Wrong type of sheep..

… apparently. Spring has arrived and with it ickle lambs, unhindered by any brainpower whatsoever, flock and gamble all over the railway tracks. They were – as the driver explained in deadpan tones – the wrong type of sheep because even his ASBO graded horn failed to shift them.

Eventually a bloke turned up with a shotgun, a vat of mint sauce and a butchers van and we were soon on our way again.

That’s a lie. Probably.

You can’t get there from here.

Before I start, let me be absolutely clear this could happen to anyone. The fact that it happened to me, refreshed by a couple of beers and head firmly in home mode, is nothing more than a cruel coincidence. I’m a bit hazy on the train timetable after about 6:15pm, since my arrival at the station post this time has normally been preceded by medicinal libations squared or possibly cubed. So when this evening, the big red station clock offered an Aylesbury train leaving in exactly two minutes. I thought That’ll do me nicely”, wrestling the bike past “ and sometimes through – the human Brownian motion experiment that is the Marylebone concourse.

Woooaaah, that train of thought has been shunted into a convenient siding while this random express takes control of the editorial line. The London Marathon is upon us and the warming rays of spring sunshine has tribbled* the Paula wanabees disgorging them and their pointless technology into cycle lanes everywhere. And where did all this technology come from? In my day going for a run” involved a pair of retired , smelly and slick soled 5-a-side trainers, garish beach shorts and a once white t-shirt. This is somewhat at odds with the critical mass of the rasping and sweating, sporting watches the size of clocks, shoes designed by computer and bought by idiots and moulded drinking vessels handily sized for punching passing cyclists. And in a post modern ironic twist, Mark Knopfler white headbands. When they do finally get past their body biometric” stretching programme and pre-exercise preening mirrors, most of them actually run like the title sequence of the Six Million Dollar Man. It’s like slightly speeded up Robotic dancing, accompanied by a menagerie of electronic chirping. I’ve seen faster trees.

I apologise for the 70s and 80s references in that last paragraph. For those of your under the age of thirty, what I’m referring to is¦. no actually since you were conceived after Jimmy Hendrix died, it’s just not worth my time explaining.

Shunt. Right back on the slow train of drivel heading nowhere. The ticket inspectors are, by now, so attuned to the sight of my heavily perspiring, glove wrenching, ticket losing self, they just give me their smile saved for those of special needs and waft me through the barrier. The apparently insurmountable problem of no spare bike racks was easily solved by shoving some other poor unfortunates’ out of the way while simultaneously grappling the on bike lock. Fumbling velcro cost me a little time as did the slight worry that I was abandoning my bike to five days of possible Easter scrote molestation with only a twenty quid lock for protection.

But the getmehome gene was in the ascendance and I beat the closing doors by thirty seconds. I’m getting good at this last minute train malarkey” I congratulated myself while idly noticing the passenger information system was actually working tonight. Seer Green? Beaconsfield? High Wycombe? What the f*ck is going on” I wondered considerably less idly as the train mocked my confusion by accelerating away from the platform. About twice every ice age, Chiltern Railways run a service that can’t make it’s mind up where it’s going. It heads confidently off in a Birmingham direction before taking options on splitters rights at Princes Risborough and depositing the unwary at the Aylesbury Terminus.

Yes gentle reader. I was on one of those trains. My other bike waits patiently at Stoke Mandeville while the train doesn’t go anywhere near there. I almost had the ignominy of a ten quid taxi ride between stations so I could then ride home. Pride coming after my wallet, instead I called Carol who was forced to schlep up to the station avec small, animated and amused children. Daddy why did you get on the wrong train” they asked in that sing song voice which secretly hides the prefix you great bloomin idiot“. I think they get that from their mum. I told them the other line had been destroyed by an alien slime death ray from a UFO and I’d be instrumental in saving the entire population of the South East through unspecified but significant heroics. I’m not sure they bought it though. You can’t lie to them like that”complained Carol (this from the women that tells them babies are created through some kind of complex cold fusion) it’ll mess with their little minds”. Yeah right, leave me with a few shreds of dignity even if it means group therapy in a few years.

The problem is “ or so I’ve been telling myself “ that my mind is too highly trained for the minutiae of life. The option (or truth as it may also be known to those whose cruelty knows no bounds) will blow away those final combed over shreds of dignity I’ve been talking about.

One of these days, nothing odd, irritating or downright bloody outrageous is going to happen. But don’t worry, I’ll just make something up instead.

*Worse than seventies references, I’ve now been reduced to quoting trekkie mulleted gerbils with a shagging fetish. I used to think I was a bit strange until Google zipped me over to the parallel universe of the card carrying trekkie. Jeez they are ODD.

Locks Away!

A weeks holiday had dulled the daily mindf*ck that is the Chiltern Railway alledged timetable. This morning though they made up for lost time by suffixing a passengerless train blasting through the station with the announcement that the next service is cancelled due to a shortage of drivers”. Or possibly shortness of drivers. Can’t they use a cushion or something?

When a train felt able to stop at our station, it was on the understanding that it’d had somehow shed the majority of its’ carriages on the epic three mile journey from the Aylesbury depot. Our extended journey to the capital put me in mind of those first world war pictures showing weary soldiers crammed into slam door trains on their way to France. Only with more crowding and a smoking ban.

We fooled even the old station hands at Marylebone as the entire population of the south east exited on platform 4. They must be going round again” a Butlin’d uniformed railway service operative” muttered, with the platform disappearing under an angry mob of aggressive briefcases and irritated overcoats. I went bike hunting which occupied five spare minutes I didn’t really have but that’s the price of early onset Alzheimer’s and a bike the same colour of the platform. Having finally located said steed, a further ten minutes frustration and advanced stupidity failed to crack the complex code of a single lock key. This new German lock (Abus) was clearly keen to dig in to secure it’s position on this latter day Hindenburg Line and even the magic opening phrase willyoujustfuckingletmein” failed to shift it.

Entire epochs passed before the realisation that my key ring holds two Abus keys finally dawned. Obviously I’d got the wrong one; less obviously I’d failed to check my key ring instead engaging single tasking bloke mode and stuffing the wrong key harder and harder into the lock.

It’s a skill there’s no doubt about that.

If this wasn’t enough “ and after a weeks holiday and a shrivellingly cold commute, it really was “ they’ve only gone and changed the bloody milk shakes. Yes, I can see you shaking your heads in disbelief that the one small station based pleasure has been ruthlessly snatched away from me without even the slightest consultation. Ever since my rigorous health regime of a single milkshake per week, I’ve had a sad but serious Pavlovion longing for sugary based milk product. After a ˜fitness curry’ [we left the after eight mint] with a mate, I arrived in good time to indulge in a Strawberry Milkshake desert.

We don’t do Strawberry anymore sir”

Why the hell not?”
Nobody wanted it”

See this body? It wants it”
Sorry sir, you can have hint of apricot or noisette of lamb instead

[So gasted was my flab, I may have misheard that]

Rather than removing my custom and starting a platform based campaign to reinstate the much missed Strawberry Milkshake, I grumbling settled for ˜Wild Cherry”

Predictably it was bloody horrible. It tasted almost healthy for Gods Sake! If I hadn’t paid for it with my own money, I’d never have finished it. Honestly, it was that bad.

The tourists are back and just as airheaded as before. The blossom is on the trees and spring is nervously pushing back winter’s bleak curtain. I just knew things were going too well.

Apricot milkshakes I ask you? Surely there is someone I can sue?

TAXI!

Okay, one more. Although this site is worryingly bagging 300+ individual hits per day, no one dines to leave a comment. It’s not that I’m vain or anything (well ok I am but that’s not the point here so stop pointing at the screen shouting “you are, you bloody are“) but it’d be nice occasionally for someone to comment “thanks, your transparent attempt to boost a shallow ego through the medium of vanity publishing has made me realise why the Internet is such a pointless place to spend my time, and I’m off to save the world instead“. Or something.

I suffered two cab journeys last night, the combined mileage of which would have easily ushered me home without the tedious intermediary of a train trip. The first ride was from a restaurant in East London to Marylebone. Well that’s what I thought anyway but due to a little cultural confusion, the driver instead motored round in ever decreasing circles before attempting to deposit me at Mile End.

Continue reading “TAXI!”

I promise I’ll respect you in the morning.

Some people drink to remember. Others drink to forget. This morning I found myself fervently wishing that I could forget the events of last night and nobody else would remember them. A dangerous triumvirate of free drinks, a hotel room and the chance for the project team to let their hair down” “ worth saying here most of us don’t have much hair to let down so instead let ourselves down, let our families down, etc “ all combined to turn a few beers into alcohol based carnage.

I steamed into my first lager like a man with exactly one minute to live. Warming to this theme, I maintained the same pace throughout the evening with the carefree attitude of a condemned man facing the scaffold. As my intake increased, so did my volume and I upped the ante once more by taking on the mantle of witty raconteur”, or so I thought. Since we had our suppliers in the room, they felt honour bound to gently massage my ego with polite smiles and the odd forced laugh. But “ of course “ I know they were actually thinking How much do we REALLY want this order” How much more of this am I expected to take?“. People came and people went, I just went on visiting the bar with no more willpower than a fluttering moth around a candle.

Continue reading “I promise I’ll respect you in the morning.”

Tonight Matthew, I am Ray Charles

Wandering sleepily into the Barn at 6am this morning, I was shocked into wakefulness by the eye popping evidence of a burglary. Just a terrifyingly empty space where my bikes used to be and no sign of the myriad and expensive tool collection (or weapons of destruction as I like to think of them). It was obvious these were classy thieves as they’d left my commuting bike either because it clearly has absolutely no cash value whatsoever or, more likely, it was camouflaged under a year of unwashed dirt.

Continue reading “Tonight Matthew, I am Ray Charles”

(NO) Ticket to Ride :(

The builder is a jolly chap. He called us up a couple of nights ago and announced Ready to start on your barn Wednesday. Can you make sure it’s fully cleared“. Oh how we laughed. This structurally dangerous outbuilding” as the surveyor was want to sneer was resuscitated three years ago through a combination of new timbers and an industrial nail gun. Since then we gleefully stuffed it to the rafters with bikes and life crap. Until this evening anyway when a concerted effort stripped it back and unearthed forgotten items including ancient photo albums: “Daddy, that’s not you, you’ve got hair. And you’re thin“. Kids eh? Not overburdened with much social veneer.

For reasons too painfully convoluted to document here, we decided to do a second conversion adding plumbing, heating, insulation and a whole bunch of cost. The predicted but in no way definite result would be a new home office for me and a new workshop for, er, me as well. We’d lose a garage we never used and my current office becomes somewhere we can lock the kids away. But only for a couple of days at the most otherwise that’s just cruel.

We finished it tonight in the rain. Well nearly anyway.

Top Row: Stuffed in the shed: so many bikes, so little room.

Shed#6Shed#5Shed#7

Middle row: New office and workshop. Current office 🙁

Barn#2Barn#3Office

Wife’s bike gets what it deserves.

Carol's bike

How the hell am I going to go riding? A logistical planning exercise that’d tax even veterans of an Olympic bid . Short of going in thru the window, it looks as if I’ll have to reverse the entire process to even unearth a bike. And as for the tools, they’re buried behind gardening accouterments and rusty pots of suspicious liquids “ could be paint, could be abandoned wine making. No way I’m opening one to find out.

Still considering my record of tool based disasters, (motto: If it isn’t broken don’t fix it, if it is broken send it to Sideways Tim before you fuck it up beyond all possible redemption) this is probably No Bad Thing. I can get to all my other gear tho “ that’s in my office although unless I develop a late developing long jump talent, the book case is off limits for a while.

Assuming the builder is working on the same Julian calendar as the rest of us, this project should be finished before Wembley. I chose that analogy carefully as the price is similar and I’m hoping to get the Queen to open it. Failing that the queen down the road’ll do just fine.

Then I’ll have a rather splendid office and even more splendiferous workshop. Just think of the damage I can do with that much elbow room. And the piece de resistance? ˜The TOOL WALL’ with proper ˜dead tool’ outlines and millions of sockets for scary powertools; purpose unknown.

With hot and cold running water, coffee machine, sofa, DVD player and Internet access, I shall never need to go in the house again.

H’mm no wonder my wife was so keen on the project.

IT: A breed apart

I am attending an IT conference in Wales. It is a parallel universe where the Geeks Will Inherit The Earth. Think of a techno-bubble where pen protectors and Christmas Jumpers are a serious and respected badge of office. It’s like that only much, much worse.

There’s a high ratio of Beard to Personality” quotient amply demonstrated by crushingly embarrassing in-jokes and long lost food carbonised in unruly facial hair. There are no women. Well possibly one but I’d not wage any of my own money on the lady in question actually being female.

Apparently at 6PM this evening, I shall be enjoying an optional interview with the snappy title of Rarefied Unified Modelling “ a short history” with the founder and much respected guru of RUM (surely a slight misspelling). I have a strong feeling that in fact I’ll be enjoying a somewhat shorter interview with the bar staff at that time:

Evening, do you serve a good Merlot?”
We do, Sir

Interview over.

The fact I’ve managed to post anything is in no way a tribute to the Seamless Remote Access” solution offered by the hotel. That has been a trial of strength and frustration from which my laptop barely escaped from with its’ major components intact. Those privileged to work in IT will probably recognise the following phrase:

I DON’T WANT TO DO A F*CKING WINDOWS UPDATE. NEITHER AM I INTERESTED IN YOU TRYING TO BE CLEVER. I JUST WANT TO SEND ONE EMAIL. HOW F*CKING HARD IS IT”
Sorry, Outlook has disconnected your session
SORRY, YOU’LL BE MORE THAN F*CKING SORRY
Low battery warning

They nearly had to call security. I am readying the pidgins.

The content of the conference is actually very interesting. No, really it is. But my fellow IT professionals are way too scary. Dribbling passionately when evangelising on the benefits of Service Orientated Architectures” is “ in my humble view “ right on the cusp of a mental sectioning.

Later this evening, the pleasure of a ˜group hug’ dinner awaits us. This provides the opportunity to network and synergise with our fellow professionals” and (the blurb goes on) It’s time to drive the debate”. Oh Lordy. I shall probably rock up drunk, hide my badge and go and make fun of fat people.

So there may be more later unless I’m carted off to the local cop shop for assault with a phone battery if anyone dares drop low hanging fruit” into a conversation or feels the need to engage me in a conversation relating to his pen protector collection.

The price of guilt..

Is£4.

That’s the exorbitant cost of abandoning one’s car at the station. It’s also the price of guilt for abandoning one’s bike based good intentions in the barn at home. A skewed parable would be The road to poverty is lined with frosty mornings”.

Since I bottled it the first time, various sly amendments or controversial loopholes have been applied to the rigid philosophy I’ll ride every day regardless of prevailing weather conditions”. Oh yeah, I’m still in the game but only by cheating.

The list is complex and every expanding but can be simply grouped into the following categories:

  • It’s cold
  • It’s dark
  • I’m tired
  • I’m hungover
  • The Cat’s not been well.

So what that list cleverly staves off any guilt, the resultant karma implosion is less easy to deal with. Mainly this concerns the ability or otherwise of Chiltern Railways to delivery a train on time. Except if I’m running late then they’re running early. Yet in the last month “ while I have been stoically riding and getting progressively sicker “ the actual trains and published schedules have co-existed in the same time zone.

Coincidently I met a friend of mine who works for the Railway. I explained how well things had been going lately and how I’d stopped nailing a horseshoe on the main traction unit or carrying the entire lucky rabbit” into the carriage. He smiled carefully – I think he knew that the weekend engineering works would badly overrun. Possibly until June or when the overtime budget was exhausted.

Well it was either that or my serial non riding that ground us back to the bad old days. Based on historical evidence I’m placing the blame firmly in the camp of ˜The most successful train franchise in the UK‘. Lucky I’m not forced to use a crap one eh?

After an extended rail trip that would have benefited from a red cross food drop, I was keen to see how this morning’s commute compared. It was a huge improvement; I was sat at my desk at 07:30, there was no queue for the showers; the entire journey was warm and dry and the coffee was much improved.

I really must work from home more often.