The Homemade Car

car

For the last couple of months I’ve been building my own car, pretty much from scratch.  It’s quite a thing I don’t mind telling you.  And believe me, I’ve told everyone about it.  So okay, I’ve probably made a few rash predictions about how fast it can go, how many people it can carry, but you know what, I’m proud of it, really proud of it, and not ashamed to say so.  Not everyone can build a car after all.

But then over the last couple of weeks I’ve been taking it out on the roads.  If I’m honest with myself – which I admit is a rare activity for me – it’s not gone quite as well as I’d anticipated.  Last Tuesday, for example, I scratched the driver’s door on a neighbour’s boundary wall.  And then yesterday, I couldn’t seem to brake at all when turning right which led to a few – shall we say – issues.

And finally, today, I wrapped it around a tree just up the road from where I live.  Now don’t worry – I was okay, I was fine.  I just sat in the crushed car and contemplated my next move.  And then a police officer tapped my window.

‘Is everything okay here sir?’ he asked me.  ‘Is there some kind of problem?’

For once, I didn’t know what to say.  ‘I just don’t get it,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief.  ‘I was so certain this was a fine-tuned machine.’

Infrequently Asked Questions for Valentine’s Day

questions

So why does she come here?

Why does she insist on being so intelligent and wise, so kind to everyone, so interested in what they are saying?

And why does she always dress so tastefully and with such style?  Why are her eyes always so piercing and curious?

Why the surprisingly full and ready laugh to all my bad jokes, destroying the final stubborn shreds of my defense?

And why does anyone claim that studying such flawless beauty can ever be a calm, contemplative experience when in truth it is the most deranging and pernicious activity of all?

Why can’t she just be perfect somewhere else and leave me to my hopeless peace?

That much he knows

graves‘Oh we don’t care about that sort of thing,’ his oldest sister said, speaking for his three older sisters – speaking perhaps for all wisdom and all reason – when he asked where his father’s ashes would be taken.

She explained that their father’s body would be taken alone to the crematorium.  Everyone would be going instead to the hotel for the reception after the church service.

He didn’t like to think of his father being transported to the crematorium alone.  It felt wrong somehow.  But then he didn’t want to be seen to be weird.  He felt so alone; desperate to belong somewhere, desperate to be included in the ‘we’ of his sister’s explanation.  And besides, did he really care?  His father was dead dead dead after all, his body nothing but a shell of course.  Balancing it all up, he didn’t care enough to make a point.  And any action in contrast to his three sisters – following the body to the crematorium for example – would, inevitably, be pointed.

Then later, when he wanted to converse with his father, he had no particular place to go.  Where exactly was his father in this cold, indifferent universe?  For reasons that weren’t clear to him, he started to think of his father as being in the sky somewhere.  And only at night.  And only very vaguely.  He didn’t shape this thought; he just let it sit at the edge of his brain, half-formed.

And now his mother is dead, he’s certain of one thing and one thing alone.  He’s going to make damn sure he knows where she ends up.  He’s going to visit her grave and say to her, ‘Here you are.  Just here.  I’ve got you pegged.  That much I know.’

Head to Head with Beethoven

beethoven

I went head to head with Beethoven today.  Best of five.

Well, I have to admit he got off to a really great start.  He completely outplayed me in the first round which was all about harmony and counterpoint.  And then, in round two, his melodic vocal writing made mincemeat of my tuneless humming.

But my lucked started to turn in round three, which was focused upon jumping up and down on the spot.  I don’t like to gloat, but Beethoven was nowhere to be seen.

Then we went down the park to determine who could look the most moody in the wind.  Well I say we but again old Ludwig was notable by his absence.

Finally, in the decider, which was all about having a pulse in 2017, I basically left him for dead.

As you might well imagine, this has been an important victory for me.  It’s done wonders for my self-esteem.  Beethoven is no pushover.

Next week, I’m up to play Shakespeare.  I mean, I don’t like to boast, but after this victory today I must confess to feeling quietly confident.

How to read your palm

hands

Please, for old time’s sake, take your right hand and study it most closely.

Now then, you see that deep line at, say, seven o’clock heading up to one o’clock?  Well, my old friend, that’s what we term your lifeline.

And see that line coming in from the left, just before what we might term a quarter to? Ah come on now, don’t be all salty like that: you can see it; just look a little harder.  That’s the one!  The one curving up to join your lifeline, the one that runs alongside your lifeline for an inch or so before veering off to the right, heading off who knows where and then becoming a little faint?

Well yes, that would be me, yes.  Indeed it would.  Typically me you might say.

Now, would you just keep an eye on that line?  Just let me know if it does anything weird.  Would you do that for me?

LITTLE KNOWN AILMENTS OF THE MODERN AGE #4365

knee

Shopper’s Knee – a chronic condition predominantly affecting men when on shopping expeditions with female partners. Often mistaken for an attack of selfishness, the only known remedy is immediate rest and a swift intake of alcohol in a nearby bar.  The condition is indiscriminate: it can suddenly strike down men of all ages, during the weekly purchase of household sundries or, more commonly, the seasonal extended search for clothing.  (See also Chronic Family Gathering Fatigue [CFGF])