Day 345: Dwarves Not Yetis

A trawl up the motorway, an hour spent in the Jasper Carrott Suite at Birmingham City Football Club, and then a trawl back down the motorway. 

The day definitely needs some livening-up.  Fortunately, as I radio channel-surf, I tune into a news story that scientists have done tests on HAIR found in a Siberian cave (promising).  It is not a match for normal cave-dwelling types - bears, wolves, goats (even more promising).  It belongs somewhere on the monkey/human DNA spectrum, closer to the human end.  Yes - the implication is that this is YETI hair.  (Bingo!  Day enlivened.)

An internet search reveals that there have been 'sightings' in the area since the seventies.  My favourite incident involves a couple of 'yetis', walking up a hill, carrying rudimentary implements, and 'making a whistling noise'. 

I'm no scientist, but surely this is a case of mistaken identity?  Carrying tools?  Whistling?  Oh, come on!

I want to believe. Truly I do.   But unlike these so-called 'scientists', I cannot ignore the facts. 

Day 344: Admin Eggman

Administrative duties.  Tax return signed, sealed, delivered.  It's yours (assuming you are HMRC).  Trips to two postal depots - one to pick up two parcels; one to send eight.  The Beatles famously said  'The love you take is equal to the love you make.'  It seems that this equation does not extend to parcels - at the moment I am six down. 

Probably being hasty.  Remind self that The Beatles' love equation is prefaced by the words 'And in the end' - which implies an end-of-days reckoning.  Perhaps by that stage the parcel imbalance will have righted itself.  (And in the end, the parcels you tend, are equal to the parcels you send.)

Remind self that The Beatles also famously said 'I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.'  So, by this reckoning, the parcels coming in and the parcels going out are one and the same.  One big universal parcel, man. 

Remind self that The Beatles also famously said 'Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower, Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna, Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.  I am the eggman.  They are the eggmen.  I am the walrus.'

Disregard Beatles as a credible philosophical/mathematical source. 

Reconsider.  I am the eggman.  The parcels are the eggmen.  We are all eggmen. 

I do not like administration. 

Day 343: Tripod of Sluggery

I smell of bonfires.  My voice has dropped about an octave, thanks to smoke inhalation and red wine.  It is not a day for singing anything with high notes, or doing anything that requires energy.  I need to be a sofa slug.

Hot shower.  Sunday papers.  Tea.  The Tripod of Sluggery*. 

(* Shower, papers and tea - these are the supportive legs.  I am not talking about an actual tripod (see left).  Although if I had one, I would use it.  Probably for my elbow. 

Day 342: Conkering Hero

Leave the house early to beat the half-term caravans on the drive down to Dorset.  There's a thin layer of slushy snow settled on the car, and the temperature gauge is reading only one degree.  A taste of things to come.

The disease that is ravaging horse chestnut trees means that supplies for this year's Conkertition are down.  But as any conker-botherer know, you cannot use a juvenile if you want any chance of success.  You need a hardened, wizened two-year old.  And there is a biscuit tin full of them.

There is no room for concessions.  Freddie (aged four) weeps hot tears of rage as his conker splits in two.  'I feel really bad that I've made Freddie cry' says his rival (a forty-something cardiology consultant).  'But - you know, it's still a WIN!' 

Cold hands, cold hearts and bruised knuckles.  You've got to be hard to succeed.  As hard as a wizened two-year old. 

Day 341: Maximalist

I am slightly overwhelmed by my desk.  Looking left to right, here is an inventory:-

Packet of painkillers (one remains)
Post-it notes (classic pale yellow)
Pile of receipts (dull)
Boîte à Prunes (tin - specifically designed for, but not containing speeding tickets)
Parcel tape (three-pack bargain)
Three-pin to two-pin plug adaptor (Euro-rover)
Missed parcel notice (annoying)
A spaghetti squash (unexpected gift)
A string bag of plastic balls (a ball bag, if you will)
A candle (smells of cedar wood)
A small cigar box containing a false moustache and some spirit gum
Some tracing paper (A4)
A flyer for the Black Garden Tattoo parlour (inky)
A tangle of unmatched clean socks (quite dusty now)
A mug (empty)
A glass carafe filled with loose change (five, two and one pence pieces)
A Filofax (old skool)
A plastic mushroom (don't explain, don't justify)
Booking confirmation for Glastonbury (hooray)
A calculator (Tippexed with my initials)
A compass from the Lost Gardens of Heligan (I am sitting due South East)
Headphones (Sennheiser and big - like Chelsea buns strapped to my swede)
Fortnum & Mason's stilton jar full of pens (thoroughly washed before use)
Scalpel (dangerously sharp)
Atomiser of hippy juice to promote mental clarity (unverified claim)
Garmin Forerunner 305 (the Drill Sergeant)
Stapler (for the pile of receipts)
Various pads liberated from corporate meeting rooms (perks)
A twelve-pack of pocket tissues (snotty)
A pattern for a skirt (one day)
A fleece (practical)
Four bananas (potassium)
An ancient lemon (wise)
Three pairs of sunglasses (optimistic)
A lamp (let there be light)
Five bank statements (filing is not a priority)
A packet of Blu-Tak (for small desk-modelling project - especially snails)
A hagstone (averting evil)
An Ordnance Survey map (so I know where I am)
A water bottle (hydration)
Phone (communication)

I think it's fair to say that I could not be considered 'minimalist'. 

Einstein's desk (see right).  Maximalism justified.  Relax. 

Day 340: Shoes Not Leaves

Plant-mister rain. 
If I had leaves, they would be pleased. 
But my shoes are made of leather, and they stain,
Dark with Soho's gutter wees.   

Day 339: Autumn Montage

I am living an autumn montage.  I rake fallen leaves which are blanketing the garden, and admire the acer, which has turned Chinese dragon red.  Some enterprising spiders have created a maze of zip wires between all the shrubs. 

Then a long conker-strewn run to my favourite destination - the Tudor ruins of Gorhambury Manor, which are spookily shrouded in mist.  On the grass where the cloisters once stood there are fairy rings of toadstools.  The bark on the trees is black with damp.  Back home I cook a pumpkin curry.  A witchy black cat steals into the garden and then sits on the window sill, peering into the kitchen nosily. 

The only way this could get any more Hallowe'enish is if a gaggle of small ghosts and skeletons was to arrive at the front door, expecting chocolate and armed with eggs and flour if none is forthcoming.  Roll on, next Wednesday. 

On Thursday I will be washing my car.  The annual autumn wash.