kayessjaykay

2009-03-15T22:10:00.007Z

I feel like Dr Who. Not because I fight against peculiar and dangerous alien creatures in South Wales. (although I have done, but the less said about that pub the better) And not because I'm 900 years old. Far from it. And certainly not because young boys think I'm the coolest person ever. Even farther from it. But because every few years, (technically whenever the actor's contract runs out) the character regenerates. He becomes the next generation. I think that's what happened to me today. I moved on to my next generation.

My Sunday started off by driving in to town to do a bit of shopping, then pick up J from a sleep-over. Then we all had a nice bar lunch, followed by a pleasant walk in the country.

Back home again, I took the opportunity to get the hose reel out and wash the car in the driveway.

Then it was time to dig the garden for a bit, before washing up, having tea and relaxing in front of the TV.

Which would have all been quite regular, ordinary and normal, for someone else, eg my own Dad. But not me, surely?

My Sundays should be spent stumbling home from a party then crashing out on the sofa with an overwhelming desire for starchy food and carbonated drinks. I should be craving solpadeine, not turtle wax. What happened?

But then I thought about it.

Yes, I did a bit of shopping. For games for my Playstation.

Yes I went for a bar lunch. Because I couldn't be bothered cooking, and had no food in anyway.

Yes, I washed the car. Because I just got a new hose which has an attachment you can fire like a gun, and my car was target practice.

Yes I dug the garden for a bit. I was looking for buried treasure and the world's biggest worm.

So, yes I still think I have regenerated. I may look different, may do things slightly differently. I am older. But, like the Doctor, I haven't actually grown up at all.

2009-02-23T11:41:00.004Z

Yes, yes... I'm truly rubbish. Despite my previous lies about posting more often, here we are again heading for an average of one a month or less.
But, y'know - if you have a treat every day it ceases to be a treat,doesn't it?
Anyway, here we go. I thought I'd bore you with an update from the all new Kayessjaykay Manor in the country. As my loyal reader will know from previous posts, the Kayessjaykay clan have moved from their posh West End town flat where we pretended to be all posh and West End, to a fantastic three storey house* in the farthest west suburb, bordering right on the actual countryside. In fact less than two minutes walk from the new house we find fields, trees and rich people. We're still pretending to be all posh and that, the difference is we now wear more green. Not quite tweeds and Barbour jackets yet, but certainly wellies at least. And it smells different. From what I've been told by some of my associates who have been to the country before (some even live there) the delicious aroma we're breathing in is air. Fair enough I think we had air before at the town flat, but this is something new. This apparently is air without carbon monoxide, vaporised industrial chip fat, essence of kebab, pigeon, and pigeon kebab. This air only has air in it,seemingly. Very nice.
And the people are also different, in a good way. They talk. I realise this is not exactly a phenomenon exclusive to the country, people in town did talk as well of course, but this is different. They speak even when I haven't done anything wrong. They wave from their cars even when I'm not stealing their parking space. They talk when they walk past, even if I'm not in their way. This takes a bit of getting used to, and I must admit the first time this happened I did automatically shout sweary words right in their face before stepping pointedly on to the road with a double digit gesture to prove my point. As usual. But as it turns out, this is no longer accepted protocol. And to give her her dues, Elsie took it very well and just smiled before carrying on to the post office for her pension. She realised we were new to the country I think. She's been a very good neighbour since in fact, teaching us in the ways of polite conversation over the garden fence, roadside fish deliveries, and general neighbourly social interaction. It's taking a bit of getting used to, but I think we're getting the hang of it now, and it's fantastic. I'm off to buy a Barbour jacket.

*yes, a loft counts as a storey, in my house. It's all part of the poshness illusion...

A new one just begun...

2009-01-04T12:41:00.004Z

Oh dear. Not for the first time, I feel shame. And also not for the first time the reason for my shame is looking at my figure.
However, despite the fact that my body shape does indeed fire up a red faced sense of regret that I haven't managed to continue my unwisely trumpeted health regime as much as I would have liked, it is actually a different figure to which I now refer.
The figure is five.
Five.
Blogs.
In a year.
That's what I managed in 2008. How poor is that? I feel ashamed to even link to proper bloggers from my page - it feels like those Myspace pages you see with hundreds of real famous people listed as 'friends'. I have a lot of work to do before I can call myself a blogger. I'm not even a bl...
Of course I could claim that an unusually high amount of real life has happened in the last year for the KSJk tribe, which is true but it's not really an excuse.
I'm still going to use it though...
Anyway, here's the plan. I'll probably carry on with the whole 'real life' thing, but I'll just try to bore you with it all a bit more often. So here goes. Just you watch.

zzzzzzzz...

2008-10-05T23:20:00.004+01:00

Hah. In an unprecedented flurry of activity designed to catch out my loyal reader, I have somehow managed to prod my lethargic imagination into producing this - my second blog in as many days!
Basically I left it so long since the last one that I have much I need to tell you. Well, I don't really need to tell you, and you certainly don't need to listen to me but hey, welcome to blogging...
I still can't bring myself to explain the whole Council/job farrago, but there is one aspect of my new job that I feel able to talk about without white knuckles and red mist coming into play. In fact I quite like it. Sleep deprivation.
Well, it's not really deprivation as such, more like sleep juggling. My new job requires me to work night shifts. The interesting part is that I also have to work day shifts, and a late shift somewhere in between. And all of these shifts occur within the space of a week. I usually start at 7am for a couple of days, then the next two days begin at 1pm, then the final two days start at 11pm until 7am.
The weird thing is that I really enjoy the weirdness of it all. There's something quite exciting about starting work late at night, then coming home first thing in the morning. I might say it is the pleasure of driving past all the traffic going the other way knowing that they still have a whole day's work ahead of them while I have a good day in bed to look forward to. I might say that, but it's not true. More often than not I have a day of noisy childcare and domestic chores in my sights. Yes, I usually am utterly knackered by the time I get home, but there is a peculiar type of energy buzz that you seem to get from driving home as the sun rises. The body gets confused, so decides that it had better do something. Fast. The whole morning ritual of getting the kids dressed fed and ready to go just goes by in a blur, then the housework gets more attention than ever before and before I know it, the morning is over. Then the fun really starts. I sit down. And suddenly all the sleep that I have been storing up somewhere, God knows where, is released and floods into my brain, and I simply have to give in. And this is the best bit, when I get to go to bed. Not because I think I'd better, like when normal people look at the clock of an evening and think, 'is that the time? better be off to bed' - there is no 'better be off' about this sleep, this is 'hope I make it to the bedroom first' type sleep. In fact on a few occasions I haven't made it, and have been found prostrate in the hall, one desperate outstretched hand reaching in vain towards the bedroom door, looking like a petrified Pompeiian victim of the inescapable pyroclastic flow of sleep. Total shutdown sleep. This is not little red light still on, standby sleep. This is pure envirofriendly off at the wall plug pulled out sleep. Lovely. Seriously, you should try it. They say you don't miss your water til your well runs dry. And you really only appreciate a good sleep when you've forgotten what sleep is. It's great. Everyone should work bizarre shifts. The world would be a happier place.

Aaaaaaand.....we're back.

2008-10-04T13:50:00.002+01:00

After a slight (6 month) coffee break, I finally looked up at the canteen clock to see that it was time to get back to work and start delivering my finest ruminations to an undoubtedly still completely indifferent world. So, having stuffed my plastic sandwich wrapper into the overflowing bin and replaced my freshly rinsed 'you-dont-have-to-be-mad-to-work-here' mug back in my locker, both my typing fingers are once again at your disposal. Let's catch up...
My last 'status report' would have been at the beginning of the year - Another Year Over - you may want to cast a speedy backwards glance over those witterings, the better to follow these.
The first major change would be that Kayessjaykay Towers is no more. Well, obviously it still actually is, but it no longer has anything to do with me or mine. After a Herculean effort, which did indeed pretty much consist of tipping the entire flat into a skip, the old garret was emptied, sluiced down and liberally painted with 'economy white' on every surface. A willing ~~dupe~~ buyer was duly found and a price agreed. Thankfully the dealings with the solicitors and all the forestworth of paperwork went with the minimum possible amount of stress in these situations (i.e. only 'near' fatal) and incredibly the 7-day aftersale 'here, wait a minute' contractual obligation period passed without so much as a 'here, wait a minute'... So the sticky plaster, string and chewing gum quality repairs to the floors, roof and central heating can fall apart all they want, it's no longer my responsibility. Good news.
And even gooder news is that we have found a new Kayessjaykay Towers. Except this is more of a stately pile in the country, which shall henceforth be known as Kayessjaykay Manor. Yes we now have a proper family dwellhouse, on three levels and with plentiful grounds featuring outlying steadings. In other words we have a loft and a coalshed...
The even even gooder news is that we have once again pulled off the charade of being undercover commoners in the exclusive West End. Only Wester.

Next up, the employment situation. This has seen another major change. As you may have guessed from my tortuous office-based analogies above, I am now office-based. Still in law enforcement however, and thankfully freed once again from the gross ineptitude of the Council. There is most definitely a story to be told about that disastrous episode, but it will have to wait until my eyes stop bleeding whenever I think about it. Suffice to say, I feel useful again.

Now, there is obviously a mountain of other stuff I need to catch up on, but that's for another time. Hey, I need to have something to write about next time. Whenever that is...

remember what?

2008-03-14T22:38:00.006Z

Once a month.
Not a great average, really. Well, I suppose it is for some people. Like a golfer getting a hole in one. Or a band getting a number one single. Or a drummer getting attention from a groupie. Once a month for all of these would constitute a great average. But. For a self-proclaimed 'blogger', it's utterly shameful. Unfortunately that seems to be all I am capable of producing, which leaves me in reverend awe of my infinitely more profligate blogging colleagues.
A relatively literate male approaching the end of his youth* having lived a reasonably eventful existence to date, including touring the country in a semi successful band, and being a father of two with a career in local law enforcement in a very 'colourful' area of town should have enough tales to tell each and every day. But all my pitiful blog skills can come up with is is the aforementioned once a month average. Sorry.
Aside from the obvious potential breaches of the Data Protection Act, the only excuse I can give for this below par batting average (is that a mixed metaphor?) is that I have one of the worst recorded memories on, er... record. Seriously, it is a great regret of mine that I just can't seem to bring those manifold tales back to life on demand. Especially when my fellow veterans seem to have such vivid recall, and expect quite rightly that I should share once again every detail of an experience from 15 years ago about which I have absolutely nothing to go on.
"Yeah, but what about Dumfries, eh? That bloke with the trousers? Brilliant!"
"Isle of Wight? I cant believe you drank that!"
Erm, yeah... I know... Amazing...
And it's not just the old band stuff that is a problem, when to be honest I could quite justifiably claim the effects of excess as an excuse for absence of reminiscence. Even my more recent, far more sober recollections seem to trickle away like a dropped ice pole on summer tarmac.
"Remember that drug dealer that pulled a knife on you before you wrestled him to the ground?"
"Erm, yeah... well, sort of..."
"Members of the jury please disregard this witness as a hopeless buffoon"...

Funny thing is, there are plenty of things I do remember all too well. If you name an area of London, I can tell you the postcode. Hackney = E1. etc. If you were to ask, I could tell you that Pi = 3.141592653. I remember the reg plate of James Bond's underwater Lotus esprit is PPW 306R. Harrods' phone number is 730 1234. The Parcelforce van that cut me up yesterday has the reg no KE54 AWW.
I dunno, maybe my subconcious just has different priorities from my conscious self. Maybe I need to change my blogging habits. Maybe this should be less 'recollection based' and more 'opinion based'. One thing I am good at is expounding. Offering up my views on any subject whatsoever has never been a problem. So let's see. Give me a subject, and I'll bore you to death. Just don't be surprised if I've unwittingly done it all before.

*(sherrep)

Those who can't...

2008-02-22T13:02:00.003Z

I think everyone has one. At least, I certainly do, and everyone I've mentioned it to has one. You would be pretty unlucky not to have one.
What I'm wittering about, is that one particular mentor, guardian and guiding light of a teacher that you will always remember. That one educational hero that has had more influence on your life than even television. The third parent. The one who...well, you get the idea.
I was reminded of the value of a good teacher recently, when I had to spend some time in my local secondary school. My current employment, best described as community work with a local law enforcement bias, saw me required to give an input to 3rd and 4th year pupils introducing the concept of 'antisocial behaviour'. Truth be told this was a phenomenon with which they seemed to be perfectly well acquainted, so maybe I should say I was trying to convince them that antisocial behaviour was probably not a good idea after all. A radical concept for some, without a doubt.
I was aware that this experience might be difficult, some even warned me not to to do it for my own personal safety. But still I was ill-prepared for the experience. As I walked through the door, I hit a wall. Not a physical wall obviously, but a metaphorical wall even sturdier than bricks and mortar. This was a solid construction of sheer bloody minded non-co-operation.
The teacher introduced me, along with my colleague who was even less prepared than I was.
"Now, you all know Kay and R, don't you"
There was a low murmur, which as far as I could tell, consisted of every single youth who knew me droning "No". Those few who didn't know me just stared.That was it. Absolutely no chance of anyone saying "Yes" as to do so would be to comply. God forbid.
This set the pattern for the rest of the lesson.
"Do you have a pen?"
"Yes"
"Good. Here's a worksheet for you"
10 minutes later...
"Have you finished?"
"No"
"You haven't even started. Why not?"
"Don't have a pen"
"You said you did?"
"I do. But it's at home. You *****"
etc. etc.
This was one of the more pleasant exchanges. If there was a way they could obstruct the lesson, they'd find it. They had two goals - one was to make any kind of education an impossibility, the other was to make their friends laugh. Usually achieving one meant also achieving the other by default. Occasionally the strength of will surged into out and out abuse. This was the teacher's cue to wade in with her arsenal of threats. This consisted of sending the offender to the office. Unless he refused. Then the deputy head teacher would be sent for.
"Fine, send for him. He's a ***** as well..."
Where this battle of wills (or rather won'ts) would end up I never quite established. But I was later told that out of the entire 4th year, there is not one single boy who has not been excluded or suspended this year.
Which brings me to my point. Teachers are heroes. How they can fight this battle every single day, and still manage to get through to the odd child here and there enough to change their life, is a triumph worth celebrating. As much as I would love to be a hero, I really think that's beyond me. Give me an 18 stone knife-wielding drug dealer any day.

Mind the kerb.

2008-01-12T20:32:00.000Z

So - New Year, New Me.
What a ridiculous thing to say, I hear you mutter as you navigate your browsers off to Misssy M's blog instead. And although that would indeed be an excellent idea ( she is obviously far better at it than I am, and posts more than once every six months) please bear with me while I explain. Then you can mutter and navigate all you like.
The fact is, there is no new me - nor will there be. But hopefully I can continue my schedule of improvement through evolution, rather than resolution. I don't do resolutions. I never understood why a particular date should be the reason for self-improvement. Self-improvement surely doesn't need an external reason - it should be an ongoing logical development. I mean no-one actually thinks "I think I'll get worse at table-tennis this year", or "Must avoid Nana", or "Right, it's about time I forgot how to drive"
I sometimes think that we are born into life as if it were a newly laid stretch of concrete on the pavement. The important thing is what kind of mark you have made on it before you shuffle off the kerb at the other end after your three score and ten. What is left for those behind to see. Some of us go ahead and skip lightly over the surface, leaving barely a trace that we were ever there. Some of us make an effort to dig our heels in, pushing down at every step, making that effort to be seen, to be noticed, and to be remembered. Then of course some people trip on the shoelace of fate and fall face first right in it. They are called 'celebrities'.
I think I am a pusher. Perhaps not as determinedly clumping down with every step as some, but the effort is there nonetheless. So I do continually try to improve the impression that I make on life's pavement. To enbiggen* my mark on society. To embellish my legacy. Some of my previous attempts at this have been documented here, notably 'running without being chased' and 'self-improvement through violence'. I now have another one. I am learning Polish.
In truth I have been doing this for a while now, in fact I recently completed my first 10 week course, with another 10 about to start. Why Polish? It actually started as an idea through my current employment, as the area I work in has a high Polish population. Generally speaking, Polish people are quite reserved, and keep themselves to themselves. But all it takes is one little breakthrough, and they will be wonderfully friendly, courteous and generous. So I thought it would be a good idea to learn some little breakthroughs. While I realise this hardly makes me a UN Ambassador, even my awkward attempts at saying "Hello, how are you?"** etc have yielded results far in excess of my expectations. Fair enough an early attempt apparently actually came out as "Do you keep pigs here?" but when I get it right, these paltry few words have made me new friends, and in some cases have led to me being able to help those who otherwise would not have known that there was even help to be had. So now I'm thinking the more little breakthroughs the better - for the sake of a few hours a week, maybe just maybe my little dents in the concrete will be just a little bit more visible.

* it's a perfectly cromulent word...

** Dzien Dobry, Jak Sie Masz? (Jeen Dobreh, Yak See Mash?)

Another year over...

2007-12-31T09:58:00.000Z

Thoughts of the old year, and the new one to come have finally kicked the blogging part of my brain, long inactive, back into life. So I thought I'd catch up on what little I managed to bore you with this year, and look to the future with a promise to bore you on a far more regular basis. Thank me later.
kay ess jay kay
My first ever blog. Just a wee introduction to who and where we are. The whos are still the same, but the where is slightly different. We have temporarily moved to a fantastically posh flat nearby so we can clear out the old Kay Towers ready for selling. As far as I can see, the only way to do this is to position a skip under the window and start shovelling. Nearly 15 years worth of junk is not really the kind of pile you can sweep under the corner of the carpet. But we'll get there, and right now we're absolutely loving living in a posh flat in the posh area of a posh town. The deception continues...
all change
Not such happy news on this one. My situation will almost certainly be reorganised before March arrives. I am now firmly convinced that somewhere deep in the bowels of Aberdeen Council headquarters there lies a very special department, called the "Aintbroke Repair department". Employment in this department is by invitation only. If you show a particular prowess at rearranging, reorganising and generally meddling with things when there is absolutely no need, you're hired. And somewhere along the line, this department got wind of my current job.
"Hey, they're doing well, making a huge difference to the city residents and providing a high level of customer satisfaction and great value for money. We must do something!"
We've tried telling them, we've sat through endless meetings while they try and show us how we will do our job so much better under the new system, all the while seeing in their eyes that they have no earthly clue what they are doing. So unless something very dramatic happens in the next month or so, it will be on to pastures new for me and all my colleagues. Ah well.
Cheers
A mixed bag of updates, this one. A cocktail if you will. On one side I have a success story. As it happens the very person that I had in mind as I wrote that blog reappeared just a couple of weeks ago. And it appears that this gentleman did indeed hear the bell for time, and made his way to the door and back into real life. Albeit a little later than some of us, but he certainly has embraced his new found reality and is doing very well indeed. Happily married with a fantastic new career on the horizon. He told me all this while in a bar, as he sipped his diet coke, before dashing off to drive his wife home. Good man.
However there is another side to this update. Another of the original subjects reappeared in my life recently too. Only this one wasn't chatting to me. I was performing CPR on him after I found him in a dingy stairwell of a high-rise block of flats. Despite all efforts, it seems his doctor was right when he said he wouldn't reach 30. Time was called, and this time he definitely didn't hear last orders.
Para What?
I am still fiercely proud to call myself a drummer. No change there, nor will there ever be. So there.
Who's doing what now?
Well. I was trying to find an excuse for this but there really isn't one. I still absolutely love to run, I just haven't done it in a while. Like about six months. But I will. I'm actually really really getting the urge again. It was always there, but it kinda got drowned out by all the other stuff going on. But the less I run, the more I want to, so I am now desperate to get going again despite the weather, despite working shifts, despite any other excuse I can come up with. Where's me trainers?
self improvement through violence
Another thing I have let slide somewhat, but this time I have an excuse. The dire state of the NHS. No really, I'm waiting for an appointment to get my nose straightened after the last time. Now this may seem daft, to be waiting for my face to be repaired before I can get it dismantled again, but that's how it is. Now sherrep. Or I'll flatten you. As long as you give me plenty time to remember how to do it...
What a drag it is
Disappointingly, I still seem to be ageing. I now have two very young colleagues at work, and this has only served to heighten my awareness of how old I really didn't think I was. There is a look. It is a look I can't describe, but you may have seen it. It is a look that only the young can give to the old. It is a look that says "..." in some unspoken tongue that hits with unerring accuracy every time straight to the brain. In the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (younger readers may not remember this) Adams (rip) describes an apparatus that can send any man completely insane, by illustrating the true extent of the whole universe, and highlighting his exact significance within it. The realisation that you are a mere nanomicroblip in the whole scheme of things is enough to render any man utterly incapacitated by worthlessness. The look of a young person towards an old person who has just tried to impart some wisdom is like a pocket version of that. Devastating.
So my ageing continues apace. Ah well.
So there it is. This is where I find myself at the end of one year, and the beginning of another. Some good news, some bad, some things I can do something about and some I can't.Pretty much like every other year, for every other person. On the whole, life is good, and I plan to tell you all about it as often as I can, if you'll have me.
See you next year.

what a drag it is...

2007-09-21T09:35:00.000+01:00

So recently I've been thinking a lot about growing old. And I've decided I'm just going to go ahead and do it.
The reasons for this 'codger-tation' are manifold, but three main ones seem to have aligned lately.
Work.
In my current line, I meet a lot of people. A LOT. In fact it's basically what I do. I walk the streets and speak to people. I go into their houses, their schools, their workplaces and speak to people. It's more than interesting, it's eye-opening. And there's nothing like seeing other peoples lives for getting you thinking about your own. If I felt confident enough in my ability to keep identities entirely unfathomable then I could fill endless blogs about the stories I encounter. But to be on the safe side, I'll restrict it to the odd snippet here and there, perhaps to illustrate a point, perhaps to embellish a tale, but most likely to have a laugh.
Anyway, the mind-prod I will be borrowing on this occasion is my meeting with a woman who I calculated had started secondary school the year in which I left. No problem there, but this woman is now a grandmother. At first I was amazed at how unusual it must be to be a granny at such a young age, she must have had kids very young who also had kids very young etc etc. But then I did the sums and realised to my horror that there was nothing very much out of the ordinary here at all. Junior Kay is now six months old. My first daughter. But supposing I had had my first daughter at a still perfectly reasonable 19 yrs of age, then this adorable little bundle of dribble and eyelashes could quite easily be my 20 year old first daughter's first daughter. In fact, not so many years ago, this would have been very much the norm. I've never been the best at being on time, but now it seems I am already a whole generation behind schedule.
Self-improvement.
If you have been supernaturally blessed with enough patience to trudge through some of my previous witterings, you may be aware that I have embarked on a course of physical self-improvement, in the form of running, and most recently violence. The benefits of this programme are dubious, but are making themselves apparent nonetheless. I can now happily carry a baby, a buggy and various other juvenile accoutrements up the several flights of stairs to Kayessjaykay Towers with little or no ill effects, and I appear to have changed shape to a certain degree. But it bloody hurts. I never really understood the term aches and pains before, but I have more of an insight now. I always thought if something hurts, either you know why or you don't but at least you know exactly where it hurts. But now I find myself getting out of bed for example, and making an old person's noise. You must have heard it. Like this -
"HHHOOOMMPH"...
It's very common.
The surprise is when you hear it coming from yourself.
"HHHOOOMMPH"...
"What the hell was that?"
"That was you"
"No... was it?"
"Yes. you sound like you're in pain"
"Well, I am. That really is quite sore."
"What's sore?"
"I have no idea..."
A general aura of discomfort seems to surround me sometimes. It feels like it's either my ankle or my shoulder, or it may be somewhere in between.
To be fair I have given my body a fair bit of abuse over the years. When I was just Kay, minus EssJayKay, I lived for a while in a one bedroom flat. The number of bedrooms didn't matter a bit, because there was very little actual sleeping going on. Sleep was for old people who had nothing better to do, we were just too busy building beercan mountains, paddling dinghies across the road, jousting on stepladders, or whatever else I can't remember. But not sleeping. You can't be having fun if you're sleeping. In those days of course nothing hurt. In those days I could jump from first storey windows without a thought. Nowadays a powerful sneeze is a danger. I'm like a J Reg Golf GTi. In the early nineties I was fast, efficient, fun and a bit cool. Nowadays I can still move, but certain parts don't move quite so smoothly, I tend to rattle a bit and there's the occasional alarming noise from the rear end.
Blogs.
Maybe it's just me, but I recently realised that my blog is just a new-fangled way of ranting at strangers. The desire to express opinions on anything and everything is another sure sign of getting old. Where this used to be done by sitting on a park bench like a hungry spider waiting for anyone with ears to pass by, it's now done by remote control over the ether. Cyberspace instead of Council space. But the principle is the same. I have opinions, which to be honest has always been the case, but only now do I have this inexplicable compulsion to pass them on.
If I was to sit in my flat from x years ago and tell any of the assorted funseekers present my personal views on the world, I would likely have been met with
"Aye, very good. What're ye wantin', a hat?"
And rightly so. Not only would I have never expected anyone to be the slightest bit interested then, I would almost certainly have been wrong anyway. Now though I am always right, so people should naturally have a desire to know my thoughts. So I am kindly sharing them here.
So. Case closed. I am old. And I think I like it actually. As a wiser soul than I once said -
"I much prefer it to the alternative"...

self improvement through violence.

2007-09-19T20:56:00.001+01:00

Last night I was punched in the face. Very hard. So hard that my nose is swollen, probably broken and I have two black eyes. I asked for it. In fact I paid for it. And it was all for my own good.
As part of my continuing plan for self improvement, I decided to take up karate. To be exact, Kafdo Karate Aikido Jitsu. This is a bit different. Not for me the 'mincing about in white pyjamas pointing the toes at 56 degrees while pondering the ethical implications of catching a fly with chopsticks' type karate. This is proper 'break his arm then stick your fingers in his windpipe til he passes out' self defence style karate. The training is very hard, but it has to be. The whole point of it is that we can fight hard and fast when required. This means we're not going to have time to remove our shoes, slip on our jammies and centre our chakras or whatever else. So we don't. We literally walk in off the street and get kneed in the groin, choked to unconsciousness then give money to the man doing it. It may seem like more of a voluntary mugging than a lesson, but it works. I've only been at it for a month or so, and I already have the ability to restrain anyone with a wrist or elbow lock so unbelievably painful that they will move exactly how I want them, all with one hand behind my back. And his. Now this is actually quite useful in my particular line of work, not to mention certain social situations, but that's not why I'm doing it. I don't want to use this ability, this is why I took up running first. I just want to know that I could do it. So don't start, cos as soon as this swelling goes down and I can see you, I'll have you. Without hurting a fly.

Who's doing what now???

2007-07-09T23:02:00.000+01:00

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances...

This quote, whilst obviously true, is of course rather out of date. All the world is actually a High Definition DVD (with bonus features). And when the fade to black is complete on my life, the credits will roll for a very long time indeed. So long is the list of supporting players that most of the viewing public will have shuffled out blinking into the kitchen to put the kettle on long before the copyright notices appear. Some perhaps dabbing a moistened eye, others bemusedly scanning the cover blurb and wondering if Blockbuster do refunds. But those who stay on the sofa while all the names of the beautiful people who played their part in my story scroll gently skyward will definitely get their money's worth.
Obviously I'm not going to list all, or even some of this castlist here on these pages, but now and then one or two may make an appearance. Think of this as an occasional 'making of' documentary.
One such name that will be ascending towards the set-top aerial before the thought of a cuppa has a chance to traverse all but the quickest minds, is the one who calls herself Misssy M.
Her influences on me are legion, probably more than she realises, but my thoughts today turn to a Summer afternoon and a fantastic barbecue at her parents house.
Possibly intentionally, it was a few hours in when she struck up conversation. I don't remember the exact dialogue, but the memories I have are thus -
M - "So what do you think?"
K - "Oh yes, definitely... Um, what?"
M - "Would you be up for it then?"
K - "Absolutely. Why not. Up for what, exactly?"
At this point I took my nose out of my wine glass long enough to finally smell trouble. I realised that we had been discussing M's admirable efforts at running, and it appeared I had just agreed to join in. More than that in fact - to stand in. There was a 10K race in a months time which she was unable to attend, so I had just agreed to fill her Nikes. How did that happen? Ordinarily if anyone had asked me to run 10 kilometres, I'd have run a mile. I don't think I had actually run anywhere for over ten years. And even then I was being chased.
But of course by this time I was well enough lubricated to buy the snake-oil. Well, I thought, how hard can it be? Can't do any harm? Would probably do me good in fact. I was carrying an extra pound or two, maybe I could see them off in the process. And it was for an excellent charity.
So the next morning, even after the Resolve had fizzed away the 'wrath of grapes', my own resolve remained. I could do this. And I did.
My first run was memorable. I was smart enough to not set my goals too high to start with, so I was merely aiming to still be alive after running round the block. To be honest it was a large block, probably around a kilometre in total, but I did indeed manage to return in one piece. I had taken the precaution of running sometime after 11pm, so the streets were suitably empty, and my embarrassment was kept to a minimum even as I trundled along at a geriatric pace. But once I got home - bright red, sweating profusely and steaming gently - a remarkable thing happened. I wanted to go again. Whether this was oxygen starvation making me delusional, or endorphins kicking in to placate my indignant leg muscles I couldn't say. But the fact remained that I loved it. So after a couple of days rest, I did it again. And again. Every other evening I would go a bit further, until after a couple of weeks I was up to 5K. After that I could really say I was hooked. Or at least my bank manager certainly could. My local branch of 'Run 4 It' were already organising their second staff bonus night out, as I emptied their shelves of all the lycra, overpronator-stabilising rehydrating high-visibility wicking monitoring paraphernalia I could lay my pin number finger on.
So it was that four weeks after polishing off a cheeky rioja over a blackened chicken leg or three, I was transformed into an amateur but addicted athlete finishing in the top half of a large field in my first race. And certainly not my last. Credit to the Misssy.
Stay tuned, more cast featurettes will no doubt appear soon.
FIN.

para-what?

2007-07-08T10:25:00.000+01:00

I play drums.
Now, what I see as a proud boast, you probably see as a cry for help. I don't care. I just love hitting stretched plastic polymer sheets with bits of wood. As far as any of my family can remember I have always had a desire to hit things with other things. I can't remember seeing someone play drums and thinking "I fancy a bit of that" - because as far as I can tell I was doing it already.
I have a vague memory of being told to stop tapping my feet when I was at nursery school, and certainly right through primary school I was always annoying everyone else by tapping, clicking banging and clattering on anything that came near.
If anyone remembers Meccano, they did a junior version with plastic bits, and I had two long pieces which made perfect drumsticks. I quickly became expert at which household objects gave me the best sounds. I quite favoured the dampened thunk of a good cushion, coupled with the arm of the sofa. I guarantee we had the most dust-free furniture in the street. And I have the lungs of a coal miner.
I don't know why I felt the need to do this, it just seemed like I had to. My 'internal jukebox' in my head was forever playing drum beats, and it never occurred to me that other people might not be totally fascinated to hear them. You know when you're listening in to a conversation and you suddenly think of a really valid and enlightening point that you know will bring something vital to the table, so you just have to push in and express it? That was me, but my points were beats. I felt like I was constantly thinking of good rhythms which I just had to express. But I soon discovered that tapping someone on the shoulder, then yelling "dugga-chugga-chink-a-chug, duggabachuggada -PISH!!!" in their face does not always elicit the desired response. Especially on a bus. It took me a while to realise that this affliction was quite possibly mine and mine alone.
"What do you mean shut up? Listen, you may have missed it but I was doing a paradiddle between my left hand and right foot, while my right hand kept a steady triplet over the top!"
"Yes dear, but the congregation can't hear the minister give the eulogy"...
And so it has continued into adult life. It may well bother a lot of people, but not me. I've learned to live with it. Whether it's on stage in front of several hundred people, or sitting quietly alone in my favourite wing of Kay Towers - I play drums.

Cheers.

2007-07-07T09:12:00.000+01:00

Picture the scene, dear reader - You and I are in the pub, when I ask you a question -
"Would you like a drink?"
Now I'm guessing two things would happen. The second one being you would get back up off the floor.
And there's a fair chance that you would be quite pleased, and accept graciously. But -
"Do you like a drink?"
might result in two slightly different things happening. The second one being that I would be getting back up off the floor.
The difference is subtle, yet potentially violent. One word different seems to imply that you may have a problem. It's a strange insinuation, that I've never really understood. Practically everyone I know has been known to partake of a tasty ethanol-based beverage, with no sense of shame. In fact most people I know, including myself (quite possibly more myself than others, to be honest) could be said to show a certain sense of pride in having partaken of said beverages to excess.
But as soon as that pride is questioned, or the insinuation made that you have a need for it, things get uncomfortable. There seems to be a control level, a cut off point beyond which the social exclusion zone kicks in.
You like having a drink, you're good at it, but you don't need it obviously...
One minute you're sitting on your favourite hard wooden chair with the mystery sticky bit beneath your feet, slap bang in the middle of a gang of best friends, with a warm glow in the cheeks, a grin on the face and the buzz of multiconversation in your ears.
Next thing you know you're sitting in the same chair, same sticky bit, but the realisation slowly hits that there is no strand of the multiconversation that is any of your business. And instead of being in the middle of a gang, you seem to be on the periphery of a different group. It seems your gang are now at home, whispering about how you just didn't know when to stop...
This line in the sand interests me. Where is it? How are we supposed to know? As far as I can tell, I managed to pass the test and came out safely on the other side. But I really have no idea how I managed it. Maybe some people are just not so lucky.
My current line of work brings me into close contact with these unfortunates every day. I spoke to one a few days ago who was in the Navy for most of his life with an exemplary record. He travelled around the world, had a massive social circle and had a drink with all of them wherever he went. He retired with a full pension, and a raging alcohol dependency. He now lives alone in a bedsit drinking two full bottles of cheap whisky a day waiting for his next seizure.
Another one I met yesterday is 29, his doctor doesn't think he'll see 30, and he recently woke up on a riverbank with a broken jaw and internal injuries, and no explanation.
Totally different people, with one thing in common. They just didn't hear the bell for last orders.

all change...

2007-07-06T01:26:00.000+01:00

We trained hard… but it seemed that every time we were beginning to form up into teams we would be reorganized. I was to learn later in life that we tend to meet any new situation by reorganizing; and a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency, and demoralization.
Petronius Arbiter, 210 B.C.*

Who is watching over me? Who decides what happens to me next? The discussion of God, destiny or fate is for another time, but right now I would really like to know which celestial Grand Master is moving me from square to square. Sometimes I don't even see the move coming, the first I know of it is when a mighty pawn comes along and knocks me sideways clean off the board. Other times I am quite happily sitting in place, happy that I am exactly where I should be. Then out of the blue appears a looming Bishop, and I just know that I have no choice but to pick myself up and shuffle off to a new, empty, cold hard space in order to keep playing the game. This is one of those times. 7 months after finding my dream square, safely surrounded, I look up to see the shadow of a great lumbering rook. So off we must slide. Not straight away - the game is still in progress, with several moves still to be made by others first, but I can see the way the game is developing. With the strong likelihood that my analogy has become hopelessly convoluted, I should probably just say - It appears I will shortly be changing jobs.

Kay, Ess, Jay & Kay

2007-06-26T10:11:00.000+01:00

So.
Who is Kayessjaykay? Well, the answer is a four headed creation, currently stalking the cold grey streets of a Northern town. With four very separate personalities (quad-polar?) and four very separate strategies for the great game of life. But all inextricably linked by the conviction that a frying pan to the face is the funniest sound in the world. Here are the four quadrants.
1) I am Kay. Or K for short. The 'titular head' of the family, although this often seems to be abbreviated for some reason.
2) Ess. Or S, the power behind the throne.
3) Jay. J, which will always come right before K. J which is as close to K as could ever be. Like someone lifted the needle and dropped it back at the outer edge, he's just me, started over again.
4) Kay(2), now known as K2. The most beautiful little cotton bundle of smiles to grace the planet since J did. Since she appeared the only reason I want to leave the house is to earn money to buy her stuff.

So that's the 'who', now for the 'where'. We are currently crammed into Kay Towers, our own Orwellian garret with a beautiful view of acres of greenery. Well, maybe one acre. And it's a graveyard. But it is green. And the neighbours are not really any problem. There's barely enough room for two people, let alone four, (in the garret, not the graveyard, there's hundreds in there) but at the moment we are undercover commoners in the overprivileged West End, and we're still getting away with it. J even goes to their affluent and educationally superb school, and goes to play in the other kids mansions, while telling them he can't return the compliment because we have the marble engravers in re-doing the entrance hall, or we're having the art revalued, or the drawing room floor is being reinforced for the new Steinway, etc. etc.
So until our wheeze is rumbled, we plan to enjoy the benefits of this well-heeled area as long as we can get away with it. A bigger place is obviously the long term plan, but in the current climate we only really have two possible options. The first involves 6 numbers and a bonus ball (aka 'The Torry Pension'). The second means finding a different well-heeled society out of town to cuckoo. And it seems our friends have already booked all the cool surrounding villages for themselves, their appearance obviously sending the property values soaring wherever they go. So here we are, for the forseeable at least. To be honest we still love the little place, but, well, y'know, bring on the crash...