Battle of Who Could Care Less

Strange times in our sleepy little village, which we now have to leave, forever, before the summer is done. Over the past year or so we have had to deal with small incidents of antisocial behaviour from young village teens who, led by a fattening chav princess, have competed to see who could act most selfishly. Dumb, meaningless gestures like standing in the road and refusing to get out of the way of cars (which rapidly fell from fashion when a local tree surgeon jumped out of his Toyota pick-up with a baseball bat), or breaking into communal areas of flats to smoke (which rapidly fell from fashion when the Angry Man Who Drives The Ford Orion kicked a chav kid so hard his consonants came out hard).

In fact, the whole anti-social thing came to a bit of a halt when the chavs, led by their now fully-fattened princess, (who seemed to go from 14 to 28 in an angry, bleak, futureless year) were laughed at when they complained to local police about being hit by the grown-ups.

Still, this has been the only drawback to living in this strange little village, unless you count the travel to get to civilisation (not to mention the friends we left behind back where shops stay open past 7 pm and people don’t stare open-mouthed at vehicles with blue flashing lights). Our little hill, our lovely park where we walk the kids, the curry house where they automatically pour a pint of Kingfisher the second I walk over the threshold...

But we have to move. We are so overcrowded the flat looks like the set for Monty Python’s Every Sperm Is Sacred song and dance. In fact it’s only a matter of time before either Mervyn or Grunhilde has to sleep in the washing machine, while the other kips in a bag hanging from the washing line.

But we don’t want to leave.

We don’t want to have to move to somewhere like Crawley, or Woking, or, God forbid, Kent. We like it here. We’re used to it here. We just can’t quite (and it’s only a matter of a couple of hundred thousand quid) afford to stay here.

And I was so much anticipating sending my teenage kids to push flaming envelopes of dog shit through that chav princess’s letterbox in 13 years time when she’s a grandmother...

Most Likely You Go Your Way and I'll Go Mine

Well, the end of the week came with something of a whimper, as my parents were too lurgified to look after Mervyn and Grunhilde as planned. So we spent our Saturday morning at the local Softplay instead of driving Southwards with the happy thought of an evening alone.

I recently had an ear infection and my hearing is still quite impaired, so thirty children squealing whilst all the mums and dads sullenly envied each other for their signs of competence or affluence did nothing for my frazzled nerves, (Mervyn was up between 0100 and 0500 whilst doing a pretty impressive King Diamond impression).

Last night was far more pleasant, until Mervyn's screaming started, as we watched Emilio Estevez directing his dad in a film about a grieving father walking the Camino de Santiago. Martin Sheen is always watchable, as was the beautiful scenery in the film. One of the characters reminded me of an old friend, whom I have not heard from in years, and the two-plus hours of The Way were as welcome as the warm thoughts it provoked from my memory.

Mrs rolpol mentioned that I should do some travelling, even if only for five days, and that doing part of the pilgrim's walk might do me some good in terms of mental and physical health, but I think I might do myself much more harm than good if the opportunity ever arose, especially given my many methods of getting lost. I will leave the brave walk on the Way of St James to Ganching!

Weekend Sex Change

Our Valentine's gift to each other this year was to have a guilt-free takeaway from the curry house, washed down with a mediocre Cava we'd been saving for when we ran out of decent booze. It's not that kids take away the romance from a relationship, it's just that they leave you too tired to do much but enjoy the quiet moments when they come along, every now and then.

Indeed my bedroom fantasy has changed somewhat over the years. Nowadays it runs something along the lines of ripping my clothes off hurriedly, pulling back the covers, panting with anticipation and the glee of the forbidden pleasures that await me, diving onto the mattress...

...then pulling the duvet over me and sleeping soundly for fifteen uninterrupted hours. Bliss!

Pseudo Silk Kimono

Ok, so if I'm going to resurrect this damned thing I'm going to have to have a policy of segregation, just to protect the one or two normal people reading this from the completely nerdy stuff that has occasionally ended up here.

If you want The Metal, then head to The Bards of War and Vengeance, where denim n' leather will bring us all together.

If you want to laugh at how bad I am at chess then aim your browser at Concessions of a Middle-Aged Patzer, where you can see me struggle with bits of wood.

If you want to see some indifferent photography then go to rolpol's Flickr where you will find lots of that kind of thing.

So, what does that leave us? What can seasoned Deuteronomists expect, other than the regularity of feeling the faint disappointment of daily life? I guess I could keep you up to date with The Children, (Mervyn just turned 1, and Grunhilde, 2 yrs and 4 months, has just started pre-school where she is creating havok amongst the boys), but children's lives tend to be faily dull, crayonic, and battery operated.

I won't be telling you much about my job, it's stressful, unrewarding and a pain in the arse to get to.

The only cultural events I can rely on witnessing are generally to be found on CBeebies.

Hell, as comebacks go this is hardly Adele, is it?!

Careful With That Mic, Wheezy

I made myself a vague promise about trying to blog more, so here's a hundred percent improvement on the last six months or so...

You know, Fritz toys with me before consuming me whole, Houdini just pounds me like I'm an exhibit in a museum of the Industrial Revolution, but Shredder keeps letting me win.

However I'm trying to learn some openings, as well as develop some skills before I commit to entering the Patzer section of the London Chess Classic in December, so victories like this seem hollow...