This one goes out

To the one I love.

Spent the most glorious weekend with Catwoman.

We did stuff. She cooked, gardened, DIYed, pottered and I watched her do it. We ate in a fine restaurant (I had to leave my beautiful olive green moleskin suit behind; it was too hot to let it out).

We tried to nurse a damsel fly with wonky wings and watched the tadpoles trying to work out what to do with their new legs. We watched the garden grow and the cats sleep. In the heart of the big city, she has created an idyll to soothe the fretful soul. I feel quietly, desperately in love.

At night we drank wine, did the crossword, held each other and she tried hard to forgive my rather heavy breathing as I sank into sleep. Safe.

The bandages came off...

...to reveal my newly tucked and folded olive green moleskin jacket. I realised that I'd been holding my breath. Would the operation have worked? What if something has gone wrong?

I breathed out, noisily. OooohIsay. I had to blink, several times to clear my eyes.

There they were, the four (fully working) cuff buttons, sitting just above a highly competent needle job. My pride and joy was now better. In fact, perfect.

I twirled the jacket like a cape behind my back. It happily embraced my arms and shoulders. I looked down and was delighted to see just the right amount of shirt cuff, peeping coyly from under the olive green moleskin fabric. What bliss.

TOIL muttered something under her breath as we briefly glanced in the full length mirror. We didn't care. We liked what we saw.

Eco Terrorism

I would like to make it clear that no animals were harmed in the manufacture of my bright, new olive green moleskin suit. As we all know, olive green moles are a protected species and a much loved example of bio diversity on this precious planet which we are fortunate to share with others.

That should satisfy any googling, mole-fixated eco-warriors looking for their next target. I've been wondering who they might start on after they got BA to ban the transporting of live cargo in inhumane conditions. No, wait. They still do that, unless the cargo is covered in fur or feathers. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing Puff Diddy on any chat shows on this side of the pond, then.

And anyway, who on earth would think that I would be wearing real moleskin as the days get warmer? No. Moleskin is best left on the fabulous, nocturnal, burrowing creatures themselves.

and on the inside of my lovely, warm, winter mittens….

What do you do all day?

Good question. Can't tell you. You'd laugh. It's no way for a grown man to live.

What I can tell you is that I appear to have less free time than I thought.

Spent most of the week admiring my lovely moleskin suit in a variety of settings. It's green, olive green. I've clearly fallen in love with it, the bastard. I know where this will end. Just like all the others....

Whilst we were both admiring the cut of our jibs the other day, I realised that a little cosmetic surgery was all that stood between me and perfection. A little fold, a small tuck and guaranteed happiness ever after...

The tailor(ess) was most understanding. The one I love stood by, seething with jealousy whilst she and I discussed the options, the risks and the benefits of a sleeve reduction. She clearly had never had such a fine garment to work on. So close to perfection, I sensed a giddiness in her demeanour. Her hands trembled slightly as she stroked my fabric. She flushed as she caressed my buttonholes. She uttered a low, earthy moan, before swallowing and whispering "Is Friday all right?"

Can't wait.

The train now standing...

...in the sitting room of Cuba Boy's Earls Court basement flat, was not alone. In fact, there was a fleet of trains. And several metres of track. Testimony to Cuba's rather obsessional behaviour when it came to hobbies. He told me, in rather too much detail, what they were, when they were in service and how much he loved them. I wanted to know where the tiny signal boxes were. The model sheep and cows grazing in the lovingly created green papier mache field were conspicuous by their total absence, as was the field. Not for Cuba, the fripperies of model train enthusiasm. No scenery, no people, no buildings, no context. This was hardcore. It was gonzo. We watched his trains go round and round. I noticed the heavy bars on his windows and across his front and back doors. I started to feel afraid.

We turned to his previous obsession for some light relief. Cuba has the biggest, most eclectic DVD collection I've ever seen. More DVDs than most rental stores. They are filed alphabetically, which I felt was a bit tame. The true obsessive would surely have gone for colour of spine, date of purchase or even, if their medication was failing, best to worst film. Cuba was dismissive of my observations. "A misfiled DVD is a lost DVD, my dear boy".

Caught a real train home and very nearly went postal as my fellow passengers spent far too long arguing about the indignities heaped upon them by the system in forcing them to pay for their tickets JUST TO GET TO WORK! Tossers. Noisy, ignorant tossers. I hope they all get sacked and I next see them washing cars at my local supermarket. No, I hope I never see any of them, ever again.

Had no chance to wear my lovely olive green moleskin suit today. Feel the world is a sadder place for its absence.

Whole lotta love

Well, what a busy week.

If it was last Wednesday, then it must have been Birmingham for the premier conference for personnel chumps in Bevin's finest creation. An annual event. One I enjoy immensely, for all the wrong reasons. I had the pleasure of attending with the one I love, which was nice. We drove up at considerable speed but still managed to miss the formal opening. Thoroughly enjoyed a presentation by Joe Simpson (Touching the Void). That man is a master of understatement. He was matter of fact and wry, yet he still managed to make 1500 people in the room think "how would I have coped?". I could feel my eyes prickling with unshed tears as he described the pain, suffering and sheer hopelessness of his situation. That he survived is a testament to his spirit and bloodymindedness.

After that it all went downhill (I thank you).

Blagged an invite to a dinner hosted by a Health Service publication and got beastly drunk before busting some moves on the dancefloor. Awoke with a Class A migraine and found myself unable to stand unaided. By lunchtime I was capable of taking solids again and sat in on a presentation which conclusively proved that hospitals with happy patients, had happy staff. Or was it the other way round? I forget.

That evening I arrived home to play host to Best Friend who was to wed the following day. What should have been a haven of calm before the storm, became a sea of raging emotions as we egged each other into a frenzy of hysteria. He because he so wanted the day to go well, me because I had to provide the Best Man's speech. I went to bed with nothing written and no idea what I was going to say. Sleep eluded me.

Friday the 13th. An auspicious day for a wedding. We started with a hearty breakfast, collected our weeds and parted. He to round up his brood for the wedding; me to write something, anything. I became distracted by my newly hemmed olive green moleskin suit and spent several hours admiring myself in the mirror. When even that distraction palled I scribbled down three "jokes" and a heartfelt dismount and decided to trust that the rest would come to me when I was on my feet.

The ceremony went without a hitch (I thank you). The wedding vows exchanged, while in the background a group of clay pigeon shooters in the grounds attempted to give me some material for the main event. Nothing came to me.

At the wedding breakfast, I sat next to a mad woman claiming to be the bride's mother. Please God, let Oscar Wilde be wrong, for BFs sake.

Finally, the moment. I was handed a microphone and told I couldn't have my Best Man's gift unless the speech was a success... I sat down 22 minutes later to applause. I got my prize and a kiss from the one I love. I still have absolutely no idea what I said; apart from one rather off-colour gag about the groom not fiddling with his new ring....

In the evening I rather upstaged both the bride and groom by changing into my lovely new olive green moleskin suit. They left soon after.

A surfeit of letters

Sorry Oona.

Didn't mean to pile Pelion upon Ossa. The last thing you need at this moment is someone misspelling your name. You don't need them. They're superfluous, they add nothing to the sonority of your given name. A name that forces us to voice our appreciation of your fragrance, your poise, your beauty. Oooooo. What a relief that I no longer have to associate a "gh". Ghastly. Rough. Aaagh. Not you, not you at all.

Back on Planet Gray, have taken delivery of a rather smart moleskin suit. Olive green. The trousers need around 12 inches chopped from them before I can take them out for a test drive but they are, conceptually, very sound. What a dash I will cut in them. They seem to me to be crying out for a cravat. Yellow, with polka dots, I think.

Post Election Greens

I lay in bed, thinking of Oonagh King. A first for me. Never been in bed with a politician before.

What does she do now? What do any of them do, now? What does it feel like to be rejected over 20, 000 times in one night?

I suspect I had a rather better weekend than she did. Just to be in the presence of the one I love makes life feel so much better.

I read that the eye can discern more shades of green than any other colour. At this time of year, our eyes are assaulted by green. New green. Greens. Everywhere. With my hackneyed lover's eyes I see every green and rejoice in their greenness and my ability to see them. New life. Hope. My sad heart feels good today.

Sheepishly, I think I have to admit that two is better than one.

Poor Oonagh. If you see her, be nice. She's just been dumped.

I see the right course, and approve of it..

......but I choose the other path. Ovid.

Well it's not much, it's not original, but it is a start.

This is going to be all about me. By extension, it will also be all about all those people I come into contact with. But from my perspective. No right of reply. No real names either. In fact I may very well fabricate everything. That would be easier. I can win every argument and present myself in the very best possible light. After all, it is my blog.