to get out more. Some pussy would help no end y’know,………. if you could see your way clear, that is.

No?

Can’t say I entirely blame you hunny. :o)

Thank God I can laugh eh? My sides are bleddy splitting as we speak. No, really, they are. :o)

You want another tip?

This drove me bleddy MAD one fine day, until I figured it out. If you suddenly find that every time you type a letter whilst working in the middle of a document, that the next letter on disappears with every new letter you type………. It’s because you’ve accidentally pressed the ‘Insert’ key at the top right of your keyboard. Press it again, and all should be well. There should be a warning beep for that one too, but you soon know when you’ve done it! I don’t think it does anything if there is no writing ahead of your cursor.

Ok, that’s pretty much the sum of my computer knowledge; all of it found out the hard way, and passed on to y’all, free and for gratis. :o)

Well, the muse, such as it was, has left the building, so I’m off to get Mavis loaded on here, and have a bit more of a determined effort to at least put some effective time in. Boy, do I ever admire anyone who can touch type. I knew someone once who could type as fast as you talked, and it was real weird to see the words you were speaking flying across the screen, just slightly behind the sound. What made it really impressive was that she was looking at the screen the whole time, and when I checked it, there was not one single mistake after several minutes worth of talking to her. Not spelling, Not anything. Nil. Zilch. Nothing. Just perfection.

She was a real young beauty too, proving once and for all, not that I’ve ever doubted it for one second, that brains and beauty do go together.

And yet, …………a lot of assholes who consider themselves so wonderful in what they do in life, would have just described her as ‘just a secretary’.

Just like people are ‘just a lorry driver’, ‘just a digger driver’, ‘just a waitress’ etc. etc.

Well, some people should try these less ‘valued’ jobs, and see just how hard it is, and just how shit they are at it, too. Whilst they’re about it, see how all that’s below them crumbles without those below them thanklessly slogging away every day.

Yup, I’m one of those slogging away, making the dreams and promotions of the weenies above me happen. Those junior to me get buckets of appreciation every day from me, and I make sure they feel the sincerity in it too.

On that cheerful note, as per the usual, I’m off to finger with Mavis.

Y’all have a great day! :o)

K.x :o) (A reminder, dear reader, that any x’s in this Blog are for the Chicks only. Don’t you chaps (Trevor) be confused now.) :o)

Finally....... an entry, and about the NaNoWriMo

Hi y’all….. not that anyone’s reading this now, I guess, especially since I seem to have pretty much abandoned any hint of regular entries here lately. No excuse, ……..just the usual lethargic apathy, and fuck-it-I’ll-do-it-tomorrow lifestyle I’ve turned into something of an art-form. :o)

I can’t even blame the long sunny summer we haven’t had again this year. Nope, no excuse, …………especially since I often describe myself as a Wannabe Writer.

Which brings me to the latest obsession that has consumed me for pretty much all of August, and has passed the time whilst looking at the rain from the Sun Room here at Fortress Wheelrest.

I’ve been spending an absolute FORTUNE at the Alter of Amazon, buying pretty well all the well-recommended books on writing, both on the technical aspects and the inspirational and emotional side of the craft. The stuff that makes you want to sit like a saddo and type away for hours, sometimes about bugger-all. At least as far as those who don’t write, or maybe even read, would see someone like me as I guess.

What has sparked this off then?

Well, it’s a thing called The NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), or Nanowrimo thing

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

You basically start on the first of November, and by the 30th will have sent off at least the minimum 50,000 word draft of a novel, script, or whatever. everyone who manages to get at least those 50,000 words out is a winner.......... there are no prizes, no awards, though, just the satisfaction of achieving those 50,000 words in the month of November, and so being eligible to wear the t-shirts, badges etc, if you wanted to buy and wear them that is. I think I might lash out a few quid for one. :o)

The website is just kept ticking over for most of the year, but freshens up and really kicks in, in October in time to encourage everyone to gear up for the 50,000 word-writing marathon for the month of November.

Just imagine if you could do that, eh? Write 50,000 words in a month! It doesn't matter what you write about, or how good it is; the important thing is to write every day for that month, and get those 50,000 words out. At least fifty thousand of the little blighters. One word at a time. Writing something like 1,667 words a day, every day, for a month.

I'm going to aim for at least 2,000 words a day. Absolute minimum. That'll be 60,000 words, and, hell, maybe even more. the big trouble I can see, is no ideas on what to write whatsoever, and if there's no ideas, maybe I won't be able to 'flow' well enough to get those words out every day. Hmmmnnnn I guess I'll have to rely on my ability to ramble about bugger-all, but that will mean 50,000 words about nothing.

Still, all the advice I read from authors has one common thread, and that is to write, even if you don't know what to write. just get the words out, and more often than not, something appears out of all those words and thoughts solidify into some idea, or direction, and the writing takes off on it's own. I know it happens, because I find it happening all the time when I email, write on this blog, or whatever i find myself writing about.

So, I'm optimistic in that I'll succeed in this. it will be good to succeed in something these days.

Writing is very therapeutic in any case, if you need any therapy that is, and even if you don't think you do, it still will have a good effect of one sort or another. Why don't you have a go at it too? It sure would at least give you some focus in that dead November time, when winter weather is starting to really settle in, and Christmas looms just too far ahead to be within grasp.......... for those lucky sods in good enough shape to want to grasp it, that is.

Anyway, read through the blogs............. some are very good, and illustrate how life changing doing something like this can be. It's on the drop-down list under the 'fun Stuff' tag, ...............NaNoWriMo Blog................ but here's the direct link to the blog page anyway........ http://blog.nanowrimo.org/

On the right side, are various peoples blog entries, and some are quite inspiring to read if you take the time to scroll through to those which catch your interest.

I'm telling everyone who may be the slightest bit interested, and a good few who couldn't give a shit, all about my commitment to this, and that's to kinda make it all the harder for me to abandon it as soon as it gets to be a struggle. I have to say, it's pretty demoralising to find I don't have the slightest idea of what I'm going to write about, so any suggestions will be welcomed.

OK, that’s me for today. I guess if I aim for shorter blogs, I might write in here more often. mind you, November's gonna be a real lean month for this blog, and for emailing too. I guess I'll leave the web-dating alone too, which will give my ego and self-esteem the world of good for a start.

Women, I mean, who needs them anyway? (Sigh)

OK, that's definitely it.

Y’all keep happy. :o)

I need the encouragement, y'see.
K.x :o)

Death of a Little Black Flying Thing........... :o(

I was just sat here in the sunny garden, reading Jeremy Clarkson's book “For Crying Out Loud”, and a Little Black Flying Thing you could hardly see landed on the page. I brushed it off, and quite unintentionally killed it. It died quite horribly………… well, on its own scale, it was quite horrible, but at least it was quick I guess. The poor little blighter left a green smear about 15mm long and 2mm wide on page fifty-one, the only trace remaining that it had ever lived at all.

It got me thinking, partly out of respect, and partly from regret that I had carelessly snuffed the life from it………. I know not whether it was a he or a she, so have regrettably to refer to it as ‘it’.

The Thinking led to consideration of how little most of us leave behind as a trace that we ever were.

(Brace yourself, dear reader, we’re going in,………. As in ‘In Real Deep’)


That Little Black Flying Thing, (Which was black on the outside, and thus as far as the inverse insect world is concerned, not one of a minority group.), at least left a mark on page 51 of my book, which will forever remain as a reminder of its Last Day Flying.

I will, in all probability, remember the moment for at least Quite Some Time, and will hereafter refer to this book as the ‘Memorial Edition’. I’m like that; I remember the detail of life, commonly regarded by most successful people as unimportant. Pity about the Big Stuff, more commonly regarded as important, and which I pay little heed to then, isn’t it?

That nearly leads me down another track of tangled thought, so I’ll get back to the subject that was in mind…………. How little remains of us when we’re gone.

I guess the most long lasting evidence for most of us is perhaps a headstone in a churchyard. It may be something quirky enough, and perhaps with a similarly quirky inscription, to catch the eye of someone wandering through the graves. It may make them stop and wonder of the life that boiled down to those few words, before moving on to continue weaving their own life-tapestry, having soon forgotten what they saw there. Most likely it will be a small, comittee-designed, standard issue, Politically Correct marker in the grounds of a faceless crematorium, individuality being snuffed out by the controlling will of the faceless weenies. It may be a small and oh-so-tastefully-discrete-flat-on-the-ground marker of the life it represents, and also easily grown over until it can never be found again without a shovel.

Family photographs will maybe remain floating about for several generations, although diluted amongst it’s numbers of inherited keepers, and long since lost in dark boxes and drawers. The stories that accompanied them will soon be forgotten, as will the names and position in the family hierarchy. Inherited possessions too will wither as they are handed down or lost completely through loss, breakage, sale, .......... or worse, .......... simply thrown away.

Modern photographs, now taken digitally and mostly never printed, will last not even half a generation now, and those that do will be lost amongst thousands of others on hard drives, or discs, never to be looked at again. The boxes of photographs that many have, are already a passing tradition thanks to this digital medium which, quite ironically, has made recording the past easier and cheaper than it ever has been in history. Maybe that proves a theory, that the easier and cheaper anything is, the less permanent or valued it becomes?

Those lucky enough to have had the gist of their lives recorded in the written word will have their stories preserved perhaps for a thousand years or more, but they are the very fewest of us all.

Both my Father and Stepfather, both gone some eighteen years ago now, have little left already to mark their lives. My Stepfather’s laid-flat, tiny grave marker has long since grown over, much to my shame. Many living close by him, and one in particular, swore to keep his grave tended, and I for one never expected it to have gown over so quickly, nor how easily I could forget it’s exact position. I shouldn’t have trusted the word of those who promised they would keep it tended I guess.

I keep some mementos of both of them close by and always visible in the house in areas I sit or stand, and from time to time handle, use, or find one of the few of their tools I inherited. They were the diminishing generation of men who made, repaired and modified things in their garages and workshops, and the wear on those tools linger like an echo of their toil, skill and efforts. I think of them often, but when I’m gone so too will they be gone. No one else knows the stories they told me, my Father in particular, and I have been meaning to write their stories down. Those stories to at least hand on to my only niece in the hope it will mean something to her, but knowing it probably won’t.

We all, even the most mundane of us, have led complicated and different lives, and it all goes out like a light on our passing, just like my Little Black Flying Thing this morning. I guess, the scale of things being taken into account, its green smear of life’s juices spilt, and these thoughts, written and then sent out there in this blog, is the equivalent of a funeral with full military honours to accompany it.

Has anyone ever squidged something so small and most common, and yet thought of it so deeply? Probably very few in the history of the written word. :o)

So, dear Little Black Flying Thing, I salute you, your tiny life, and all it meant to those around you (sniff), and will remember that you remain forever, a green smear on page fifty-one……………

K.x :o)

Rambling on the beach.............. :o)

Well, I’m on the beach here at Axmouth………. Rattled down on the Harley, after starting to get some work done in the workshop, as The Harley’s due it’s Mot on Thursday and the damn belt-drive is scuffing the tyre somehow. I stood there looking at her, canted over on her stand in the sun, and she looked back at me and said, “Fuck it, run me down to the coast man!”

So here we are…….. she’s up there in the sun basking in the attentions of those who pass her, and I’m down here listening to the surf tirelessly rolling the pebbles around in it’s foamy caress. Poetic, that doncha think? I’ve been reading James May, the Top gear columnist, and he’s very good……. Right up my street………. Unafraid to fly in the face of convention and the barricades of bullshit everyone hides behind these days. A very funny man.

The beach is pretty well deserted, apart from a few people so far away it’s hard to make them out. The nearest to me is over a hundred yards away, and is a bit distracting in that she’s divested herself of all clothing except what may well be a tiny pair of knickers. Can’t quite see to be certain, given that I only have the luxury of a sidelong glance, but she sure whipped the top off quick enough.

I’m bleddy sure they do it on purpose y’know. Never mind, I’m pretending to nonchalantly be uninterested, as she’s pretending that I’m not too. It’s all a bleddy game isn’t it? Every single woman who gets her kit off within eye-shot of some poor bloke, knows full well she’s distracting the poor bastard from his reading matter. I don’t care who you are, or how much you say you’re not bothered….. you bleddy notice at the very least. you just tell yourself not to look, but it's a helluva job not to let the eyeballs swivel in their direction. :o)

Where was I……….. being poetic about the foamy surf, rolling ceaselessly up on the shore, turning the pebbles like a giant polishing machine, ...........like she just turned a moment ago, making sure she was looking over here as she did so, to make sure I was making sure I wasn't looking. Jees, what games we all play. Sweetheart, is it really necessary to fling you’re lovely long hair about like that, let alone your Items Of Distraction?

Bollocks, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction……… besides another one has beached herself to Starboard, and is at least keeping her kit on in consideration for the poor old bastard sat over here. :o)

Shit, lookout, ..........her friend is manoeuvring down the beach, a big lass, but very pretty, and has just smiled nicely, and so I smiled back. Nice and civilised it is too. Look at us all here……….. all on our own, and who knows what stage of life we’re all on, each with an entwined story, uniquely complicated and unimaginable, but nevertheless we're all separated by convention. Unwritten rules of separation, long since written in stone.

Yup those rules made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men (Douglas Bader, Reach For The Sky), but what courage it takes to break them. A beach, is still a very private place. Only a very few would transgress, and sit nearby especially in such a wide empty space, and rightly so. How many would welcome the company though? Maybe more than you would think, our society being so high in numbers of unattached and single people. We are so wary of people these days too…….. strangers, and especially women wary of single men, weirdoes every one of us.

How did we ever get to be so afraid of each other unless reliably introduced?

I can remember, years ago, sitting on a beach with a girlfriend I had at the time, and a deaf bloke walked up, sat right down beside her on the far side from me, and started chatting to her. He could communicate quite well, and was soon sat down beside her nattering, and signing away. What pissed me off, was the bloody nerve of it. He was definitely blatantly ‘chatting’ her up, and there was I sat on the other side of her not included in the conversation one bit. It was exactly as if I wasn’t there…… he didn’t even say “Hello” to me in any way whatsoever, right from the start. The girlfriend said later that she didn’t like to be rude, especially since he was deaf, and maybe, she thought, lonely. I didn’t say anything either, as I didn’t want to seem petty. I was certain he was well used to using this as a chat-up technique, but, with hindsight kinda had to admire his balls……… (as in ‘courage’, you understand!) Courageous enough in approaching a single girl alone on a beach, but when her boyfriend is sat there right next to her, well, it was going to get him a slap one day.

Anyway, that’s kinda besides the point……….. it being, why not try to engage someone in conversation? What’s there to lose? If they don’t like it, it’s going to be obvious enough, and easy to just politely disengage and walk away. These constraints, especially seemingly the British rules of engagement, are soooooo powerful though. I would love to have someone’s company here, preferably female it has to be admitted, although not for the obvious reasons you, dear reader might think, but pretty well nothing would get me to approach anyone here to start a conversation. Not unless it was very easy to do.

Weird, huh?

Yup, pretty damn weird.

Hey, lookup, some chick approaches now with a dog in tow……….. nope……. I gave her a smile, said “He looks keen to get in the water”……… she smiled very slightly as if to say "You've got a bloody nerve", and looked the other way. Never said a word in reply. Shit, man, I must be a real bleddy ugly guy. I might as well have asked her to lose the dog, and come over and sit on my nob for the way she reacted. I guess "He looks keen to get in the water" sounds like "Fancy a shag".

Maybe it amounts to the same thing for a woman. I suppose you'd have to be one to experience being hit on all the time, and when you are, you hear words differently. Conversations take on a different slant. I think I could hack it though. I'd far rather have to turn opportunities down than have none at all.

Would ANY man ignore a woman who politely spoke to him? I think not, and if he did, what a rude pig he would be. Women sure do get licence to be as rude as they like. I guess it goes with an abundance of choice and opportunity. It’s as if speaking will get you raped. Maybe that’s what it’s all about. She knows getting into a conversation may well result in something she doesn’t want, so it’s simpler to just ignore a guy's approach. I guess I can see the logic, but some of us are decent enough not to push their luck beyond acceptability.

It really is all to do with looks, and don’t bother telling me otherwise……… boy am I ever sick of hearing that it’s all about personality. Take my buddy Mad Eddie in the States…………. Some three or four years younger than me, but waaaaay better looking……… man, he has women crawling all over him. Waitresses giving him their number, smiles galore on the street, the works. A few years ago, I had far less trouble engaging women in light conversation, getting eye contact, smiles etc. I’m not saying it was an everyday thing, but it certainly wasn’t difficult. Now…………. It’s got so bad that one single acknowledgement of the briefest duration is notable. Since I turned fifty it’s all gone tits up.

Not about looks?

I think it is all about looks.

Tha's not as bitter and twisted as it sounds......... I do undersatnd how it works, i just wish others would admit that looks do count hugely that's all. :o)

Hey ho, (half an hour later now) just had a nice chat to another woman walking her dog……… I’d walked down to the water’s edge here, and was kicking stones into the water as she came along……….. she had a watch, and I was wondering at what time it was, so I asked. Said her dog was nice, and had he been in the water yet, and we had a nice long chat. Nice. And guess what, I didn’t rape her, soon learned that she had a husband, partner, whatever, and that was fine. We chatted, and as soon as she seemed to want to move on, I went with it, and off she went. Just a nice chat. Proof, if you need it, that we’re not all monsters.

Yes, it would’ve been great had she been free and available, suddenly thought I was Mr Wonderful, and begged me to introduce The Ferret there and then, but she wasn’t, she didn’t, and I was just fine with it. Why wouldn’t I be. :o)

Maybe some women just don’t give you the time of day because it’s like doing you a favour, and I have to say, it's usually the good looking ones. Well, there’s a saying, that the mark of a man (woman) is how he (she) treats someone who is of no obvious use to them. By that standard, the woman I’ve just spoken to is a far nicer woman that the snooty one with her nose in the air. She may not have been as pretty, but sure was far nicer.

Mind you, I guess, too, it’s all a big skill, talking to strangers……….. so shyness could be the deal with Miss Snooty, so I guess I’ll cut her some slack. no, soddit, she didn't look very shy to me. you can kinda tell. :o)

Maybe I should make it a new hobby kinda thing, starting conversations with strangers, and not just women because, God knows, I could do with some more friends. (Sigh)

Never mind, its’ the way it goes I guess, and anyway, it’s a glorious day here.

It’s about 5.40pm now…….. wind’s getting a bit chilly, AND Topless over there has slipped her bra back on, so things must be getting real nippy.

When I win the lottery, I’m gonna do this every damn day! Cruise around, and sit on beaches. Well, not just on beaches, but I guess you know what I mean.

Ok, that’s it……… another ramble about bugger-all, and all raw straight-from-within thoughts too, so don’t judge me too harshly dear reader. Y’all think weird and politically incorrect thoughts too, (oh yes you do!!) I just openly express them, that's all. Bear that in mind when you’re sniffing haughtily at what’s written here in this blog. :o)

Topless is getting dressed, ……………….. and I guess I should be hustling the Harley home too.

Bye for now.............

K. :o)

Petrol Head stuff........... and a rant about bastard weenies (small 'w') :o)

Well, I’ve been neglecting my reader out there, and so I guess there’s no one out There reading this drivel now, which is fine, because this is just a waste gate for the excess boost I run from time to time. I guess that’s why it’s often a rant, negative and seemingly from a Dysfunctional Fuckwit With No Life.

Well, ok maybe there’s some truth in that, but No Life to me is just gazing into space, drinking yourself into oblivion every day, doing drugs until reality doesn’t exist even on a good day, or simply staring at a TV without any signs of life in the windows to the soul. Me, sure, I waste time, but I’m never bored……….. most of what I spend time doing at least involves some cerebral input. :o)

Anyway, I’m making plans as we speak to get outta this winter’s rut, ………and yes, I know it’s been spring for a while now, but you can’t rush these things y’know. Might even get the rut filled in a bit before next winter sinks hard won Summer enthusiasms.

I’ve been spending my money……… bought two MGB engines and gearboxes on Ebay, which had been sat in the grass in a field for five years without a cover of any sort, for a grand total of £11.50. I need to get the Marlin rebuilt, y’see, and one of the mental blocks stopping it kicking off, is the two litre fiat Twin-Cam engine it had fitted, because the damn thing drinks fuel. It’s a gorgeous engine, and the second most tuneable production engine to the Ford Cosworth, because Fiat designed it specifically to be able to modify and uprate for production racing.

When the Marlin was on the road, many moons ago now, I loved driving about in it so much, I’d take it out with any excuse whatsoever, rain or shine, and at around 22mpg, 29mpg driven like an old woman, it was costing a shedload in fuel. It was pretty quick too, having a higher power-to-weight ratio than a Porsche 911, and I’m not to be trusted with that much grunt in a car………. Being a lifelong bikes, I feel soooooo safe in a car. You can’t fall off them y’see?

My thinking is that a MGB unit won’t lead me astray, and I should be able to get 40mpg out of it in a light kit-car.

Anyway…….. bought the two MGB engine/gearbox lumps, (Each hitherto to be known as the ‘Field Units’) and only expecting to get some spares from them, and possibly only from the gearboxes too. Five years out in the rain is a bleddy long time, even for simple lumps of iron like MGB engines!

I took the heads off them both when I got them back here, and got one turning in the end, and found the bores were hardly worn, although one was quite rusted up, and so it would need to be rebored anyway. I think it is actually pretty rebuildable with some elbow grease and effort, But it’s prolly better to stick to Plan A and get another unit from a scrapped car, and one that has been stored in the dry.

I was hoping they’d be overdrive ‘boxes on the Field Units, but no luck…….. they’re not. I was going to strip the crank and heavy stuff out of one of the engine/gearbox lumps and use it for a template to build the car around, and then look for a good engine and overdrive ’box at my leisure. Probably one out of a scrapped MGB complete with all the ancillaries (Carbs, manifolds, alternator, starter motor, ignition cables etc etc.).

Lo and behold, someone at work knows a MGB nut who had such a unit, but for a whole lot more than I was going to spend. It’s supposed to be a very, VERY good unit, and has been reconditioned as the bloke with the car was going to do it up, but gave up after too much time had passed without getting the body finished. He wants a LOT more than I was hoping to spend, BUT if it’s as good as he says, and I have no reason to doubt it, then I guess it’ll be worth it. By the time I end up rebuilding a

better second-hand engine that either of the ‘field’ units, and maybe having to source a lot of the ancillaries, I could spend even more.

The £400 MGB unit in the donor car

Boring ramble tonight eh?

Well, I guess that’s what you get from a Petrol-Head. What are we all going to do when the weenies (small ‘w’) finally get their way and outlaw all that we love? As it is you can go to prison now just for a high speed. I doesn’t matter that it’s on an empty road………. Locked up with the scum and vermin. The police can drive like lunatics……… and yes, I’ve seen some very bad driving from that lot too over the years, and it’s worse now than it used to be, believe it or not. The craziest overtaking I ever saw on a bike was a copper on a bike. I couldn’t believe what I saw at the time. He was relying on the fact that oncoming traffic would commit suicide rather than hit a copper. Before anyone gets fired up, yes MOST are top notch……… but not all I’m afraid. Like everything, there are exceptions. I’ve seen some pretty stupid stuff by ambulances, and especially fire trucks, considering the weight they must be fully laden.

These weenie bastards in charge of everything cannot understand how we like to play around with all this old stuff, bikes or cars, and I’ve heard that the day will come when you’ll be forced to scrap anything over a certain age. They’ve pretty well stopped us crawling over scrapyards in search of that elusive part, and I think I’m right that Brussels would like to scrap the whole scrap yard industry. You need a part………. Buy new. If you can’t get new, then you’re forced to scrap it. We should be making things to be repairable, and these days with computers to design it in, it would be real easy to do……… the reason ‘we’ don’t, is to keep selling us more crap. Mechanics are just fitters these days………… no one fixes anything any more……. Rip the whole thing off, and bolt on a new bit. Bend a few valves on a cylinder head, and you’ll be charged for a complete new head. It’s gone way beyond fucking crazy.

All the politicians feathering their own nests. Fucking control freaks every single one, from jumped up little local councillors to those slimy weenie bastards crawling around Parliament. That fat bastard Prescott for one. I particularly object to that two-faced bully-boy. Face like a Bulldog licking piss off a thistle doesn’t help a whole lot either.

(There, that’s better.) :o)

Still, when has it ever been different.

Mustn’t grumble.

It’s not the British way is it.

I’m wittering again, so I’ll quit. :o)

Y’all take care out there, ………..and remember; never miss an opportunity to fuck up a weenie’s day if you possibly can. .......... It’s always worth the effort

They fuck enough of yours days up.
K. :o)

Life, losing it........and on getting it back.

Just a few lines to at least add something to this blog. Completely blank mind, as per usual, but sometimes if I just start writing, something will happen across the synapses. Trouble is, not much has been happening to me lately, as per the usual, so that doesn’t help a whole lot. I’m someone who really needs to Get A Life, although I have to say it’s harder to do than most people seem to think. The trouble with a Life is that, once you’ve lost it, finding it again, or getting a new one isn't so easy, because they seem to be in damn short supply.

Like everything in life, Reality doesn’t hit until it hits you. Most bad things happen to someone else, and if you're anything like me, when they happen to you, you're always kinda surprised and so, like I said; ....Reality doesn’t hit until it hits you

If you've actually got a Life……… hey, what’s the problem, man?

If you haven’t got a life, you’ll soon be able to tell the asshole/smug bastard/sonofabitch/lucky blighter with a Life, what the problem is! ............. Once you get to be able to figure it out, that is.

Funny thing, life. Maybe it’s the Universal Law applying, that says it takes a lot or energy, power, whatever you want to call it, to move something when it’s stopped, and maybe that ‘law’ applies even to something as unambiguous as ‘Life’.

Yup, anything which is stopped takes far more of that precious energy to get it rolling again, than it takes to keep it rolling once it’s moving. What's more, you’d better have some momentum on board to allow the energy to overcome the bumps, slopes and hills, or you’ll grind to a halt when you hit them, which will need more of that energy, and so on and so on.

Pretty much most of my adult life, once I’d finally learnt some of life’s basic lessons as a late teenager/ early twenties, I’ve always kept a mind to that momentum and had some in reserve to cope with the hills. You have plenty of that energy to overcome the obstacles anyway when you’re young, unless you hit too many cliffs and sheer mountain faces.

I’d always take care of the smallish ho-de-hum daily stuff that can cause problems, or big trouble if enough stacks up on top of the other. Taking care of the money, keys, credit/charge cards, maintenance of my bikes and cars, paying the bills on time, keeping out of debt no matter what I had to go without, maintaining good(ish) health and fitness, keeping in work despite hating what I did most of the time; ………. y’know, standing on my own two feet, and doing all the stuff most people do to avoid their Life grinding to a halt. Or worse…….. breaking down, or crashing into bits.

If you keep on top of it all, it’s not so bad, or so hard to do, BUT if something knocks you off your perch, and if you don’t have the momentum or backup to lever yourself back up to speed, THEN it all becomes a whole new can of worms.

I hit depression as a result of pressures of work………. mostly the result of weenies (small 'w'), Bullshit and Political Correctness, and all the ammunition it gives people with no experience, talent or ability to step all over those who do have these things. With hindsight I realise I’d suffered from depression on and off since late childhood, but it didn’t last long; usually a day or so at the most and not especially debilitating even then. When it did hit me for a good solid length of time, grinding me down no matter how hard I tried to keep going until I finally just couldn’t crawl into work one day, it was a surprise. It wasn’t as bad as it can get by any means, but bad enough that I lost the energy to keep this life moving as smoothly(ish) as it was.

When I was off sick with it, and doped up on those fucking pills that seemed to help only by way of doping me up, then it was all I could do was keep Life going at a slowest crawl. I was on my own with it, and so only the very barest essentials were maintained. Sometimes I wouldn’t even wash for days on end, let alone bath or shower, and as for everything else, .........well forget it.

Although much better now, and back to work now for some three years part time, I have lost all that Vim I once had. Everything’s too much damn trouble home here. I'm doing ok, but only just in the eyes of many 'normal' people. I don't eat well, hardly ever clean the place, although that means as in dusting and hoovering. Nothing's rotting in a corner, or going mouldy in the kitchen. I go to work, and work hard there, but I come home and just grind to a halt as soon as I walk though the door. Like I said........ it's better than it was, and even then not as bad as it CAN get ........... I'm not by any means just sat here looking into space and crying into my beer (I don't drink anyway), …….. I read a lot, and spend time on the computer and Internet, not games and things, but as regards writing the blogs and reading about all the things I’m interested in.

Living alone with no Chick doesn’t help one bit, because if I’m prepared to put up with whatever needs to be done, eat bugger-all food, (as in a good diet), housework, etc etc, then I don’t have to do it. There’s only me here………. although there was Lomax, my kitten, here too, but he disappeared a month ago at seven months old, and I sure do miss the little chap. He was great company, and we were glued to the hip, me and him.

So, with not bothering with this, and not bothering with that, and having few friends who want to do much that involves me, slowly Life erodes and deteriorates until it’s as stripped-down a life as you can have and still resemble someone ‘normal’ with a life.

Don’t misunderstand me here……….. It could be far worse, but it could also be a fuck’s sake better too. ........ it's just bad enough that skies are never as blue, the rain and the cold feels that bit worse, and There is just never enough energy and inspiration to fire you up for much at all.
And, yes, thanks all you smug bastards out there,........... but I do realise it’s my fault, and that only I can get it all going again……… (and I WILL …..soon(ish)),.......... so bugger off back to your Ikea kitchen and your perfect life and do us all a favour.

(Hey! Don't get so pissed......... I was just (kinda) joking around, ok?) :o)

All it would take is the impetus, energy inspiration and initiative to make about 500% more effort, and I’d be back up there bouncing along with the best of them. I can’t explain it, but the nearest I can get to explaining it is by saying that it’s like an invisible wall you just can’t get over, under, around or through, and you just can’t see why not either.

Bit like a housefly on a hot day, hammering against a glass window and trying to get out. I often watch them and feel sorry for the little blighters. .............. (That'd be just before I kill them spectacularly dead with a Ikea magazine then!)

(Did you see what I did there, eh???) :o)

Still, what keeps me going, and moving towards cracking it, is the fact that you never know what’s around the corner, …….. as my dear old Daddy used to say.

That little hedgehog didn’t know someone was going to find him, did he? ………he’s one very lucky hedgehog, because she’s going to be the backup that gets him back up to speed again. I sure hope so anyway.

OK, that’s gotta be it, or I’ll be here all day……… I finally got the Muse, and got going, y’see?

If you’ve got a life, and especially if it’s a Good One, (Complete with that Ikea kitchen and the perfect kids) then take real good care of it.

The worst thing you can do is think it can never happen to you…………. falling off your Last Twig, that is. One minute you're surrounded by thick leafy branches, and the next all you can hear is that last twig breaking.................. and the echo of a sudden yell on the long way down.

If you're real lucky, the most precious thing you have is your Woman or your Man……….. Take THAT for granted at your peril.

I know……….. because I once did.

Bye, bye y'all

K.xxx :o)