Andy's Blog

It’s true, I have reached a kind of prolonged brain-fart.  The brain is whirring around, as much as it ever does, the fingers are itchy to put something down in words, but all that comes out is some slightly stale air.

As much as I want to jot down the daily doings of me, in some kind of narcissistic ‘dear diary’, the truth is that not an awful lot of interest happens.  Life certainly isn’t in any shape or form as life-and-death as Ann Frank’s, or as tally-ho-trousers-down-and-up-the-constituents as Alan Clark’s.

So I find myself, during lunchtime at work, again within one of the music pods, sitting in front of this blog wondering what the hell to write down?  Life, as I see it, is pretty much consisting of the following;

1. Work is work.  I work in a Bank designing computer systems, how exactly exciting do you think that can get?   Of course, the slightly annoying element of me being no longer required come 31st December does cause some concern… but 31st DECEMBER?!  That’s like a lifetime away! (feel free to point me in the direction of this post in 2011 and rub my face in it if things don’t entirely work out the way I hope)
2. Karate is still providing the source of me getting beaten up in various, and intriguing, ways by multiple peoples.  Just as an aside a new lesson has been learnt; do NOT do leg exercises at the Gym just before a karate lesson later that evening.  The results are not impressive and the scowling by ones Sensei is something frightening to behold.
3. Home-life is home-life.  Trying to resolve the latest home based dramas; house, heating, repairs, family arguments, money, etc, etc. is starting to feel like work.  In the spirit of holding my hand up though, this is no different than anyone else.  However the feeling of just throwing the arms up in the air with some of the new drama’s and say “Fine, I give up, have it your way!” is just too strong at the moment.
4. Sleep is not sleep.  ‘Nuff said.
5. Go back to step #1

In my actual verbal self I am a person who doesn’t mind not having something to say.  I am completely comfortable, when I have nothing of interest to say, in saying nothing at all.  I don’t have the gift of the gab or have a hundred and one amusing anecdotes with which to regale friends and colleagues alike, and as seen from the above there’s nothing of note to bore the poor person I happen to be with about.

I just wish I had the same control when it came to blogging, although why blog in the first place if that were to be the case?  Here’s as good a place as any to dump any brain-fartage and it’s not as though anyone reads the thing!

There, “ramble” done and dumped onto the t’interweb along with all the other rubbish that inhabit it.  No violence (or at least none seen), or porn (that would be too terrifying a vision to dwell on) or conclusion to this post….

…just a faint stale smell, depending on how long after I posted this you read it, and a slightly relieved feeling on my part to expel it albeit somewhat publicly (which is very rude).

I looked at the ‘langostinos’ and rather disturbingly they looked back.  I’ll give most things a try, but not when those ‘things’ are able to look at me, with more than a little recrimination, and have more legs than foodstuffs should have!

“Look Dad! Buggly eyed beasties!” the boys bellowed across the table at me, knowing that the unofficial name that I gave this favoured Spanish dish gets me in more than a little trouble with the natives.

I also can’t help but feel a little queasy when said natives are ripping apart the aforementioned buggly eyed beasties and leave what looks like a slaughter of the cast of fingerbobs.

The Christmas meal just doesn’t seem the same without an obscene amount of roasted turkey and a feeling afterwards that you’ll be pooping feathers for the next few days.

This year I thought that, rather than ask for my usual ‘useful’ gift, I would get something completely impractical and feed the big kid in me.  Santa didn’t disappoint and I am now the proud owner of a mini Apache AH-64 remote controlled helicopter!  The little devil fits in my hand and buzzes around the room menacing all that are within the vicinity… mainly due to my ineptness with the remote and the fact that it’s an absolute bastard to control.

In fact the full danger of me being behind the controls of the helicopter meant that I was banished to the spare room to try and perfect my skills without taking out a family member.  The “you’ll take somebody’s eye out with that!” argument wasn’t won by myself when I pointed out that it *WAS* an attack helicopter.

Push the controls upwards and the helicopter shoots up and nearly hits the roof. Suddenly letting go of the control lever to stop it hitting aforementioned roof and it slams into the floor.  Buggar!  Push controls gently upwards and the helicopter lifts 4 foot off the floor and starts rotating in an annoying circle.  Looking down at the remote control for the “rudder trim”, as I remember the instruction sheet mentioning something about this, and the little bastard exits stage left and out the window onto the balcony.  “Ooooh shit!”

The little helicopter was never designed to fly outside, and it certainly wasn’t designed to hover from 6 floors up a block of flats.  As I run to the balcony it gave me one last look and started its rapid descent downwards.  I think the roadrunner type “meep meep” was of my own imagination.

Lunging over the plant pots that lined the balcony and desperately pointing the remote control at the gravity aided bit of plastic I managed to at least check the descent to a plummet.

I don’t think the shouted “Sorry!” to the bouffant haired old dear, tottering along the street outside, did much to calm her nerves.  I don’t think she appreciated the last desperate act of skill that changed the kamikaze dive bombing into a crash landing into the bush next to her.  I also don’t think the liberal sprinkling of potted plant dirt in her face as she looked up was also much appreciated.

My grasp of Spanish is basic, to say the least, but I got the gist of her feelings.  “Yeah, yeah, and that’s for the armada” I muttered after her angrily retreating frame, and started the long trek down the stairs to retrieve the errant present.

It seems ages since we had all gathered for a proper Sunday roast, but the Stewart’s (and accompanying brood) once more descended and wreaked merry havoc at my Parent’s house.

Stuffed ourselves silly with Roast Pork & Beef, roast spuds, mashed spuds, Peas (maybe not), cabbage (definitely not!), yorkshire pud, crackling and lashings and lashings of rich gravy… Yum!

Quick trip to the park to shiver for a wee while whilst kids throw soggy wet leaves at one another, and of course challenging young Felix to a swinging contest.  The winner is fiercely debated, and yes.. pictures do exist, but I ain’t telling where!

All in all, a cracking day out, topped off with an excellent memento of the day

Well, I have hit that big milestone in my life which, depending on who you talk to, is either all down-hill from here-on-in or where my life begins.  I am of course talking about reaching my 40th year of life.

To be honest, and to great disappointment in some and relief to others, I haven’t had any major wobbles or mid-life-crisery with this particular milestone.. or in fact am particularly bothered by it.  For some reason I had a major wobble at 25, as my erstwhile friend in Scotland will avidly remember, and that’s it. 

Apart from giving me an excuse to eat copious amounts of cream cakes and doughnuts, plus a damned good reason to demand gifts with menaces, I have entered my 40th year of life with a non-committal shrug of the shoulders and a “meh”.

That said, and despite all the gifts I received and which were gratefully received, I think the best presents I received were from my sprogs.. although I don’t think they intentionally went out and got these for my birthday.

My youngest managed to get a handful of 3A’s *and* a 4 in his SAT’s (which is in the ‘beyond expectation/exceptional’  range for his age) and my eldest got straight-5’s in his SAT’s (which again is in the ‘beyond expectations’ range). 

A bit of a last huzzah from #1 son in his last year of Primary School, as he also received the School Governor’s award for excellence!

There’s nothing quite so soppy as a proud parent …apart from, possibly, an old soppy parent!

Sometimes I wish was 8 years old again… actually, *most* times I wish I was 8 years old again!

Although it does seem that nowadays kids are wrapped tightly in a blanket straight-jacket of Health & Safety rules that stops them from experiencing anything that even looks like being a little edgy; like putting up posters without goggles *gasp*!

So whenever the opportunity presents itself, we chuck our sprogs into whatever adventures come their way, like boating on the local reservoir.  It’s especially at times like these that I remember my own yoof.

…and yes, this does mean that if the kids drop any food on the floor our first response is to pick it up, blow away any floor based additions and place it back on the plate for them to eat.  If you raise kids in a sterile bubble, don’t be surprised at what happens when that bubble bursts.

Anyways, here’s our smallest enjoying his day out on the Reservoir.

Blink and too many years seem to fly by without you even noticing!

Number 1 son has spent his first week away from home, in an adventure residential camp, is now taller than both his Aunt and Grandmother, has bigger feet than his mum, has a mobile phone and we are now going through the joy of purchasing his uniform for Secondary School.

What happened to the strawberry blonde curly haired child that used to sit in my lap, just before bedtime, and want to hear the Gruffalo yet again?

Of the course the rush to teenage’dom almost inevitably leads to the descent into Kevin’dom!  The mantra “must not throttle firstborn, must not throttle firstborn” seems to be the order of the day at the moment… The joys of parenthood!

Another weekend completed and another GKR karate tournament competed.  Very soon, if I keep this sort of thing up, I’ll become an old hand at this malarky … which is more than my hand will become as I have managed to damage it once more whilst laying it, with forceful intent, upon somebody else’s person.  Enough of that story though.

This particular tournament I was accompanied by sprogs #1 and #2 on their first steps into competitive posing, flailing and shouting.  Unfortunately they didn’t win any medals but I was HUGELY proud of the way they conducted themselves both during and after their time in the ring.  Teaches them an important lesson too, I suppose, that you can’t win at everything – which School seems scared to teach them, in case it damages their delicate psyche!

I, also, didn’t do very well at the individual level and was somewhat relieved that Sensei wasn’t around to see the woeful effort that was my kata… who swapped my feet with a 7 year olds when I wasn’t looking?!

This did give me the opportunity to go around and “ra-ra” from the sidelines as a fair number of my fellow Sensei’s did get their medals.  We were competing for Silver and Gold in both the male and female instructor levels!  What a dilemma; Who do you cheer for when you want both of them to win?!

(I have just noticed the judicious use of “we” in that last paragraph.  I think Sarah, Katie, Shaun and Daz actually probably managed their collective bling amassing without my aid)

However, what personally what made my tournament the more enjoyable was being involved in the Team Kumite.  It wasn’t the fact that we came away with a Bronze medal, it was the sheer look of joy and excitement in Ed’s voice when he realised we had gotten past the first round.  The exclaimed “We’ve never gotten this far before!” and huge grin were worth far more than any lump of metal draped around the neck.

Title Disclaimer:
When asking your son to remember the word “YAKP”, as you concentrate on something else, remember to tell him that it stands for “Yet Another Karate Post” and not get into a conversation about the colour, texture, smell and relevance of “Yak Pee”.

The 10 minutes of confused cross-talking that went on, and combined “you what?!” looks, is not something to be reproduced.

I finally managed to get the boys to a Kancho Sullivan seminar, just us and 600+ others. Very intimate. 

Twas a wee bit of a rush in all honesty, as my Saturday class in Irthlingborough didn’t finish until just after 12noon and we had to be in Nottingham by 1.30pm to sign in!  If anyone asks how we managed to do 80 miles in less than an hour and a half, just tell them we stuck to the speed limit of 70mph; admittedly the fast version of 70mph rather than the slow version… Officer!

It’s always a thrill to be in a hall with so many people all moving in unison to the count and being taught by the founder of our particular brand of karate.  It’s also somewhat cool to see Kancho, who’s in his 60’s, manage to beat a various age range of 2nd Dan Black Belts in Kumite one after the other.  “VERY cool” as my youngest crowed after the Seminar.. I just hope I can be that nimble at that age!

Also, in the good news stakes, I managed to progress a grade!  So I have now managed to half achieve one of my New Years Resolutions.  I think getting the second grading under my belt, or on my belt… whatever… may be a tad more difficult, but stretch goals are the order of the day.

Next up is another tournament in Birmingham, on 6th June, complete with the boys (their first) which should be fun.  Pics and postings will be forthcoming.

Songs have a powerful influence on all of us and we choose our own soundtrack to reflect that which we feel important, highlighting defining periods in our lives.  Revisiting those audible monuments does sometimes give you pause to reflect and wonder at what was, could have been, will be..

Listening to “Again”, by Archive, and appreciating the lyrics as well as the mood generated by the music.  I am an absolute sucker for guitar and drum heavy music, and as blogged about not so long ago, this one still has the ability to give pause.

“..now you get me down” to complete the lyrics began in this posts title.

Good times, bad times, shameful times, and those times where you shone beyond yours, and others, expectations; all are, or should be, encapsulated within their own musical punctuation, usually via an artist or group that seemed to talk to you specifically during that period of your life.

I can’t change those times, I can only revisit them and reflect on the person that they helped develop for better or worse.

I now find myself in the position where I am seeing the seeds of this process starting to develop in my two young boys.  Both of them, and more so the youngest, are beginning to develop their own musical tastes and creating their own ‘audible monuments’ as they grow ever upwards physically and emotionally.

I do wonder how their own internal playlist will sound, and also whether my own musical tastes will influence them as they grow.  We can only watch… and listen…

I am not quite sure how to start this week off, whether I already have in a purely theological sense, or how it will finish.

If there is one thing that sums up life at the moment, like a modern day version of the parable, it’s the game ’Parking Wars’ on facebook.  The point of the game is to shuffle your cars around, trying not to get fined and keeping ahead of your friends.

Personal pride seems to keep you shuffling these cars around, never-endingly, otherwise somebody could overtake you on the leader board.  There’s no other element to the game.. just keep moving.

Methinks a deletion of this app is on the books, I need to get a little more control of things.  This, and some other apps on facebook as well.  Actually I have already started the process in that I am no longer socially taggable.

Going round on the Bike this weekend gave me LOTS of time to think things through, do some personal assessment and generally clear cobwebs.  Unfortunately the Biking was at the cost of some chill out time with friends, but sometimes we seem destined to follow in the wake of others and ride the consequences of their decisions.

However, plans for the week are as follows;

• Finally get back to the Gym, after a week off because of the busted finger, and get back into the rhythm of early starts.  Doing weights BEFORE work definitely gets you more alert for what it throws at you.
• Carry on, *not* as usual, with Karate.  Unfortunately my elation, at getting a medal at the tournament, has encountered the rather hard object that is realism.  I seem to have hit a bit of a personal ceiling in my abilities, and unless I can push through that I am destined to not progress any further through the belts.
• As much as possible, try and fade a little more into the background.  My presence, to some, seems to be a source of discomfort and this is something that I never want to cause.  So it’s time to reduce my ‘presence’ and re-schedule my life.

We’ll see how successful I am by the end of the week.

..and the ‘theological’ reference?  Well I was informed, by the lights of my loin, that the school’s local shaman has proclaimed that Sunday is the start of the week.  I am up for being corrected, but my recollection of the Bible was that God rested on the seventh day and the God botherers thought; “Well if HE needs a rest on the seventh day, then who are we to do otherwise?” …and thus Sunday was born”.

So whilst my body whimpers on the Monday it, apparently, should really have been whimpering on the Sunday instead.  Please feel free to correct my delusions…