Monday. Brilliant.

If Monday isn't my favourite day of the week, it makes my top seven. Just.

And it's all gone quiet over there

Hmmm. I fear I spoke too soon. Or rather I fear I wrote too soon. While I am keen to write and be critiqued (criticised?), it's still too early to be sharing anything I've written with the wider, unsuspecting world.

I have therefore started up a separate blog and have told nobody of its location. Essentially it is a notebook for me; I never remember to carry one of the various notebooks I have purchased or been given over the years yet I always have my Blackberry with me. Therefore, if I suddenly think of something while on the move, I can send an email to my blog (as I am doing now) and the notes will be added automatically, ready for the next time I manage to log in on a PC*. It's proved quite useful so far and yesterday I self-diagnosed (well, I provided the symptoms, the diagnosis was performed by someone far better qualified) possible mild autism in myself. Mild autism. Not full autism if there is such a thing. Drizzle Man, if you like.

*not such an easy task since the IT Hamsters at my work have decided to block access to the Blogger website I use for the blog you are reading now.

So, all this to say that I won't be writing much of any significance here on a frequent basis until I am in a position to share something more weighty with the world. Ideally this will happen before the Internet is superseded but don't hold your breath. I will undoubtedly persevere with the random thoughts but very much doubt they will find much of a purpose.

Bear with me.

Wintry showers in the North. Cold and dry in the South.

And in other news, Colonnel Gaddafi has been killed in Libya.

Can't help but think that the headline news was mistakenly copied and pasted in the wrong order for the newsreader on Absolute Radio this afternoon. Still, maybe they've got it right if the arctic temperatures we are expecting lead to numerous Scots and dirty northerners suffering mild colds, flu, death or manflu.

Reminds me of a French national news program I once saw which was so national-centric that in the running order, George Dubyah's re-election came fifth, directly after a story about a mysterious disease affecting vines in a small region of south-west France. Again, I have to agree with the editor (or whoever it is on news programs who works out what gets into the schedule and in which order) as a bottle of Bordeaux is far more important than any lasting impact junior Bush will leave on the world.

Now this seems to be turning into some sort of news review, I may as well carry on as I watch John Snow teach me about the day's happenings.

It's all been kicking off as the inhabitants of Dale Farm are tasered away from their illegal homes. I've done an extensive amount of research and Wikipedia reports that it was established in the 80s whereas the Dale Farm blog claims it was the early 90s. Either way, we're looking at 20 years minimum so it beggars the question, 'How long do you have to remain in one place before you can no longer class yourself as a traveller?'

He said 'let there be water'. And two weeks later, there was water

Ohhh yeah!!! Qui est ton père?!

Today, I've actually accomplished something by way of manual labour and I feel like I could walk on water. Water from the newly gushing font in the bathroom which for the last two weeks has been dry and sorrowful, that is.



You may recall two weekends back when I had the most worrying of dilemmas; riverside pub or Homebase, as I had a basin flex to replace? Two, actually.

Well, only 14 days or three hundred and thirty odd hours later, visits to 14 individual DIY or plumbing stores, encounters with 14 acned teenagers posing as experts, with only three of them failing to hide their superious snarls, I have only gone and finished the job!

Hot on the heels of painting walls and mixing cement for a month in the summer of 1996, I now have my next DIY cap feather: Tap Flex Changer Extraordinaire.



Would you like to see my spanners?

So while I have a little time before the inevitable call comes in from Nick Knowles or close personal friend, Kirsty Alsop (I know someone who once met her) about my daytime-primetime-home-improvement TV show, I thought I'd impart some newly gained wisdom to save you the pain:

If you're dismantling a tap and then plan to remantle it, buy some of these.

You will not regret it.

Now I must leave as my work here as done. Also because Raj is coming round in an hour to talk about plastering so I've got to quickly dash to Homebase to buy a tiny pot of paint and a pencil. The pencil is to go behind my ear and the tiny pot of paint is so that I can accidentally drip a little in my hair and on my jeans; all to give the impression that I am some sort of DIY-expert who knows what plastering probably costs so that I won't be ripped off by Raj and chums. Cannot wait to spend an hour talking about and making out that I know about 'skimming', 'PVA' and a variety of other daunting words which I like the sound of but have no idea of their meaning.

This post would not have been possible without the invaluable input of the following stores (in order) and their teenage staff: Wickes, Homebase, Wickes (again), Homebase (again), B&Q, Screwfix, Screwfix (again), Plumb Centre, City Plumbing, Plumb Centre (again), City Plumbing Supplies, Bath and Plumbing Superstore, Screwfix (yes, again. I like it there, alright?), Homebase (again again).

Cheap Shandy

I was right. I so often am. Most would disagree.

Others are wrong. They so often are. Most would disagree.

I was right this time though. A week ago I was riding the crest of the
page view wave. After the last post where I wondered whether I'd crack
the magical One Day Ton, I was astounded to do it again the following
day without posting a single thing.

Now, I'm not one for exclamation marks as I feel as though the reader
should be able to determine their interpretation of the words and
apply their own tone and understanding to what they are reading.
Exclamation marks are dictatorial, bordering on fascist, in their
demands for your brain to read the words in a certain way. I am one of
the brave few who rails against the unnecessary evil which is the
exclamation mark. Anyway, that sentence at the end of the last
paragraph could, I admit benefit from one. But do I now re-write it
with an excitable exclamation mark, delete this paragraph and continue
on worrying about people reading and thinking that I must be some sort
of run-of-the-mill idiot who brandishes willy-nilly an inverted 'i'
without the merest obvious hint of irony or apology? I'm not sure of
the way out of this paragraph now. I think I am going to abruptly end
it without any way, shape or form of grammar or punctuation and leave
people baffled as to where to go next and hope that they do not notice
what is at the end of

I was astounded to do it again the following day without posting a
single thing! This is incredible, thought I. For a little bit of
effort and a tiny 'please please please pay my blog some attention'
post on Facebook, the fruits of my labour were more than I could have
hoped. And that was just on Day 1. Day 2 was an almost-as-eager puppy
but then the market crashed. My page views dropped dramatically and
the high was gone as quickly as it came. But it's not the departed
highs which hurt; it's the devastating lows. One page view today. One.

One.

But then the questions start messing with your mind:
- what am I supposed to write next?
- how do I know it will be interesting?
- will people tell their friends so that more people can feed my habit?

And that all leads to a paralysis which prevents any words finding
their way on to a screen.

So I've decided to buy a smock, quit my job and wear a beret. If I am
going to suffer from an inability to write, I've got to look the part.