. . . the fudge is 'Woman Day'?

The new look blog . . . too jazzeh?

Ummmm, I feel that I should openly apologise . . . well actually, I should apologise twice.

Firstly, I direct sincere regret for my vindication of the baby next door.  Previously, I have grumbled incessantly about just how noisy it is, to the extent that I couldn't wait to be back at work to be surrounded by heavy machinery for twelve hours solid for a pleasant relaxing time.  My loathing has since shifted to its parents (or a very close approximation) who spend all hours of the day arguing loudly, and then shouting at the baby who is upset because its parents are arguing.  I now just feel pity for the child, and a level of empathy . . . tempted to steal it for myself and raise it in my image - thus granting me the all-clear to be the proud owner of the Sheffield Steelers piece of merchandise "Baby Steeler On Board" - and together we shall walk the sands of time, across the wastes and . . . . . . . . . well I forget where I was going with this, but yo' get my point.

Gah!  It sort of pains me to admit this but . . . this morning, I got in from work at 07:30 and went to bed, and drifted off with the sound of the baby giggling and laughing to himself with the Rugrats theme-tune playing quietly. It was . . . I mean . . . how to say . . . it was . . .

adorable.

There, I said it!  Lyla-Mae turned me into a softie!  Before that fateful time when I first met her as a bump at a party I detested anything under the age of 14, and strongly thought that the world would be a better place if child labour was re-introduced.  For some reason children just hate me; on public transport they stare me out, on mine and Melissa's first ever date I somehow managed to destroy one that ran into the back of me, and I will never forget that grim grim memory of me and Grace in Chesterfield, an infant male was sprinting directly at me with his unco-ordinated feet.  I panicked.  Releasing Grace's hand, I aimed for the relative shelter of pressing myself against the window of Superdrug.

It didn't work.

So much hatred this child had for me, that he deviated his path and charged straight into me.  Pinned against a shop window, I had no escape.  The impact came.  Bham! Headbutted with his big wobbly head right in an area God never intended for foul treatment . . . and he still kept on sprinting!  So I was there, on a Saturday along Chesterfield's busiest street in full view of everyone being essentially sexually assaulted by a seven-year old male who, I presume, was a catheter in a previous incarnation.

Not a consoling word from Grace, just a "come along nob'ed" XD

Secondly, I feel like I should apologise for being such a mard-aardvark recently.  I had an awful lot of things thrown in at once over the last few weeks; Melissa ending things, trying to finish Lyla's story which brought up a lot of what I would term as 'unfinished business' , these worrying black-out spells which seem to be getting a bit more frequent, and it was this time last year when my grandma died so I've been in a rather sullen and reflective mood for about three weeks now . . . which may not have helped things between me and Melissa because I just don't like opening up to people - which is sort of why I write a blog, letters and books, it helps me unjumble my thoughts -  but alas, hindsight is a wonderful thing.  Basically, what I am trying to say is, I have lost what is medically termed as ones 'mojo'.

I was at the doctors this morning (Friday) and was put back on anti-depressants for the third time in three years, which is just a peach. In all honesty, I should probably have been on them since late December, because . . . well, there can't be many worse things to go through really, but I can't thank Claire, Gareth, Tina, Grace, my mum and Melissa enough for the way they looked out for me and made January one of the happiest months I can remember.  As for the blacking out episodes I'm having, I have to go back for some extensive tests next Friday, but the moustachioed Asian doctor who called me 'Michael Sick' said that it is most likely to be epilepsy, but he ran off some other scary medical conditions too. I endured the awkward moment when the doctor was taking my blood pressure and querying whether I felt okay today, and I replied 'yep, fine'.  He continued, asking whether I usually feel like I do today, which I do - perfectly fine.  He directed my glance to the read-out, which was 98 over 86 (most people's is 120 over 80-something, and unconciousness usually occurs at around 80 over something-something.)

Croikey, I should probably change my nickname from 'Kilroy' to 'Kill-joy' at the moment.  Anyway, to more positive things.

On Tuesday I received my blogs 1000th pageview, and a rather impressive 93 pageviews in February alone, which makes me a happy boy . . . see below for further details.

. . . and this is why I never smile . . . ever.

It pleases me that something which started out as an ingenius way of wasting my life in November regailing my own buffoonery and the tomfoolery of my cohorts and posted solely on facebook (I don't put le tags in or anything like that - effort!) has now got readers in America and people actually googling this blog . . . quick!  Back to the happy face picture!  Additionally, since the events of last week, it turns out that I've also bid a not-so-fond farewell to 7lbs, which I lost in 9 days simply by sleeping my woes out the window.

Not that you can tell; it's the equivalent of 

throwing a deck-chair off the Titanic.

Those of you that have followed my blog from the very first post might remember that it used to be called 'Like A Billionaire But With Nothing To Spare', based on the beautiful song 'Waste Of Space' by Delays (but you probably haven't heard of them: my hipster moment of the day there).  I picked this as the title, as the following line is 'All this time on my hands doesn't go anywhere' which rang true of my November, but alas, this is no more the case, as I've had a relatively productive week.  Along with getting closer to uncovering my latest medical ailment, I also finished the tedious tale of 'Volbert the Mole' which was intended just as a silly but sentimental present for Lyla, an ex-girlfriend/former best friend's daughter, I thought "meh!  Why the fudge shouldn't I try and take it further?" so I've been doing some enquiring around at some childrens book publishers . . . turns out that it is a rather complicated process.  

Who knew?

To be quite honest, I don't think it'll get anywhere, as it wasn't particularly written for a child to read, but more for an adult to read to a child . . . well, one particular adult to read to one particular child (which limits the target audience somewhat).  Also, I really didn't like doing a child's book; my other one -  'The New God' -  involves a lot of backstabbing, assassinations, foul language, violence, a love-hate romance, a main character who goes manically insane, one arse'ole of a woman, and even a scene I found cringe-inducing to type of someone making themselves no longer a man . . . .

. . . which I got really involved in (well that sounded wrong!) but with childrens books . . . . . . okay, I'll say it.  The two things I hate most about myself are (a) my chin - it makes me look like I have a head the shape of a baked bean - and (b) my voice.  Anyone who has ever heard me talk will understand why; it is completely devoid of emotion and sentiment; I would say my wedding vows on the happiest day of my life in the exact same voice I'd read my own mother's eulogy, and when I try to sound warm, welcoming or enthusiastic, it just comes across as patronising and sarcastic.  And so, as I was reading back through the finished 'Volbert the Mole', I could just hear my own voice narrating . . . t'was grim.  Still, I suppose the worst these publishers can say is 'no, its a load of bobbins', and even considering my rather fragile emotional state right now, it's not like I can put my head in the oven and turn the gas on . . . I even fail at failing at life.

Six  Month Single Challenge - Update

Wednesday evening saw me encounter my first obstacle, in the shape of Kristina at work, who - I think - was flirting with me . . . but then I have never been good at determining such things.  Usually I never talk to her - or anyone - but since they have banned everyone from listening to mp3 players now, I am prone to being socialised with.  Kristina, the 5ft 1 inch, blonde Polish girl who it is impossible to put an age on decided to walk across the warehouse to where I was playing with craft knives, and start talking to me about 'Woman Day', which is on the 8th March (apparently).  This is the conversation (and please read Kristina's part in a Polish accent);

Kristina: Hello Michael, I haven't seen you for while, how are you?

Me: Erm, I just cut my finger with a craft knife, so not great.  How are you?

Kristina: You always bleeding!  I'm sad.

Me: . . . . . why are you sad?

Kristina: Tomorrow is Woman Day, and every woman is meant to get flowers for Woman Day, but I never had Woman Day flowers.

Me: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Woman Day? Do you mean Mother's Day?

Kristina: No!  I mean Woman Day.  You never heard of Woman Day?!

Me: I don't think anyone's heard of Woman Day.

Kristina: Is Woman Day tomorrow!

She proceeded to google 'Woman Day' on her phone . . . turns out the 8th March is Woman Day.

Kristina: See?  It Woman Day, but no one ever buys me Woman Day flowers.

Me: . . . . probably because no one knows it's Woman Day.

Kristina: I'll be sad tomorrow if I come into work and I have no Woman Day flowers.
Me: So when is Man Day?
Kristina: Is . . . . five days away . . . after Sunday.
Me: Oh! Oh no, no. . . no.  Man Day for . . . a man. (at this point I semi-pointed at myself; she didn't look convinced).

Kristina: There is no Man Day!
Me: . . . . . s'a wee bit unfair.
Kristina: [in a patronising voice] Awww, would Michael like pretty flowers?

And with that, she walked off giggling to herself and talking to a friend in Polish, who also started giggling, and all before I could even answer in the affirmative that I would indeed like some pretty flowers.

My thoughts exactly Picard.

My plan of action.

. . . nothing, obviously.  Six-month single challenge ftw.

Sorry Kristina, but no 'Woman Day' flowers 
for you for another year.