Waddock Hunt

You know me. Actually, maybe you don't as the readership seems to have
changed somewhat of late. Whereas before it was mainly friends and
family who I would drunkenly insist visited my blog to try solicit
feedback and page views, now it seems that I have a variety of
Lithuanians and Russians who are avid readers. The cynical side of me
suspects its some sort of trawling trojan based in Moscow and Ljubiana

(assuming Ljubiana is in Lithuania and not Latvia - either way it
sounds dodgy and Mrs MG.C wouldn't allow me to visit on a stag
weekend) and not people who go by the names of Ivan, Katja and Gregor
who actually read this. The needy side of me loves the idea of Eastern
European chums and is planning on setting up some sort of exchange
program. Boreda to you all.

You (perhaps) know me. These posts have been few and far between of
late. This is down to a cocktail of general can't-be-arsedness, a
house renovation and a million other things pulling me in one
direction or another, none of which involves writing on here. There
was a recent foray into the world of Olympics and the intention was
good: diarize my impressions of the event of a Londoner's lifetime on
a frequent basis. Inevitably, I got side tracked and tangential within
seconds of starting and wrote nothing of note to which I could return
at a later date and reminisce about the happy days of the Lon Don 2012
fortnight. It was good though.

You know me well enough by now that my blog posts are intended to be
irreverent nonsense; something to raise a smile or a knowing shake of
the head coupled with an affectionate 'what a nob' aimed in my
direction. Most of them are written on the tube or train and often
reference the man opposite me. As a side note this particular blog was
started on a tube and is being finished on the back seat of a bus,
crammed in between a window showing pictures of Richmond Bridge and an
embarrassed man, effectively sitting on me but being so stoically
British that he refuses to acknowledge our mutual discomfort by
apologising or moving. Weird, because the rest of the bus is empty.

I am almost overwhelmed with the idea of tickling him.

You know me a bit by now and I have to be in an upbeat frame of mind
to write. Luckily this is usually my default mind setting. However,
there are a lot of external influences which affect the upbeatness and
therefore my ability to write.

The man has alighted and my warm, slightly damp arm is now being
rubbed by a cheap green cardiganed arm with each bump we go over. My
arm is now dry. The cardigan is slightly damp with resolutely British
man's moisture and cheap green cardiganed arm's owner also owns cats.

I've learned that you cannot force the beat up; it either is or it
isn't. At the moment it's not there and I'm not sure when it will
return. Maybe when my rashed arm returns to it's pre-bus state. Maybe
tomorrow. Maybe a week or maybe a year.

I'll tell you one thing for free (the rest are a pound a pair, Paypal
and cash accepted): a few months back I remember asking someone who is
four and a half hours older than me (and therefore far wiser) when it
would get easier. It being life in general. Well, a few months later
and the updated report is: Not Yet. House, work, family. Life. None of
it's easy. Why I don't pack the most amazing thing in my life into our
car and just drive off with her is a constantly unanswered question.
The answer is something to do with the inbuilt need to have a
respectable career / house / place in society / future / pension but I
don't think I want to actually find the answer to the question. I'd
rather just skirt around it, concentrate on the good things and try to
get the beat up without being beaten up.

You know me a bit better now. Sorry for the rambling; it started off
being a story about a Chinese whispered giant octopus; maybe you'd
have preferred that?