Glen's life

10K Run - Training Report #1

2012-02-01T17:54:00.001Z

Training for my London 10K in aid of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust is going well.

Or it was; a mixture of extended work commitments and Man Flu prevented me from doing anything at all last week – for a whole week! I am a little gutted about this because it almost feels like I will be starting all over again when I get back into the gym this week.

Never mind.

Mentally I am committed – or I certainly should be.

I found my way down to the gym to start training for my challenge two weeks ago. Rob the Gym Man was beside himself with joy when he first spotted me back in his life. I thought he was going to cry, I’m certain that he whooped. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy at the sight of me in shorts before, it was quite flattering really. We just sort of stood and man-hugged for about a minute too long, saying something on the lines of “Love you man” before moving on and leaving me standing there.

On a treadmill.

I looked at the buttons, they looked at me. Kilometres, I noticed, not miles. Usually this annoys me. In previous visits to the gym it has really vexed me that all of the machines work in metric. I’m a miles and yards person – is it really too much to expect my country to be the same? And if being metric is so damned important, why are all the roads marked in Miles? Answer me that Mr Cameron!

On this day though, and on this mission, the quirk of British measurement systems was on my side. I need to know about Kilometres, I need to know when I can run 10 of the buggers.

So, after about 5 minutes reminding myself how to make the machine start, and pinning the little emergency cut-off wire to my shirt (I have first-hand experience of why these things are worth doing), I was ready.

The treadmill started to move.

At speeds that would terrify a tortoise, I heaved, puffed, sweated, coughed, grunted and gasped my way along until the distance display read 1.0.

Oh yes! 1.0!

With oxygen depleted blood pumping hard through your veins, salty sweat dripping over your eyes to blur your vision and the knowledge that you have been ponding along virtual streets for hours, it is amazing how much 1.0 Kilometres looks like 10.

I fist pumped the air like a crazed Tennis champion and shouted a triumphant, room stopping “YES!” Then I wobbled scarily, because it turned out the machine didn’t know that I had finished and was still actually moving. I franticly jabbed at the dials to make the damned thing stop, but nothing seemed to have an effect. That was when I remembered about the little clip attached to my shirt.

One quick tug and it was all over. (story of my life).

The machine came to a halt and I flopped down ecstatic at my achievement. Darren, my friend and nominated “fitness type” who will be running with me on the 12^th, saw me and popped over to see how I’d done.

“I’ve bloody done it!” I shouted over the sounds of ‘Spear Of Destiny’ still doing their thing in my ears, “Day bloody one and I’ve done 10K! – This run is so on – You lot all laughed but look at me now! I can do it - I can bloody do it already!”

Darren looked at the screen and scrunched up his face. He coughed first of all, and then spluttered a bit.

Finally he just sort of walked away, shoulders bouncing uncontrollably as he walked.

I turned around and read the distance again.

The aches and pains in my stupidly stiff legs did absolutely nothing to alleviate the dark mood that occupied the rest of my day. Nor did the way that people all around me giggled whenever I hobbled by them. Darren is a true and proper friend, but about as discrete as the love bites on a 16 year old supermarket till-girl’s neck.

So that was day one. I managed to go a few more times and after such a depressingly discouraging start, progress is going excitingly well until last week’s absence. But I am back now and the challenge continues. Meanwhile there should now be a page up above that you can TAB to and follow the action. Route details and times will be on there so feel free to turn up. If you want to run you can, if you don’t then you can certainly turn up at the pub (though there is at least a small chance I’ll be trying to sponge a drink out of you if you do!).

The most important thing is that somehow – I raise some cash for Cystic Fibrosis.

Training report 2 – where I finally give in to pressure and sleep with Rob the Gym Man coming soon. Actually I might not write that one…

Michael Morpurgo

2012-01-31T12:10:00.003Z

I’ve just realised that I never actually told you about Michael Morpurgo.

I assume you’ve heard of this particular writer? How about if I say “War Horse”? War Horse is just one of his many brilliant books. Michael writes very grown up books in a manner that makes them ideal for young readers. My 10 year old absolutely loves his work and has a somewhat impressive collection.

To say that Daniel is a little miffed that Spielberg’s War Horse has come out as a 12A has upset him, is a bit of an understatement.

Anyway.

Just before Christmas (yes it has taken me this long to write about it) we went to see a play.

Not a play – a reading.

On Angel Wings – if you haven’t read it – is a lovely little story, based on the birth of Christ. Essentially it’s written from one of the Shepherd’s viewpoints, or more accurately one of their children’s. It is a very ‘nice’ Christmas story.

The reading was at Britain’s ‘National Theatre’ on the Southbank in London, which is an impressive setting for a start. The story was read by Michael Morpurgo himself alongside Virginia McKenna, who, with an impressive long acting career, you might just about remember from Born Free. They would read snippets then sit as a four strong ‘A Capella’ group sang Carols.

It was really lovely.

Daniel was absolutely transfixed as his hero did his thing.

I was fairly miffed because the realisation of just how big the gap is between my own writing skills and an actual genuinely skilled author looks, when you actually open your eyes and read.

It’s one of the reasons why I’ve been so slow to get back into it this year. I certainly haven’t written any fiction for ages and I love writing fiction. I just haven’t got the blind confidence back yet which deludes me into thinking that I’m on a par with these people who write proper stories.

Michael really looked the part of a writer, from his loafers to his scraggy burgundy suit. He joked about at the end to the delight of his audience, and we all left happy and set up for Christmas.

Daniel will never ever forget that evening. I think Jamie may have forgotten it already…

As we walked from the theatre I pointed out that the reading was great but that the Alfresco singers went on a bit. I waited – nothing. So I said it again, this time noting the slightly bored raise of an eyebrow from my wife – so she HAD got it, but was just refusing to laugh for some reason. I tell you this, coming up with ‘Dad jokes’ is a tricky business, some you get right and some just completely fall into thin air.

After the show, we went for a curry before getting a train home. If I have done one thing right with my life it is that I’ve trained my sons to go Indian Restaurants. The Bangalore Express by London Waterloo train station is a fantastic place. It is designed to have a feel of being on a train in India which really makes it different. There are normal tables, but down one side – where we were sat – is a bunk bed style section. You have a table, but next to you is a ladder which goes up to another table above you. Waiters have to climb this ladder to serve the table on top. It’s a gimmick but it works. The feel of the place is vibrant and exotic while the food is beautiful. It certainly is not your standard Indian menu.

The Bangalore Express is certainly not set up as a ‘kids’ restaurant but none the less they were more than welcome and catered for.

It was the perfect end to a fantastic evening. I was so impressed with the show and how my children are the kind of kids who appreciate this kind of thing that I could have cried. I didn’t because I’m not a girl.

But I could have.

So now I have to get back to writing fiction again, simply because I enjoy it. Also I have to catch up with where I am because it’s nearly February and I’m still talking about Christmas.

Happy New Year.

Fishing for Girls

2012-01-27T22:00:00.001Z

fishing for girls

Now, you are probably wondering why I am posting up photos of utter filth, like the one above.

This picture depicts the horrendous objectification of men that women in our society seem to think is acceptable these days, so why on Earth would I share it with you?

I’ll explain.

My wife showed me this photograph after sitting for some time studying it. In fact, the only reason she showed me it at all, was because she had decided that she couldn’t study it carefully enough on her mobile phone’s small screen and wanted to borrow my laptop instead. Apparently this would make it easier for her to examine it and decide for herself how utterly disgraceful this degrading image truly is.

It still took ten minutes for her to decide.

The source of the photo is unclear, so I can’t credit it – but it has come to my attention via shares of shares of shares on Facebook. The specific group of ladies enjoying this so called sportsman were getting somewhat over excited. Quite a few of them seemed to be wondering what the front would be like. It troubles me to note just how sordid and base women can be when presented with images of this nature. I don’t think men would ever act in this manner. If we saw a photograph of some sportswoman with her bottom out while playing tennis, for a random example, we would shun it immediately in disgust - I should imagine.

The full package appeared to be a hot topic. If the back looks this hot (If you call those tiny, muscly, hairless buttocks hot – which I certainly don’t) just how fantastic would he look if he turned around?

Well.

I like to help.

And after about an hour’s Internet based research I think I’ve found the answer.

Ladies – Try not to get too carried away!

Enjoy

Check out the size of my codpiece

Driving Miss Crazy

2012-01-24T12:10:00.002Z

I know what you are thinking.

You are thinking, “Glen – it’s late in January and you haven’t yet explained to us why it is that men think their driving mistakes are funny, whereas a woman’s mistakes are a stark reminder of how dangerous it is to allow the female gender to take control of a vehicle!”

Well – I’ve some good news for you on that front.

If you pop over to my post at ‘In The Powder Room’ you should find the answer to that very question explained in a very nearly socially acceptable way.

I like to help.

For anyone who (as strange as this may sound to you) wasn’t actually thinking that at all, it may be slightly more of interest for you to hear that the other day I was so busy trying to have a sneaky look at the very nice lady’s bottom walking past me that I completely failed to notice the huge puddle directly beside me on the road.

Or the taxi driving speedily and determinedly towards it.

Karma really can be a complete git sometimes

Failing Hugo

2012-01-18T21:59:00.000Z

Popping around the blogiverse recently, at ‘Keep Cate Busy’to be precise, I was reminded about my family’s complete and utter failure to see the movie called Hugo this Christmas.

Having read the book my 10 year old, Daniel was desperate to see this film and reminded us of this at regular intervals. My youngest son, Jamie wasn’t bothered at all about it and much preferred the idea of seeing Alvin and the Chipmonks in Chiprwrecked. So some negotiations took place, however this is not really the problem.

We promised that at some point in the Christmas holidays we would try to go and see these films. Of course, in my naivety, I forgot that to anyone under the age of 20, being told that someone is going to try and do something translates specifically into “They WILL do this”

As it happens, we had quite a packed Christmas. Due to the way things have gone, I haven’t written very much so far this year, so I will try and cover some of it later, especially the bit about Michael Morpurgo. Now, WE know that this is how things go sometimes. We know that the million and one brilliant things we got up to should be what the whole family remembers and smiles about. We know that – but kids don’t. Children just remember the thing they didn’t do.

What I’m saying is that, as the end of the holidays approached, we realised that we hadn’t been to the cinema yet. I say we realised… What I meant to say is that we were reminded…

My lovely Sister gave us some vouchers for our local cinema for Christmas so, on the very last day of the holiday, we declared that ‘today’ was the day.

What I did next, I may regret for some time. I told the boys.

I told them about the plan that I had hatched; my cunning plan.

Jo would take Daniel to see Hugo, while Jamie and I would see Alvin.

Brilliant.

All I had to do now was check the screening times.

Have you ever had that moment when you realise that the promise you just made to a youngster may have been a tad previous?

Hugo, was no longer being shown in our local cinema – at all! Alvin was, but not Hugo. In desperation I hit Google. It took but a moment to search “cinema reading” and only a few more to see that Hugo was still on – in glorious 3D - at an almost identical time to Alvin, that very afternoon. Fantastic – I had saved the day.

So we would go on the train to Reading, watch the movies and then grab some food somewhere nice – lovely. Now, I should point out that tensions around the house weren’t exactly at their best. People were tired and anxious about returning to school. Though they were looking forward to their treat, I wouldn’t say that attitudes were exactly as ‘Disney’ as I’d have hoped.

Still – we headed off.

Arriving in Reading with time to spare, we popped into a shop to buy some wine glasses that were on offer. This did not help the tension at all because my boys are not the best shoppers on the planet, but it was controlled with the reiteration of what was to follow.

We left the shop and Daniel said something surprising. “I like this cinema Dad - it’s a Vue cinema “

“No, Son,” I corrected “It’s a Showcase in Reading.”

“I’m sure it’s a Vue, Dad”

“Heh – heh, let’s hope not Dan or we’re in trouble, because I’ve checked the times for Showcase”

We did laugh.

We walked over the little bridge and looked up.

Showcase Cinema Reading – as it turns out – is quite a distance out of town, whereas Vue is the cinema that we were currently standing in front of.

We went in and headed up the escalators to discover that Hugo was NOT showing. It wasn’t.

Daniel didn’t take it well at all.

Slowly, and very begrudgingly, we compromised at all of us going to see Alvin. He wasn’t exactly jumping up and down about it. We would have to wait an hour, but at least we were going to see a film.

So I queued in what was the most ridiculously long queue ever. The place was busy and these days you can never just buy your tickets at a kiosk – oh no – you have to buy them at the food counter, meaning that you have to wait as everyone slowly chooses their popcorn. So I waited. I had a feeling there should be a machine for if you just wanted tickets, so I asked Jo to go and investigate.

But she just stood there.

Apparently she had just heard some random person moaning about how there WEREN’T any machines anywhere, so she decided that looking for one would be pointless. So she stood there. Not knowing about her overheard conversation, Jo’s refusal to even go and look wound me up a little, but what could I do except queue?

Several days later the tickets were bought and, because we still had a little time left, we headed outside for some air.

That was when I saw the machines.

From here on in it all got a bit Simpsons.

I shouted at Jo. Jo shouted at me. Daniel shouted at me. Jamie shouted at Daniel.

The next twenty minutes weren’t very pleasant.

And then we went to see Chipwrecked without anyone really talking to each other.

Time is a great healer though – especially when it’s spent in the company of chipmonks. By the time the film finished all was pretty much forgiven, and our treat meal was just that – a treat.

Daniel still hasn’t completely forgiven me for the fact that he will probably now have to wait for Hugo to come out on DVD and then it won’t be 3D. Jo still hasn’t totally forgiven me for shouting at her over the ticket machines. Jamie would have quite liked some popcorn, apparently…

So I’ll review Hugo, using the terminology of the young.

Epic Fail.

Alvin was good though!

The maddest idea I've ever had

2012-01-16T00:12:00.001Z

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. Eventually I was bound to wind up having an idea of my own that doesn’t get vetoed by my wife.

Which is a shame really because she really should have vetoed this one…

In April, my brother-in-law will be running the London Marathon which is, of course, insane. Paul has run this race once before, back when my ten year old son was still in a pushchair and slept during the day. He vowed never to try it again.

Paul never was very good with promises.

I’m in awe of people who run this race. Every year I sit glued to the TV, nibbling on a pie in amazement. People with the most unbelievable stories are there overcoming horrendous struggles to wind up running for twenty-six miles. Others aren’t content with just running that far, they also have to dress like a hippo or hop backwards. People are incredible.

Meanwhile, I can’t even jog faster than treacle runs downhill for more than two minutes.

In order to secure his place, Paul is running to raise money for the CF Trust, which is a very well-known charity in our lives. If your life has never come across Cystic Fibrosis in any way at all then you can consider yourself very lucky indeed. This genetic disease not only kills people at a very young age, but it first of all makes them suffer.

CF attacks the lungs, filling them with mucus. It also causes a whole host of other problems leaving sufferers weakened and breathless, yet they seem to become some of the strongest people you can know – because they have to be. Getting your lungs pumped out on a daily basis, while living with the knowledge that you will be very lucky to live past your thirties, kind of forces you to be strong.

My friend Anthony had it. We were classmates at school. I can’t remember anyone at school who was happier, or more fun to be around than Anthony. Nobody complained less. Nobody smiled more. And yet he could barely talk some days. He could never run anywhere and mucus had to be painfully pumped out of his lungs every day, but his would be the first grin that you would notice in the mornings.

Anthony died while still in his Teens.

My wife’s cousin – who is the reason Paul has chosen this charity - was an incredible woman. From the very first ‘family’ get together I attended with my wife, Cheryl stood out. She would be the centre of the fun. The only clue you ever got for the suffering she endured would be the occasional wheeze. Meanwhile Cheryl defied convention by doing exactly what the doctors told her not to do. She had not one, but two children. One ‘should’ have killed her – it didn’t.

The next thing Cheryl did was to live. And Cheryl lived well with her family. Sadly, we lost Cheryl two years ago at the incredible age of 45 – a seriously impressive age for a CF sufferer.

So Paul is running the marathon and to do so he needs to raise money for the CF Trust which is where I come in. I figure it’s time I got off my backside and did something too.

I’m not running the marathon and I’m not sitting in a bath of beans, or climbing Everest dressed as a polar bear, but I am going to try something that in my current physical state of disrepair and neglect seems impossible.

Not impossible for you I should imagine, but trust me when I say that it scares the willies off me. I may have failed to run more than one single Kilometre only a couple of weeks ago, but I’m going to run 10 of them in April.

Here and now I do declare that on April 12^th I intend running 10K (over 6 miles) across London. This means I have three months to go from the jelly belly mess that I am today into exactly the kind of person that I’ve been avoiding all these years – a healthy one.

I have not run further than 2 miles since I was 19, some 21 years ago. I sit here now and shake at the thought of it. However, deep in my brain I know that it is realistically possible. People run marathons; people do so much more than this with a million better reasons as to why they shouldn’t be able to do it than ‘just because they like pizza too much’.

But it is daunting and it most certainly is going to challenge me in a way that I have not been challenged since I joined the military.

I will be starting my training now, and will of course be updating my progress right here. Also (as you’ve probably guessed) I’ll be begging for sponsorship . Hey things are tight at the mo – I expect nothing, especially from anyone who has already supported me in the Movember scheme, so please don’t feel pressured. Just come here and read without shame. As the days go by I will also be giving details of the route and of where the finish line is (cunningly next to a pub near a handy train / tube line as it happens) so if you just happen to be in the area… Why not? Want to join me on the run or just mill about in the pub next to the finish line? All proceeds of sponsorship are to go to the CF Trust VIA Paul’s Marathon donation page – to clarify, the reason for this is simply to apply these funds towards his target but ALL the money does go to the Cystic Fibrosis charity directly from the Virgin donation page.

The run is not an officially organised race, it’s being planned by me but I intend being as open as possible. I have two fitness types who have agreed to run with me and validate the distance, though I am trying to get more runners – the more the merrier, mainly for the whip in the pub afterwards if I’m honest.

So do you live around London? Want to see the sweatiest man in London crawling towards the heart of the City? If it helps, my two fitness types are worth seeing – their moobs are actual muscle and are called Pecs apparently, so they don’t need a bra for them like I do.

Glen’s Life CF 10K – coming soon.

The New Year brings crazy ideas..

2012-01-09T21:35:00.002Z

The birds looked at each other and almost fell off their perches laughing.

Children frowned as worried Mums ushered them swiftly out of the way.

Men shook their heads in despair at the sight slowly lumbering towards them. They had to wait quite a while. Actually they had to wait ages.

It was New Year’s Day. It was cold. It was the day I never really believed would come.

January the 1^st 2012 – the day we went for a ‘family’ run.

What were we thinking?

Still drunk from the success of December’s Santa Run where I, for one, had coughed and wheezed my way around 2 miles of Oxford streets by running slower than your Nan walks, we decided to try again – only this time it was supposedly ‘just for fun’.

Fun?

Who for?

Any parent reading this will know how hard it is to get their kids off the sofa during the Christmas and New Year’s holiday, and just how unbelievably worth the effort it is to do so. My boys spiral ever faster into anarchy, like a whirlpool of bitter, pent up Punk Rockers the longer they are left sitting around a treat filled house playing games and watching Christmas TV. It’s lovely for a couple of days but soon the fighting and noise levels rise worryingly high, so action has to be taken.

So you take them out on walks.

These work like a blood transfusion, spending their bad energy and replacing it with a fresh input of life that they can use eating yet more chocolate sat firmly in front of the box.

Three woodland walks later though, and the magic has worn off. You have to try and find something new. Bleary eyed from staying up until midnight to see in the year but refusing to stay in bed past nine the next morning, my two boys were itching for a hard day’s arguing. They put their feet down and made it clear that the walk I was suggesting would result in me losing the last precious few strands of hair on my head once and for all. It was not going to be worth it. They were too tired; they would sit in front of the TV and occasionally hit one another instead.

My wife, Jo – never short of a ridiculous idea – surpassed herself. “Hey, I know what we should do – we should go for a family run – all of us. That will be a laugh won’t it? Bagsy not running with Dad!”

Before I could point out that there was no way in hell I was going to be running anywhere when I could be sat here eating chocolate and pretending I can’t hear the kids trying to kill each other, the boys cheered and started laughing. Their sugar and inactivity induced vindictiveness could be aimed at me instead of each other. The glee with which they relished the idea of making me go running on New Year’s Day completely made them forget about how tired they were.

I put my shorts on.

We set off with Jo leading the way. We would run 5K or about three miles if you prefer. Jo and Daniel have run this distance together a couple of times; Jamie and I would just have to see how we got on.

It is safe to say that I didn’t get on at all – nor did the boys.

Two weeks away from the playground, mixed with the stupendous over-excess of Christmas, had erased all of the evidence that we had ever managed to run two miles together. The boys kept stopping to walk or just to stop – and well, someone had to stay with them! I tried to gee them on, but I was about as convincing as Russell Crow’s accent in Robin Hood. Who was I fooling when I said that we could do it? No one.

The boys whinged. I whinged. We sounded like a faulty ambulance with an extremely rough sounding exhaust as we inched along the paths, holding up Zimmer framed ladies who were dragging wheeled shopping baskets behind them and getting more than a little vocal about their delay.

Daniel attempted to complete the 5K, all be it by walking, while my youngest and I simply dodged behind a fence long enough for Jo to be out of sight and then hobbled a short cut home. I’m not sure how far we actually ran but I suspect you could measure it with a ruler.

However the thing is, as big a failure as the family run actually was, it was also a massive success. In fact Daniel wound up getting out of the house and walked / jogged for three miles. Jamie got off the sofa and walked / jogged for two. They got air. They got exercise. They had point blank refused to go for a walk with us, and yet they had – willingly.

And when they got back they were renewed. Oh they were tired and the TV went back on – of course it did – but the aggression was spent. Irritation and sibling rivalry had returned to its standard background level. I had my boys back.

Jo’s idea had not been so ridiculous after all – in fact it had been sheer genius. I probably only ran about three inches more than Jamie so I can’t claim that I got much exercise really, not that you would have guessed that from the amount heaving and sweating I was doing, but yet again just shutting up and doing what my wife told me to do paid for itself.

The world’s least impressive jog saved Christmas! Now there is a claim.

Worryingly, in those first few moments, when I was filled with positivity about the world of exercise, I came up with an idea – a potentially very silly one…

Winning is addictive

2012-01-06T12:24:00.002Z

Hello Hello.

I’m back on the train and I have loads to tell you about, lots of stories to write, bags of ideas for this is 2012 – a very big year, here in England!

But first…

Some news.

I’ll get on with writing some posts for next week, but in the meantime I need to say thank you.

Do you remember me writing a begging post here – asking asking for ‘likes’ ‘tweets’ or ‘W+’ votes on the WURDZL site? No not the Diamond Light Source competition – the other one.

The one that was for a Kindle?

Well, believe it or not I won. I have the Kindle in my bag – I’m so excited about this.

I won a blummin Kindle for writing less than 300 words!

Amazing.

And some of you helped with that – so thanks.

Thank you.

I was a little cynical at first, when I received the email telling me I’d won and asking for an address I just didn’t feel that the prize was likely to ever actually arrive. Prizes have failed to materialize before. However, my doubt was unfounded and the owner of the site was absolutely good for his word – which is refreshing. Therefore, I can heartily recommend you keep your eyes on the WURDZL site, in case he runs another competition, even if he still hasn’t updated the actual site.

Not that I know when I’ll ever read it, I need to be getting on with writing during my commute really, what with it being a whole brand new year with blog posts to write, weekly columns and only about six million more competitions to enter. But still.

I won a blummin Kindle!!!

Get in!

Happy New Year

2012-01-03T09:42:00.000Z

Hello everyone – happy New Year!

Today sees the start of my all new regular weekly column at In The Powder Room (cool eh?)

I won’t necessarily write a link each week so look for the shortcut on the right hand side and hop over there every Tuesday – if you like.

Meanwhile, normal posts will resume here just as soon as I get back on the train – I’m too busy playing “Cars2 Operation”, Articulate, or watching TV with my boys at the moment to be writing stuff down.

Family – love it. Look out for the report on our so called Family Run – coming soon.

Cheers Glen.

Santa says...

2011-12-24T09:32:00.000Z


Santa - the other day

Santa says...

Happy Christmas

Glen's Life in a nutshell - part 3

2011-12-21T12:55:00.001Z

Okay by now, if you have looked at part 1 or part 2, you should be beginning to work out that in real life I am actually a bit of an arse.

Not a bad person, you understand, just a bit prone to being a bit of an arse.

I was in Cambridge the other day, and of course I had to get a taxi to the station when it came time to going home, because of how stupidly uncooperative the City Planners are in that place.

Having paid, I got out and headed into the station. At the turnstiles I realised that I was missing something. My Annual train pass.

It contained my usual train ticket, as well as the specific ticket to Cambridge for that day. And the main place where it wasn’t was in my pocket.

I did some speedy detective work and realised it must have fallen out of my pocket when I pulled out my wallet to pay the taxi. I turned and looked but the car was long gone. I had to work fast.

I got straight onto the taxi company and told the lady what had happened and asked if the taxi could turn around. “I’ll ask him to have a look” came the reply. Now, I’m not being funny but if a cab driver gets a buzz over the radio saying some idiot has left their pass in his car, just how thoroughly do you think he will look? Do you, like me, suspect he won’t even get out of the driving seat?

So I waited.

When I called back it was to be told that she had contacted the driver, he had looked and the pass was not there. All I did next was ask if he could possibly come back so I could look myself. Seriously, at no point did I think this guy was trying to steal the pass or that he was lying, I just didn’t trust that he had looked properly for it. I knew it would be on his floor.

The lady went berserk. What was I accusing her driver of? If I felt he was a thief why didn’t I go to the police? No No No. That’s absolutely not what I was saying at all. I just knew he wouldn’t have searched his car thoroughly – that’s all.

We argued at length. I may, at some point, have told her what I thought of her attitude. She may, at some point, have offered to call the police herself.

Meanwhile, because I was on a mobile, I walked around in circles.

When I disconnected the call I must have been standing almost exactly where I had got out of the car because right there on the floor in front of me…

Yep.

Quietly, I picked up my pass and made my way through to a train. I think I’ll use a different taxi firm next time…

I'm a writer - honest

2011-12-18T22:03:00.000Z

Hi all – two things to discuss today.

Firstly, I just wanted to excitedly announce that I can now officially call myself a writer. Why? I hear you ask.

The reason I’ve decided to somewhat overconfidently class myself in this way is because I’ve been asked to write a weekly column for InThe Powder Room for actual pay, rather than occasional posts for free as I was doing. This is a massive moment for me. I should say that anyone who has investigated the In The Powder Room site, will already know – because they clearly say it – that the pay is only a token amount really, I won’t be giving work up just yet, but this is totally not the point.

Someone is willing to pay for my work.

And what is more – they came to me!

How class is that?

I, for one, am really excited to be joining them as one of their regular columnists.

The other thing I wanted to say is a request.

This asks for a small favour.

A while ago I entered yet another fiction writing competition, I do this a lot. Anyway, the gist of this one was that you had to write about Oxfordshire’s Diamond Light Synchrotron. You can find out what that is on their website if you like.

There were two competitions. One required a 3000 word story and one required a sub 500 word flash fiction. Both had to be somehow related to their facility.

I entered both competitions.

The long story competition is closed judging but the flash fiction competition is where you come in.

Please, if you have an email address that you don’t mind using on this kind of thing, can you register on the site and vote for me?

Luckily, I have taken the time to read the other flash fiction stories and can reveal that mine is by far the best – ahem – so you don’t need to read the others, just mine – cough cough!

To vote you do have to register, wait for a password to be emailed and then log in and vote. This is, of course, a pain. So I understand if you don’t, as I know exactly what it is like in your shoes – you can only apportion so much time to each blog you read and this is slightly going to go over my allocation.

So if you can, please vote for me by clicking here and following the instructions.

My flash fiction story is called “The Dance”.

Whether or not you vote, please at least read it and let me know what you think here, as you don’t have to register to do that.

Thanks.

Get your kicks...

2011-12-14T12:01:00.000Z

Prompt: Road Trip Story - http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/
Genre: Open
Word Limit: 1,300

**********************************************************************

Get your kicks...

“Can you answer me something darling?”

“Yes Love?”

“The thing is… this trip. How long have we been planning it? Three years? We have dreamt of this for ten years at least, and been saving for a lifetime?”

“Sounds about right Dave – what’s wrong?”

“We really needed this trip didn’t we? I think things had got a bit distant between us and having this dream has focussed us. We have planned this so very carefully. Everything is perfect. Tomorrow will be our fifteenth anniversary and here we are, driving along Route 66 in this beautiful ’67 Mustang!

It cost a fortune to hire a car this special but it’s just wonderful. The buzz I’m getting driving it, with you sitting there looking so beautiful, is unbelievable and on Route 66! It just feels so unreal. The road signs, the Diners, it’s exactly how we thought it would be isn’t it? The radio station playing only Rock 'n' Roll from the 50’s and 60's just adds to the vibe. Even the flights over here were perfect, when the lady at Heathrow upgraded us, you nearly cried”

“Dave you sentimental bugger, where are you going with all this?”

“It took three months just to source this car alone, planning the route and booking all the hotels and stop overs took another four months. Finding the hotel for tomorrow, with the Jacuzzi and special ‘Honeymooner’s' Champagne package that just happens to be in Tulsa - which we are now 24 hours from, by the way - and then planning everything around that took a masterpiece of project management, way out of our normal depth.”

“Tell me about it, remember that time you planned the holiday in Brighton? We arrived there right in the middle of the Rainbow weekend!”

“Haha, yes! That was one of mine alright - hands up. Mind you, those boys could party!

That’s the thing though isn’t it? We’ve put so much into this; so much thought that everything should have been perfect. So what I really want to understand is, why did we think it would be okay to bring the kids?”

“Mum…”

“Not now Johnny, I’m talking to your Father”

“But Mum, Shelley punched me”

“Not now”

“Johnny kicked me first Mum”

“I feel sick”

“Oh not again Johnny, just keep looking forward, I’ll open a … No Johnny. NO! GET A BAG! Oh Christ...”

“DAD, DAD, DAD – Johnny’s been sick on me again!”

The Santa Run

2011-12-12T22:47:00.001Z

The Glen's Life Santa Crew

I did it!!

No.

We did it!

On Sunday, we ran 2 miles through Oxford dressed as Santa Claus in aid of Helen & Douglas House. 2 miles may not sound so very far to you but I for one found it challenging. My wife, who is used to doing 5K runs, ran it easily enough but it is my boys I want to talk about.

Helen & Douglas House is a Hospice for children and young folk and a pretty damned amazing place. I am just in awe of the people who work in these places; they are true heroes as far as I’m concerned. This is why we immediately signed up for the Santa run when we saw it advertised. Raising cash for a cause that good, while running about surrounded by over 1200 Santas, was an opportunity too good to miss! I didn’t try and sponge off you lot because I’d only just taken the Movember link down and I was embarrassed enough about hassling my own family.

Santa in need of Weight Watchers

So we took the time to talk to the boys about what a hospice is and why we need them, before finding ourselves standing in the middle of Oxford dressed as Father Christmas on a cold December morning, looking a throng of identically dressed clones. I guess, as I walked up to the starting point, I felt a little like a Stormtrooper must feel on that first day on the Death Star. On arrival you are all proud of yourself and keep checking out your uniform in windows, only to walk down the ramp of the shuttle craft into a hangar and realise that absolutely everyone looks the same (except for one particularly bad apple).

What I actually looked like was the ‘before’ photo for the Lapland Gazette’s Slimmer of the Year competition. Especially as the super large 'one size fits all' outfit trousers were so tight that they split in the crotch before I made it to the car. Mental note: when I make my New Year’s declaration that I’m going to get fit and slim, I really must try and mean it this time.

Any way…

We warmed up to Santa Zumba which was basically just the four of us dancing our own thing, because we couldn’t see the stage and the Zumba Leader – or whatever you call them – so we couldn’t quite keep up with the actual dance.

And then we were go!

May The Force be with you

Jo and Daniel went ahead, because they can run and we knew they would be the fastest. Jamie (my seven year old) and I followed on behind. We knew Jamie would struggle, not because he is unfit but because his legs are so little. What I hadn’t given him credit for, was just how determined he was! He ran and ran and ran, bless him. He nearly stopped a couple of times and was certainly finding it hard, he struggled with stitch as his little legs pumped along but he did it. He ran the whole 2 miles, as did his brother.

I love being part of this family; they never cease to impress me. I would never have even run 1 mile when I was 7 or even Daniel’s 10, yet they go and run 2.

Daniel was beginning to struggle towards the end, mainly due the ankle injury he had picked up the week before at rugby, and was beginning to moan about it but Jo told him to think about the kids who needed the Hospice. She said how much they would love to be able to run this race and what how much they are suffering instead. To his credit, and to my utter pride, Jo tells me that he really did understand and the moaning stopped. His head went down and he finished the race with a complete determination.

2 Miles later - just about alive

For me, I just call that ‘job done’.

I think my kids are going to be pretty cool.

I think my wife is pretty cool too, for coming up with these crazy ideas in the first place. She brings these things into our lives; all I do is go along with them.

Now, if you don’t mind I need to lie down.

My night at The Circus

2011-12-06T22:38:00.000Z

I survived.

Just.

My company’s Easter / Christmas party 2011 is done and, so far, I have not been sacked. I call that a result.

I’m afraid I did get somewhat wobbly towards the end. I know I found it a struggle to drink my last pint and though I can clearly remember drinking it and then going to bed, I struggle to remember any clear detail, I certainly can’t remember what I was talking about. Actually I can. I wasn’t saying anything because speech had left me. When I opened my mouth I was just saying “habbblefloodlywobblesmudge” or something very like that. Mind you it was four in the morning by that point and we had started drinking almost 12 hours earlier, so I think a little uncoordinated mouth action is to be expected really.

I remember a tale an old mate told me about a drinking session he had been on with his brother. It got to the point where Stan (my mate) could no longer speak properly and his brother could talk but had lost the use of his legs. So they resolved the issue of not being able to fetch more beers by Stan carrying his brother to the bar so that he could do the ordering for them. Well I felt pretty much like that but without the aid of a mouthpiece, so I forced back the last dregs of whatever lager it was and bounced off to my hotel bed.

It really was a very good night.

After last year’s event being held in a Soho Transsexual bar, it came as no surprise to find that our party was held somewhere like TheCircus in Covent Garden. I’d worked out from the website that it might be a little racy but I was wrong. It was very racy.

My photos, taken on my trusty Nokia with its 3 pixel camera (no I didn’t say MegaPixel) and no flash, don’t really work too well, but just about shows you the direction it went in. It was a little more burlesque than I’d imagined. For me the highlight was definitely the fire-eater especially when she whipped her bra off to reveal a shiny set of Nipple Tassels (Pasties?) that she promptly set light to and spun around in various directions – now that is talent.

The beers and vodkas and cocktails flowed. Nibbles came and went. I laughed at other people and I laughed at me, because I know for a fact that I am comedy gold when I’m a touch inebriated. Well I do at the time anyway; it wears off after a day or two and I suddenly wake up thinking – “I said what?!”

One thing that did catch me out were the toilets, as they were a bit ‘Ally McBeal’. They had a communal bit where you wash your hands in this bizarre fountain thing, at least I think you were supposed to wash your hands in the fountain – it’s possible that I completely walked past the sinks. Anyway , this section was joint and there were a couple of doors through to the actual toilets. Now I eventually figured it all out but the first time I used them I wasn’t totally up to speed, so I wasn’t 100% sure that the actual toilets weren’t mixed as well. Which is why when I came out I coughed and informed the ladies standing around the fountain that they should “give that a couple of minutes”. Oddly they chose instead just to walk out. I’ll never understand women.

Still, I lived. I hope you do as well. If you have a party to go to this year, just drink your way through it is my advice.

Time for a party?

2011-12-01T12:24:00.001Z

Well it might seem a little early – mainly because it is – but the Christmas Season is here. Certainly it is for me because it is my work’s Christmas party tonight!

Personally, I’ve been calling it our Easter party, because it feels closer to last Easter than it does to Christmas but never mind.

My work does have a tradition of coming up with some novel settings for our party. A couple of years ago we held it in The London Dungeon. Last year – well – you should click here and read about last year’s party. All I’m saying is Ronnie Wood cleaning out fire damaged toilets and a group of transsexual mime artists. Seriously, go read it.

So what will it be this year?

What completely inappropriate remark will I be heard saying to completely the wrong person? Will I make it back to the hotel without being carried? Precedence has certainly been set for both of those before. To be honest, I’m sorely tempted to try doing the old ‘photocopying your arse’ classic this year, the only problem is I’d need to do that in the office BEFORE we go out and this does tend to get some funny looks.

I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes – all I know is the venue is called The Circus and apparently involves scantily clad acrobats. What could possibly go wrong?

Happy Easter.

Glen's Life in a nutshell - part 2

2011-11-28T12:09:00.000Z

This blog is not called Glen’s Life for nothing, I might wander off in my thoughts now and again, but usually it is only a matter of time before something happens to bring me back to me.

Some of you may remember last summer, when I wrote part one of Glen's Life in a nutshell; if not then you should go and check it out, even if only for the photo of Ewan McGregor and Emily Blunt getting friendly. Part 2 may be missing in the celebrity undressing department but it still tells you everything you ever need to know about me.

Take last Tuesday evening, for example…

I rucked and mauled my way through the usual Paddington stampede to board my train home, desperate for a seat after a long day sitting at a desk. In an age of miracles, it still surprised me that I found and claimed a seat in only the second carriage that I walked through.

A man was sitting in the window seat but I paid this fact no heed, it was surely not going to make any difference to my journey. What possible blog post could be born from the line, “A man was sitting in the window seat”?

My next task was to find some space for my bag and coat in the luggage rack above. As usual, the fact that I’d boarded the train some fifteen seconds after it was announced meant that I was twenty seconds too late. The luggage rack was jammed. Except for the one space – barely wide enough for my bag – but maybe…

I managed to widen the gap enough, and lifted my bag into place.

My bag was a bit full, so it was a little fatter than usual and I just couldn’t seem to push it in. I pushed harder. I patted it down. I took a run up and heaved. The bag just didn’t seem to want to go in properly. I lifted it out and jabbed it back in.

Suddenly the man in the window seat joined the story.

“It won’t squash down any further! Just leave it will you?” His critical and overly annoyed tone surprised me. I can understand that having someone almost leaning over you, trying to sort their bag out when you are trying to get comfy is mildly annoying, but I wasn’t actually touching him, I wasn’t doing anything that bad.

“I’ll decide” I firmly replied – determined to prove him wrong. How dare he tell me what I can do with my bag?

He mumbled something under his breath as I continued to ram and jab my bag about but I missed the actual words. Eventually, though, I had to concede that the bag was too big and pulled it back down between my knees to the sound of an enormous huff and a seemingly smug “Utterly ridiculous”.

I huffed right back and made a big show of putting my earphones in to block him out and claiming the middle armrest for myself – the height of commuter indulgence. Well he had to learn that he can’t go around butting into other people’s luggage arrangements. Hogging the middle armrest may sound a step too far to you, but I thought the situation called for strong measures. I’m not afraid to make a point.

Then we arrived at Reading.

A rather miffed sounding voice asked to be excused so that he could get out and off the train. So, because I’m not an animal, I got up.

As the man stood up, he fixed me with a stare, reached up and took his soft, leather briefcase down from the gap.

My gap.

His gap!

I hadn’t seen it at all, but his bag was already there all the time. When he was getting cross and telling me that it wouldn’t squash down any more, he wasn’t criticising my luggage rack technique at all, he was just fed of me wrecking his paperwork.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d then forced myself into his half of the armrest.

The man walked briskly away, carefully rifling through his briefcase looking for damage and I attempted to hide, using a modern take on the Ostrich theory of camouflage. With music in your ears and your eyes firmly fixed onto your laptop screen – no one can see you. Fact.

This is Glen’s Life. It’s what I do.

Happiness is...

2011-11-24T21:28:00.001Z

Should Male Grooming be illegal?

2011-11-23T11:53:00.000Z

So not only can I smugly pat myself on the back for taking part and speaking out about Domestic Violence, but I can also now pat my legs Pantomime style at my luck.

As part of the Speak Out campaign there were some giveawaysand I won one!

There is a part of me that feels a little guilty about benefitting from something like this – like it takes something away from what I was saying if there were prizes involved. However, I did mean what I said and I do support Kristin’s case.

I’m just luckier than I thought.

I certainly don’t feel guilty enough to turn the prize down – let’s put it that way!

Meanwhile, you should know that The Regular Guy is back at ‘in the powder room’ and today he has some very strong views about Male Grooming – views that I just can’t seem to help agreeing with.

Please go check him out to see what you think.

Thanks

Click me

Married, Working Mums are people too

2011-11-21T18:04:00.000Z

At last – it’s Monday!

Yes I know you are supposed to look forward to Fridays, but I think I prefer Mondays nowadays. I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but I started to feel this way around about the same time as the kids started doing weekend clubs and my wife started insisting that I ‘help out a bit’.

Weekends are tough.

It usually takes the peace and quiet of work until Wednesday for me to recover from the reality of a parent’s weekend. How do ‘stay at home’ parents survive? When do you get your weekend? I get a five day break every week and would be an absolute gibbering wreck without it.

Let it be said that mums or dads who wind up being the main carer at home through the week are the ones who are really the breadwinners in a family. I couldn’t do it.

Then there are the never mentioned heroes that deserve to finally get revealed.

I’m not the first to say that those people giving up their careers and independence to raise kids are important. I’m not even the first to remember to point out that men do this too these days. It would be predictable too, if I suddenly tried banging on about how wonderful ‘Single Mums’ are, for coping how they do.

Yes they are, but everyone always says that.

Today I’m going to give a shout out to another bunch of people who make a difference.

Married, working Mums.

Take my wife… please…

(hey, I was born in the seventies, what did you expect)

You see, the weekends in our house are fairly busy, the constant pressure of balancing between getting jobs done and having some decent time with the boys is always there; always. We never really sit down.

Then on Monday, I drop the boys off at breakfast club at about the time that Jo has arrived at her work. I work in London so I commute on the train. I can’t get to work for nine, so I’m lucky in that I can start at ten. This means I work until half past six and then travel home, arriving sometime after eight, feeling a bit tired. I usually am just in time to pop upstairs and give the boys a kiss goodnight in their beds, if they aren’t already asleep.

However, my lovely wife rushes home from work in order to pick up the boys. Helps them with whatever they need, breaks up their fights, feeds them and shepherds them into their beds, then heads back to the kitchen to make dinner for the two of us.

From the moment she gets home, knackered after working a full day WITH KIDS (Jo is a teacher), she is head first into the world of parenting, and this continues until I walk in just after eight and romantically ask, “What’s for tea?”

Jo does this for five days and then comes the weekend, where she has three boys to hassle her instead of the usual two. I think I’m beginning to understand why it is that every evening, when I sit down to relax in front of the TV, I get a foot smacking into the side of my face asking for a rub.

And Jo is just one of millions. There’s an army of them out there.

So let’s have a big cheer for all the married, working mums who do everything they do so that us men can have our weekends during the week!

Love you babe x

Speak Out

2011-11-17T21:44:00.001Z

I made a promise ages ago to a woman I’ve never met, to write a post about a subject I know nothing about.

Why?

Because I believe her.

That’s why.

I’m talking about KB over at Wanderlust. You probably know who she is already. You probably know about the devastation she has been through too. If not then what I suggest you do is go and find out.

Currently Kristin is driving a campaign called Speak Out, and this is what I’m here to talk about.

Or not.

You see, I’ve thought long and hard about what I could write to discuss the very serious issue of Domestic Violence which is what Speak Out calls for, but I have a problem. I’m too damned lucky.

I have no personal experience of domestic violence at all – ever. I’ve never seen it. I’ve never felt it.

I’m lucky.

And yet, though I’ll never truly understand it, I know about it. How? Because some people, some very amazing people, are starting to Speak Out about it; letting their stories be heard and drawing strength from each other to make the changes to their lives that they desperately crave.

So I made a decision. I’m not going to try and talk about something I will hopefully never be able to relate with, but I will do all that I can do.

Which is to read.

Which is to learn.

Which is to listen.

Even someone who has lived in such an easy world all his life can see that this is something important.

If you, like me, know nothing at all about the true horrors of domestic violence then please click here and visit Kristin’s site to learn more about it.

If you are suffering, if you think you have no voice then please go and maybe – maybe – you could find a voice.

Speak Out.

It’s time to say something.

Sticking a finger up for men's health

2011-11-15T22:24:00.001Z

I think I look like Magnum P.I., however one of my friends decided I was more like Higgins.


Higgins

I’ll let you decide on that one.

Anyway we are here at the middle of Movember so I thought I’d give you an update on things. Firstly, you can already see that my Mo is coming on nicely, so I think that is well covered. My lovely wife is still very much a ‘No Mo Ho’ as we established last year, so it will certainly be coming off in time for December’s Christmas parties.

As far as collecting is going I have to say I have been very impressed with people’s generosity. Family, friends, colleagues and even some amazingly generous readers (you know who you are) have all clubbed together to raise a brilliant £125 for the prostate cancer charity on my MoSpace.

Thank you everyone.

What else was there….?

Oh yes.

I decided I should put my bum where my mouth is.

I went to see a nurse.

I was actually there for a regular check-up that I have to have for a repeat prescription (long story – involves blood), so there was no natural lead in to raise the subject of bottom based jiggery pokery, but still…

I finished getting my blood pressure checked and there was an awkward silence as she wondered why I was still sitting in her office. I’d decided that I would stick a finger up for men’s health (I think that’s the official slogan?) when I made the appointment and I’d been trying to work out what I would say for some time, with absolutely no success.

I just don’t know how it all works. What do you say? How do you ask? It’s really not something that comes up in conversations naturally is it? None the less, I was committed to asking about getting my prostate checked and nothing was going to stop me. This is the second year that I’ve grown a Mo and harped on to people about raising awareness, or trying to convince men to stop being scared to take action, yet I’ve never in my life had it checked myself.

Well not officially any way.

I carefully showered before leaving the house. I had no idea what would happen when I got there and was taking no chances. I thought she would make an appointment with a doctor or a specialist nurse or something, but I couldn’t be absolutely certain that she wouldn’t jump up with an excited “YES!” and throw on some gloves. You can never be too careful.

The awkward silence grew into a painful hush. Dryly, I opened my mouth.

“Er…”

“Yes?” she asked.

I stumbled. I honestly did dry up. I shouldn’t have felt embarrassed. I shouldn’t have felt stupid either, but I did. Eventually my brain decided that this wasn’t any of its concern and the whole matter would resolve itself easier if it just ignored the situation and left my mouth to fend for itself.

My mouth has never really known what it is talking about.

“Er… You see this dashing moustache?”

“Er…?” She gave nothing away. At no point in the following discussion did the nurse show any sign that she had ever heard of Movember. In fact all she did was put her head firmly down and refuse point blank to look me in the eyes for the rest of the meeting. I suspect she may have been seriously struggling to either supress giggles or sickness at the image that I was presenting her.

“You probably think I look this sexy all the time…” Yes my mouth actually did say that, I was seriously panicking by this point. “…but no, normally I don’t sport a moustache at all.”

“Do you not?” The nurse was talking to her monitor, not able to look at me at all.

“No,” She wasn’t giving any vibes that she knew about Movember so I pressed on, “It’s a thing called Movember and it’s about raising awareness about prostate cancer. As I’m here anyway I thought…”

I may have misheard, but I’m sure I heard a faint “Oh good God no” during the coughing fit that the nurse suffered at this point. She had a sip of water and composed herself.

Very quickly and with the best poker face I’ve ever seen (seriously, if you ever sit across from this woman at a poker table, just save yourself the time and pay her your money at the start) my nurse let the wonderful NHS come to her rescue.

I was asked if anyone in my family had ever had prostate cancer – no.

I was asked if I had any issues with going to the toilet, needing it loads for only dribbles or waking up in the night etc. – no.

Finally a flicker of relief revealed itself on her face.

The NHS has, it seems, an opinion on this and, at my practice at least, a doctor will only have a rummage about if he thinks you probably already have cancer, or your dad does. Otherwise could you kindly pull your trousers back up and wipe the plastic seat down, thank you very much?

So I failed.

I completely failed to get myself checked and be able to bring you the blog post that I had already started writing in my head. I even had taken my camera with me, because I intended doing it properly.

But don’t let me stop you trying. Even with my trousers on it was mortifyingly embarrassing talking about all this in front of an actual nurse, but so what? I lived. I like living.

If you suffer from any of these symptoms, or have any family history of cancers, please go now – I’ll wait. Go now, actually walk in there with your pants off and demand someone puts some gloves on.

Do it

photo credits:

http://supermercadoproject.blogspot.com/

http://www.sofeminine.co.uk/star/pictures-81881-tom-selleck.html

The unbelievable truth of it

2011-11-14T22:07:00.000Z

I know.

It's uncanny.

I might even have to keep it!

Original mage credit -

http://www.sofeminine.co.uk/star/pictures-81881-tom-selleck.html

Daniel sings at The Royal Albert Hall

2011-11-11T19:36:00.002Z

On Wednesday My son, Daniel, sang as part of a mass ensemble choir at the Royal Albert Hall in London.

The ensemble was made up from lots of Oxfordshire school choirs who had all been rehearsing separately before finally being brought together for the show.

The show was part of the ‘Music For Youth’ programme and Daniel found himself singing on the last night of the School Proms.

Which was pretty bloody fantastic.

What a venue!

What a show!

The effect of over 600 kids singing in that hall was stunning.

To say I’m proud of him just doesn’t do it justice.

Fantastic experience for these kids and us parents. I doubt any of us will ever forget it. I know Daniel won’t!

Excuse my rubbish camera work - I was too busy enjoying watching them to look at where it was pointing properly. I haven't zoomed in - but we could see him really easily and he was absolutely singing his heart out!

Hunkergate update

2011-11-09T14:05:00.001Z

Update to ‘Hunkergate’.

I can rarely accept defeat so I did some further research. Guess what I discovered?

From Oxford Online dictionary (http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/bunker )

Number three, with object, is pretty much exactly the definition I was trying to achieve. It fits exactly into the sentence I had written!

I WAS RIGHT!!!

What’s that French phrase? - L'esprit de l'escalier. If only I’d found this at the time.

I am both gutted at not finding this in time to prevent the howl of laughter that I had to endure but also very excited at being right.

For, quite possibly, the first time.

Mind you I also found this… from (http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/hunker )

The number 2 definition also fits even if not quite as precisely, which leaves me with a dilemma.

Do I now change it back to my original bunkered, belligerently holding onto my initial text, after all I can easily prove that it makes sense should anyone question it? Or do I leave it as the wife pleasing hunkered which works within the context almost as well?

If I change it back then I keep my integrity intact and hold onto that ideal match that I had initially envisioned but I risk upsetting a rigidly set in their opinion judge. Some people (my wife for one) get somewhat upset by little things like this. Am I brave enough to make a point of daring the judges to challenge me?

If I now leave it as Jo’s hunkered then a small piece of me feels dirty, but I have a sentence that makes sense and won’t upset anybody at all.

What do I do?

Tell me – what would you do?

Bunker down or Hunker down?

2011-11-07T12:02:00.003Z

Last night I almost died laughing. I certainly lost a lot of sleep due to uncontrolled fits of giggles.

Here’s why.

Last night I learned a very valuable lesson – the hard way.

The lesson is this, ‘never ever use Google to prove a point unless you have already checked exactly what results are shown first’.

My wife is my harshest critic (If you discount the opinion of the millions of internet users who still refuse to read anything at all here at Glen’s Life). I hate showing things that I’ve written to Jo. She always frowns or screws up her face at things, or shrugs her shoulders non-committedly at passages that I’d been really impressed with. She’s not a monster, she just has a better grip on grammar than I do and just can’t look past it.

She thinks I’m having an affair with commas. She has this theory that I am somewhat comma happy. She’s right. I use them far too freely (I am trying very hard not to do that today). Jo is considerably higher educated than I am and is a teacher, so I do accept her opinion on this. Unfortunately I’m the one with the passion for writing, so you’ll just have to put up with my comma love.

To get slowly to the point, last night I asked Jo to read through the ‘first draft’ of my competition fiction story (actually it was my third and very carefully edited draft, but I told Jo it was my first so that she wouldn’t get too upset at the remaining typos). I’ve been working on that for a couple of weeks, discovering just how hard it can be to write a story when you really want it to be taken seriously. I knew Jo would sniff out the one or two last mistakes that I’d missed during my read through.

First of all a miracle happened.

She liked it.

Really.

How often does your partner actually like your work? I know, well neither does mine.

Then we sat to discuss mistakes.

I couldn’t believe it. Paragraph after paragraph had to be tweaked. Not the story or anything, but commas. Occasional grammar tweaks here and there but mainly commas. Jo just looks and says “why is there a comma there?” or “full stop capitol letter” on auto – she is such a teacher. I was getting pretty fed up and mildly grumpy. I’d put so much effort into this story and was very proud of my work. Why was it so far off the mark? I have to repeat that I do trust my wife on these things.

However.

When she screwed up her nose and asked “What does that even mean then?” about a phrase I’d used, I decided to dig my heels in. “What do you mean ‘bunkered’ down?” She asked. I explained and was told that I actually meant ‘hunkered’ down. “No” I said, “I meant ‘bunkered’ down. Just because you don’t know the bloody phrase doesn’t make me wrong”. I’d had enough of being taught things. I use this phrase often enough. How dare she just pass me off as wrong just because she doesn’t use it? The nerve of the woman! I told her in no uncertain terms that it’s my damned story and if I want to use a term of phrase then I will do and I won’t be changing it just because she isn’t travelled enough to have heard of it, thank you very much.

The argument went on for a while until I made a decision. The matter needed putting to bed once and for all. I had a point to prove and the internet would help me make it. I knew that my bunkered down was the right term, not Jo’s crappy hunkered down, so I said “Right then – I’ll prove it”

Without bothering to do any research first and with Jo looking over my shoulder, I Googled ‘bunkered down’. The results would quickly prove her wrong and force an apology out of her.

Never do this.

Ever.

Always check first.

Here is the very first page of results that comes back if you use Google to search the phrase ‘bunkered down’, while your irate wife watches.

Quietly, while Jo was busily distracted holding on to her pelvic floor, I made a barely noticeable alteration to my text.

Enjoy.

A weekend at Bernie's - kind of

2011-11-03T18:04:00.003Z

Last weekend went a little better than its predecessor. This time we were in a lovely cottage near Teignmouth, down in the South West of England.

The cottage was called Stannings, and was near Bishopsteignton. I’m telling you this in case you are ever looking for a large cottage in that area of England, big enough for 11 or more people, because I can certainly recommend it. The location was beautiful and the cottage – superb.

Anyway. It was my brother-in-law’s 40^th, so we had a bit of a party with my wife’s family.

Do you know what? I’m not going to go into too much detail because it would all be personal jokes. Needless to say, they are a bunch of complete barmpots – the lot of them, and I really enjoyed hanging out with them. To say I got lucky with my in-laws is an understatement. We laughed, we drank, we ate. My boys were on brilliant form and really made me proud, and their young cousin was as cute as ever.

Teign Valley Golf Club

All in all, I’d call the event a success; I just wish we were still there!

On the Sunday we popped over to Dawlish Warren for a walk on the sand. This excited me a little because this was where that I went on my last ever holiday with parents. I guess I was 14 or 15, presumably my parents asked me if I wanted to go with them on holiday (I can’t remember that bit) I’d said yes, because I didn’t want to miss out, and so we went to Dawlish. My older brother and sister had the good sense to decline the offer, so it was just me and my parents.

I don’t remember the holiday being all that good. Being there alone, at that age, with parents was no real fun, and the location? Well.

Dawlish Warren beach

Dawlish - striking

Having seen it in the cold light of day as an adult I’ve realised something. My mum and dad really wanted me to get the message and let them go on holidays alone. I mean, really! I saw the actual caravan park that we had stayed in, nestled tightly between the road and the main Exeter to Plymouth train line. There really is nothing there at all, just as I remembered it. They took me there, and then the following year, when I declined their generous offer, they went to Spain.

The thing is, as desolate a place as it is, it had a striking beauty. The sand was not golden or soft. The surf was neither big enough to ride nor soft enough to paddle in.

Dawlish and the sea

But.

Look at the sea. Look at it.

Utterly, awesomely beautiful.

Look at what makes Britain British. You can just about make out the heads of two somewhat fat old ladies (as I was to later observe ) in normal swimsuits, really enjoying swimming out in the choppy cold waters of Britain’s coast at the end of October. Where else would you get that? I absolutely love being near the ocean.

Barking mad Britons


Phone camera doesn't do it justice

Hearing it.

Smelling it.

Watching it.

I might well never recommend a visit to Dawlish Sands Caravan Park, but I could live there, just to sit wrapped up in heavy coats during the winter, watching the sea crashing into the breakwater.

Something stirred within me, not just memories of my childhood, but memories of my late Teens and early Twenties, living near the most powerfully beautiful, deadly but life-giving entity, which makes this whole planet what it is.

The Sea.

Then we went to Cockhaven.

Go on – I dare you not to laugh – Cock – Haven. A sort of haven for… well…

To be precise, the Cockhaven Manor Hotel, where we had a very tasty lunch indeed, thoroughly recommended. This lunch gave me perhaps my biggest (if most supressed) laugh of the weekend. I sat and watched as my father-in-law attempted to answer the relentless questioning from my three year old niece, who had heard the name of the hotel and wanted it explained, in detail, and absolutely was not going to be fobbed off with “I think they used to keep chickens here”…

The return of the Mo

2011-11-01T10:10:00.002Z

Ron Jeremy or Omar Sharif? - You decide! Either way please click to sponsor me

Hello and welcome to Movember.

So it is that time of year again, the time when we men pat ourselves on the back for still being alive.

There is a little thing called a prostrate that can cause some really big problems, if it’s allowed, and yet most men would never in a million years consider getting it checked or even thinking about it – apparently.

So we have Movember, which attempts to put that right by giving prostate cancer the same glamorous charity makeover as breast cancer gets. We all know about breast cancer, its fine to talk about that, but seemingly, it’s not so fine to talk about prostate cancer. I don’t know if it’s a man thing or a bottom thing, but for some reason it’s still a little taboo.

Well it is time for this to end because it is a killer. And I for one think that occasionally letting some random stranger stick their finger up my bum is a small price to pay for stopping something like prostate cancer from digging in too deep. So every November we men grow moustaches, to show that we are real men – men who are strong and masculine and manly, and who are more than happy to bend over and relax.

Admittedly I would probably be better off getting a doctor to do it, rather than random strangers, but they seem to enjoy it so much – who am I to decide who is qualified?

Guys – women willingly get their boobs out and check them regularly, they even jump in a big chair, stick their feet in the air with their pants off, and shout “what do you reckon to this then?” every now and again (although perhaps not quite so willingly). Why do they do this? Because they aren’t stupid enough to let a little embarrassment and discomfort stop them living, that’s why. So come on men –

let’s kick prostate cancer up the arse and get ourselves checked. Walk in there full of confidence men – just pat the doctor on his back and say “I’ve got a treat for you today”.

Here is the Movember website, detailing what they are about and linking you up with the charities concerned.

Lastly – should you feel you would like to – here is my Movember homepage – where you can not only keep tabs on me, but also sponsor me, with the money going directly to the Movember approved charities.

~~ Update:

While we are on the subject of worthy causes – please check out Wanderlust’s post today about the ‘Speak out’ campaign, raising awarenessof Domestic Violence – a cause very close indeed to her heart. UK residents especially can enter a contest to win goodies – so do pop over.

Family camp - in October! Really? - part 3

2011-10-28T18:38:00.003+01:00

As you already know, because you read part 1 & part 2, I found myself camping last weekend, even though it is October.

tents - in case you were wondering

I’ll pick up from the point where I was laughing in Karma’s face.

I returned to camp and unloaded the equipment into the tent, barely noticing the missing item. Well it was missing, so that is probably why I didn’t see it.

We had some supper and then a campfire was lit and the boys sat around it telling jokes. Apparently the big sing-a-long campfire was arranged for Saturday night, so this was less organised.

"Knock-Knock - who's there? - I'm gate..."

You could say that. Have you ever been forced to listen to a group of young boys all trying to tell jokes? It is not, as such, funny.

One recurring theme that came up was that of being – well – gay. A long forgotten part of me remembers being that age, and learning about these things, learning how powerful a tease it is to wield it at someone. I also can just about remember how funny it all seemed to be.

I can – just.

Of course, I’m older now and wiser to the world. I wouldn’t feel happy about my sons telling these kind of jokes in my earshot, and I didn’t feel overly comfortable there either, but it wasn’t my party and at the end of the day it is just normal silliness I suppose. This eventually led to the funniest moment of the whole weekend.

You see, one of the boys told this joke…

“Three men in a bath together. They were called Me, Me-Me and Me-Me-Me. Me-Me-Me got out. Then Me-Me. Who was still in the bath?”

Someone inevitably answers “Me”

At which point the joke teller laughs and shouts “You’re gay”

Now – I’ll be honest, I didn’t get it at all, though it sure made the boys laugh.

This wasn’t the funniest moment of the weekend though, that came the next day, when Jo explained the joke to me.

You see, the crucial point of this joke, was the bit that was just too far over their heads. The reason the joke didn’t make sense was because they just didn’t actually understand it – they just thought three men in a bath meant they could call their friend gay.

Here is the same joke again as it is supposed to be told – see if it makes sense this time…

“There were three men in a bath. They were called Me, Me-Me and Me-Me-Me. Me-Me-Me CAME OUT. Me-Me CAME OUT. Who’s going to COME OUT next?”

Do you see the difference?

I laughed my head off and couldn’t stop giggling for ages – not at the joke but at the sheer daftness of the kids, for laughing so hard at things they had absolutely no hope of understanding.

Who was still in the bath? I absolutely love it!

no clouds in Oxfordshire means it's going to be cold

But it wasn’t the next day yet. It was bedtime and I was about to see the missing item.

We had borrowed two lovely thermal sleeping bags. Daniel had one in the main Cub’s tent and Jamie had the other one with me in our little tent. We had an air bed to share and a light Summer sleeping bag for me.

Now, where did I leave my quilt?

You know, the big heavy quilt that I needed to put over my light sleeping bag?

KARMA!!!! Never laugh in Karma’s face people – take a tip from me.

I’d forgotten it and so I slept on an October’s night in England, in a tent, covered by only a very thin sleeping bag.

Over the course of the next two days the boys would abseil, sing songs around a camp fire (that’s a fire at camp by the way, not a fire that’s a bit light on its feet – sorry, been hanging around with cubs and scouts all weekend), they made me almost cry laughing at the milk crate stacking challenge, they played, they had adventures in the woods, they had – let’s face it – an absolutely brilliant time.

Saturday morning tea - teabag stays to prevent caffeine wastage

I wouldn’t change a thing.

The boys are full of it; they loved every minute of it.

Well I say I wouldn’t change anything …

All of that fun stuff was yet to come; at this point I am still staring in disbelief at the large space where my quilt was supposed to be.

No quilt.

No central heating.

This, I swiftly assessed, did not look promising.

Things got very, very cold.

I don’t know what time it was, but it was early – or late – I’m not sure which, but the time must have started with an ‘0’. I reached up again and pulled the sleeping bag back up Jamie’s shoulders to keep him warm and snuggled back into him for warmth. Using your youngest son as an emergency hot water bottle can only mean one thing.

Things have gone a little parental.

Daniel abseiling

Jamie abseiling

Family camp - in October! Really? - part 2

2011-10-26T18:36:00.001+01:00

So – as you may or may not recall from part 1 – I had been conned into taking my two sons camping with the Cubs and Beavers, while my wife (yes I’ve dropped the lovely) Jo, stayed at home and abused the central heating.

I drove home and quickly packed a bag for my son and I, located the warm sleeping bag for Jamie and the air bed. I threw in as much as I could remember needing from the quick list that Jo had told me at the campsite.

After swiftly updating Facebook with my current state of mind, I was ready.

I got in the car and headed back to camp. As I drove off I realised that the petrol light was on and, not being a complete git, thought I’d better fill up so that Jo didn’t have to stop and do it later, or run out of it, I guess.

So I pulled into the petrol station – which was rammed with cars. It was a busy time of night, so I settled into a queue and waited.

Things were moving slowly, but still they were moving along.

Somebody was having trouble waiting though. A car kept pulling into one queue for a couple of minutes before deciding that a different queue seemed more promising and moving over.

“Relax”, I told it (yes I did actually say that out loud to a car – I hadn’t seen inside it yet so I could hardly tell the driver now could I?). But they couldn’t relax and as the car came close to me I saw a woman driving it with a couple of kids. The woman seemed a bit bothered.

“Relax”, I told her. “Just pick a queue and wait, take a chill pill” – I also advised.

When I got to the pump, I looked over and noticed that she was still waiting, even though she had arrived before me, this revelation caused me to visibly pump my fist and give a triumphant “Get in there me!” I don’t tend to get much pleasure from other people’s misfortune, but this was her fault for being impatient and not listening to my advice, I decided.

So I allowed myself a smug shout of victory.

I filled up, I queued again, I paid, and returned to my car to see something quite odd.

She was parked behind me, still waiting, even after all this time. There were, by this point two empty pumps.

“Hmm?” – I said.

As I approached my car, her window opened and she called me over.

I looked in to see a young woman at the wheel, a young kid in the passenger seat, and what turned out to be another young woman in the rear, rather than another child.

“Excuse me”, she asked, “Please could you help me out?”

“Ah” – I thought. But that was all she said, she didn’t say anything else and instead left an awkward silence. I took a guess that she wanted me to buy her some petrol. I said “Sorry I haven’t got any cash on me” (because I didn’t). And again she just sat there looking at me.

I can’t put my finger on exactly what it was, but something wasn’t right. I thought for a moment that I could put £10 of petrol in, and then go pay for it inside, but still she just sat there.

So I said “Sorry, I need to go” because I had already spent quite a while getting petrol and I knew the kids were waiting and it was getting dark. So I left her to it, drove out of the way and set about putting some new batteries, which I’d bought in the shop, into a torch.

As I did so, I thought some more and didn’t like what I was thinking. I thought, “What if that was Jo and the kids in that car? What if she had lost her handbag – or had it stolen – with all her money and phone in it? What if the young woman in the back was in the same boat because the handbags had been stolen from the car? Maybe they were just trying to get home, but hadn’t got enough petrol? If that had been my wife I’d really hope that just one passer-by trusted enough to help her – wouldn’t I?

£10. I could afford to give her £10 of petrol to get her home to safety, how long would it take really? 10 minutes? Could I really not afford that?

I was starting to feel really guilty by this point, and when I opened the battery case and the batteries spilled out onto the floor I thought “RIGHT – THAT’S BLOODY KARMA AGAIN!”

Karma was sticking its nose into the matter already.

Decision made. Of course I’d help her – why hadn’t I done it in the first place? Would I have helped her from the offset if she had been pretty? What kind of a stupid arse am I for that?

So I finished putting the batteries in the torch, resolute in my decision to help the woman, who was still circling, looking for help.

Just as I was about to open my door, salvation drove into the station.

A police car.

“Fantastic” I thought, she is saved. If she speaks to them they will help her. They will at least contact someone to help her, even if nothing else.

I was happy that they were now officially safe, although I wasn’t exactly relaxed because I wasn’t totally sure that this would be good enough for Karma – being that it wasn’t me helping them.

However…

As soon – and I do mean as soon – as the police car came clearly into the view of this poor mistreated lady, she did a funny thing.

She sped off. As quickly as she could go, without making it too obvious, she completely left the petrol station and drove off.

Something about seeing those policemen made her want to swiftly leave.

“BLOODY HELL” I shouted! She was a con artist – scamming people for free petrol – all along!

“IN YOUR FACE KARMA!” I screamed, before noticing the funny looks that the policeman was giving me for blocking the last remaining parking space, that he wanted to be in.

Looking fairly guilty (because I always do when policemen talk to me for some reason) I drove off.

As I drove, I yet again told Karma what I thought of it.

Which was stupid, because I had a whole weekend of camping still to come…

Lingerie shopping for your wife? Are you mad?

2011-10-25T21:33:00.000+01:00

I am...

Family camp - in October! Really? - part 1

2011-10-24T20:36:00.000+01:00

Things have gone a little parental.

Go on – guess what I did last weekend?

In late October. In England.

That’s right, I went on ‘Family Camp’ with the Cubs and the Beavers. I should point out to all that Beavers isn’t at all what you think. You’ve probably heard of Scouts? Well Cubs are the junior version of Scouts and then Beavers are the junior version of Cubs. These guys are little – proper little. My 10 year old is in the Cubs and Jamie, my 7 year old, is in the Beavers.

This weekend they all went away together to Youlbury Scout camp, in Oxfordshire, with their parents. Well I say parents – perhaps I shouldn’t have been so free and easy with my pluralisation there.

One thing that you have to have these days in Britain, if you are to sleep away with a bunch of other people’s kids in the middle of a forest, is something called a Criminal Records Bureau check. Just to say that you aren’t likely to run about killing folk in their sleep. This is fair enough, but we were not informed of this until 2 weeks before camp, and so only submitted our forms a week before. And this is seriously cutting it fine.

There were heated debates in our house because Jo, my lovely wife, already has had this done for her job as a teacher, where she could happily take these children on this camp by herself, if she so wanted. However rules are, it seems, rules and Jo had to have a new one done for this group – madness, but there you go.

The upshot was that Daniel was going to be able to camp with the cubs, but because Beavers had to have a t least one parent present, Jamie was not going to be allowed to go. This decision came to us two nights before camp – and Jamie was gutted.

So I offered to do the only thing I could possibly do.

I put the tent up in our garden and promised Jamie that I’d camp with him at home.

As you do.

As it was – things got a little stranger than that.

We arrived at camp Friday night to drop Daniel off and to get Jamie involved with things, because we were allowed to be there during waking hours as guests, so Jamie could at least be a part of things. We would stay there through the days then head home, where Jamie and I would camp. I can’t remember exactly the reason why Jo couldn’t join us in the garden – some special reason though – it made sense at the time. When we arrived we were met by a smiling Akela who triumphantly informed me that my CRB was cleared – I could camp!

But Jo’s wasn’t!

“What?” I casually asked

This was answered by me being shown a small tent that I could borrow for the weekend. I could stay, Jamie could stay, but Jo could not.

“I see” I said.

I stared at Jo for a full 40 seconds, but she held firm and never once broke into a smile or smirk, nor did she offer up any help at all – she just stood and looked up and away from my eyes. Meanwhile Jamie made no effort whatsoever to hide his delight at being allowed to stay. I was cornered.

Okay then – so be it.

So I pitched the tent, left the boys with their mother and drove home to pack a bag for the two of us and load up with sleeping bags.

But more about the drive back and the camp later…