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.

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...

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...

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.

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?

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...

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.