Like the corners of my mind...

Do you remember your dreams? I can normally remember mine for an hour or two after I wake and then they just fade. But some remain; some just stick in your mind as an actual memory. I can still remember a dream from my innocent years, which involved me hiding in a car from a T-rex, strange but true. To my mind it’s as if that event actually took place, of course I know that it didn’t. But what is it that keeps that dream embedded in my grey matter for so many years? Some true events have less clarity than certain dreams. I’m sure at the time of the dinosaur dream there would have been some external influence that caused the dream but what that was I couldn’t say.

Memories in general are very strange, what we hold on to and what we let go off. My father died when I was just five; if he was still alive today and passed me in the street I wouldn’t recognise him. I have no memory of him what so ever and yet I can recall a time after he had finished playing cricket and I went out on the field and tried to push the big cast iron roller that was used to flatten the green. I know he was there but I cannot picture him. No matter how hard I try I cannot form a metal picture of my father.

Some memories just stick with us for the rest of our days whilst some just fade for whatever reason that may be, maybe they are disturbing memories, sad, unhappy times but that isn’t always the case, I can still clearly remember the day the policeman knocked on our door and told my mother that terrible news and how she then in turn came and told my brother and me, I can remember events that sometimes I wish I couldn’t. Most which stay with us are however probably joyous events, grand occasions, wedding days, children’s births etc but then some are just obscure memories that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, and in truth probably don’t mean that much to you. But our memories and our experience are part of our make up and what makes us the person we are today. If I were to suddenly lose my memory would that change the person I am today, would that change the way I dream? It must do, if you don’t know who you are, where you have come from it must change your out look on the world. Fears, loves, wishes, dreams would all vanish, you’d start all over again with a clean slate. You could redefine the person that you were. Without the external influences individual to each and every one of us whilst we grew up you would start to draw from everything around you now. But the way an adult perceives things is completely different to that of a child.

I have touched on this before, how every event and person around us moulds us into the person we are today. Examine your childhood, think back to the things you did as a child, the games you played, the friends you had, the holidays you went on, the music you listened to. Think about your parents and what they meant to you, think of the way you remember the world around you, world events (whenever 1987 is brought up in conversation I still immediately think the year of the Storm), the taboos of the day, the big scandal that we all remember happening at school (whatever that may have been for your particular school, we all had something). All of that has helped form a foundation and a basis for you today. Now think about the generation growing up today, try to place yourselves in their shoes and imagine what games you play now, what friends you have, what holidays you go on and what music you listen to. Think about what your parents mean to you, the world around you, world events, the taboos, and the scandal at school. Think how all of this is forming the foundation and the basis for the adults they are to become.

We all have memories, wishes and dreams that form the man or woman that we are and that push us forward to become that which we are meant to be.

Take care in the way you influence the children in your lives, that off day you had, when you were quick to snap and lost your temper, that day you shouted or spoke without thinking, that may just be the day that that child remembers and keeps with him or her for the rest of their days, that day may form the foundation of their adult life.

Mr Right Now?

A very dear friend of mine lent me a book recently, a book that was to be found in most women’s hand bags during the nineties and almost without exception then forced onto the said woman’s significant other who would look at it with scorn and distrust but told “You have to read this”. The book became a best seller, primarily to women who longed for answers to relationship questions that have spanned the decades. According to the authors they had the answers, that Man and Woman are different, so different in fact that they could have come from separate planets, Men from Mars and Women from Venus and that over time we had forgotten just how different we are to one another, each expecting things and reactions from one another as we would expect them to react if it was us. That this manual will translate each others reactions, subtle hints, and language and suggest or inform as to why we behave the way we do.

Is my friend trying to tell me something?

She knows me well and obviously being a woman has picked up on the fact that maybe the reason I am alone is that I have not recognised these differences yet? Every relationship I have ever had has inevitably failed or else I would not be alone but happily married or at least married. But is a marriage without love a success? I would say not, love is surely the reason to be with someone. I have always believed that it is better to be alone for the right reasons than to be with someone for the wrong ones and I believed that women felt the same. And yet today I read an article in a newspaper penned by a woman who although initially felt the same and surmised that she would only ever marry for love that now as she grew older and felt that Mr Right just didn’t exist that she would settle for Mr He’ll Do. She was not much older than myself and confessed to being with someone she did not love, that she was just settling for. I don’t ever want to be someone that someone is just settling for.
I believe in love and that as Plato first suggested that each and every one of us has a soul mate, that there is that one special person that will complete us, we are one half of a pair separated. I don’t want to be paired with someone that just makes out to be my other half, that is just glossing over the parts that don’t quite match; relationships are hard enough without having to pretend how you feel about your partner. I’m sure we can all think of a couple in our lives that are unhappy and in a non-fruitful relationship, that they have just settled for someone, which offers the reality that if there is just that one special person for each of us that our soul mate could have already settled for someone else. This inescapably means that some of us are destined to live this life alone or to just settle for someone.

There is a fairly well know advert that states we should not hang around waiting for Fate and Cupid, that they guarantee finding you love within six months. Now I’m sure this is possible, Fate and Cupid could play a part in this dating service that will bring you together with your soul mate, after all it is just a matter of finding them which will never happen if you just stay at home so it serves its purpose of getting singles to go out and meet. But how many of those that use the service decides to just settle for someone, to find either Mr or Miss They’ll Do instead of Mr or Miss Right?

Whether in a relationship or not we constantly, man and woman endeavour to make ourselves more attractive to the opposite sex. We dress in clothes that we do not necessarily feel comfortable in but that we think the opposite sex will find attractive. We apply make-up to highlight and disguise, we spray and splash fragrances onto our bodies that we hope will entice. We constantly try to make ourselves that little bit more attractive to our partner, or to those of us that are still looking, our prospective partner.

Life is a journey that I don’t believe is meant to be travelled alone, life brings obstacles and situations that are better copped with as a team, however we need to recognise that part of this journey is to be taken alone and that somewhere along the way our paths will intertwine with each other bringing you into other peoples lives and that these paths will either only meet for the briefest of moments or continue together. I am on my path and hope that one day it will meet with another but only with another that is meant to be, not someone that has just taken a detour.
My soul mate is out there somewhere and hopefully she has not already decided that I am too elusive to find and has settled for someone else, that she believes, as I do and is on her path waiting for us to meet.

I don’t believe in fairy tale endings, life can be harsh. I do believe in what will be will be. So if that means my path is a single track for longer than so be it. I have made mistakes in the past, and if they have taught me anything it is that I would rather travel alone and wait for that special someone than just travel with someone for the sake of not being alone.

No one ever said it would be easy, some journeys are tougher than others but I will endure, I will continue to press forward and overcome that which is placed in my way.

Swine Flu, Hospital and Aching muscles

Apparently according to many news and television reports and even a leaflet that was pushed through my letter box we are all in danger of contracting swine flu from elevators and telephones. This is great news for me, I now have a genuine reason of not attending my office on the 12th floor and should I feel particularly athletic and bound up the many flights of stairs I then don’t have to answer the phone. My office has even sent out an email telling all members of staff that if possible they are advised to work from home until the danger passes. Wonderful. Now instead of having to drag my sorry arse out of bed at five o’clock in the morning, do the triple S of Sh*t, Shower and Shave and attempt to look somewhat respectable in a freshly ironed shirt and tie I can now lay in till a far more respectable time of seven o’clock, throw on any piece of clothing that is currently adorning my bedroom floor, partake in a freshly brewed cup of coffee with a couple of slices of toast and Marmalade and not worry about the nights growth on my chin.
I can then recline and sink into my luxurious leather sofa whilst Lorraine Kelly tells me what high heels I should be wearing and what pair of jeans would flatter my figure more. A second cup of coffee is brewed and a further round or two of toast before I amble over to my computer and press the power button. By now my ears are being assaulted by numerous Chavs shouting and screaming at each other whilst Mr Kyle endeavours to provoke further reaction whilst ascertaining who is the father of the lucky child brought into this affordable housing war zone. It’s not before Phil and Fern have updated me as to the latest goings on in Emmerdale and I have entered the ridiculously easy quiz that I actually log onto my computer and check my emails.
Other than the occasional phone call into my office, which nobody of course can answer, things progress along a similar vein for most of the day, I become very knowledgeable in antiques and their value, how to decorate my house badly in less than sixty minutes and how to purchase property in Spain.
Should Swine Flu ever really strike in this country to a serious degree of threat to kith and kin I will be fine, I can sell antiques to make enough money to leave this country and its pandemic behind whilst jetting off to sunnier climes in Europe and my newly decorated summer house all whilst looking magnificent in a pair of figure hugging jeans.



I have just recently, albeit reluctantly furthered my life by another year. Not that I want my life to end you understand but would just rather I didn’t have to count my progressing years anymore. I have never really celebrated my birthdays, at least not since my younger school days and as I have grown older it has become just another day. The problem is no matter how much you hide or try to shy away from your real age or your birthday someone is always there to remind you. On this occasion I was reminded when I received a letter in the post a week or two prior to the actual day. There is no hiding from the fact that you are getting older when on your birthday you receive a Colonoscopy as a present from your local hospital, this really is the kind of present to which you hope the receipt has been kept and you can happily exchange it at a later date. However it hadn’t and I was forced to attend and endure one of the more embarrassing procedures your doctor can inflict upon you.
Having not only starved myself the day before my system also had to be flushed clean of any “obstacles” so that the lengthy camera that will be inserted into my rectum will have an unobstructed view of my internal workings. So having spent the previous day sitting on the toilet experiencing something that can only be described as someone turning on a fire hose full blast and letting go of the end I was fairly eager to get this whole unpleasant day or two over with. I arrived on ward with plenty of time to spare hoping to get in and out as soon as possible, or should I say to get the camera in and out as soon as possible? But, alas this was not to be. I have no gripes about waiting to be seen, none whatsoever, in fact it’s a pet hate of mine to be sat in a waiting room and listen to other people complaining that they haven’t been seen yet. It’s called a waiting room for a reason. It’s where you wait; it’s not called a sit down and be seen straight away room. It’s one of the few things in this world that really erks me. I will never say a bad word about our NHS. They do a wonderful job in a difficult and sometimes dangerous environment. My praises will always go out to them; they have helped me a great deal including scrapping me off the tarmac on one occasion.

However… The only thing I will say is are hospital gowns really necessary? I’m sure we can come up with a slightly less degrading option. Now it may be different for women and certain Celtic men on two counts, but I believe they are an inside joke to help pass the time for the nurses. Firstly I do not own any item of clothing that fastens at the back, so I have no experience of doing this. Not once have I managed to find all the straps or tie them to the correct opposite strap, I either miss out straps altogether or have the top tied to the bottom. I always end up spinning in circles like a dog chasing his tail trying to find them. Would a strip of Velcro down the back not be easier? Secondly how are you meant to sit down once you have to a degree fastened the back without showing off all that God gave you? Again I do not own any skirts and have no idea how to sit down in one in a dignified manner. Women cross their legs differently to men. Women cross their legs at the knee whilst men place one ankle on the opposite knee. This obviously is not appropriate when your meat and two veg are on display like a raw chicken hung in a butcher’s window. So you end up sitting there fidgeting until the doctor or nurse comes to see how you are getting on and finds you kicking your legs about like a once famous Kenny Everet character “In the best possible taste”.
Having found a comfortable position to sit in, and by comfortable I mean both feet on the floor, legs tightly clasped together and both hands trying to pull down the edge of the gown between your legs. I sit and listen to the doctor explain the procedure to me. I am then walked into the operating theatre, my bare arse hanging out of the badly fastened gown. My feelings of humiliation were soon replaced by something far worse as within seconds of climbing onto the operating table my gown was swung up around my neck until I was wearing it more as Superman would wear his cape. I take my mind of it all by rambling incoherent nonsense to the nurse attending to my gas and air desperately trying to forget the fact that I am lying naked on a table with three strangers busying themselves around me. Very soon the invasion begins, as what feels like a BBC war correspondence team venturing into an area that isn’t discussed in polite conversation. Luckily for me and my awkward discomfort I am able to remove myself form the situation and watch it all take place on TV as if it’s happening to somebody else and not me at all. This didn’t last long. The camera crew exploring my every internal crevice had reached what appeared to be a difficult corner to navigate and needed some external assistance. One of the nurses then began to lean on my stomach and manually assist the camera through the difficult colon chicane. My groans and grunting brought calming words from the nurse looking after me however this didn’t alleviate the thoughts that at any moment something was going to burst through my stomach wall. After various changes in position the camera crew reached their final destination and started the return journey. Thankfully this is a lot quicker although did make me feel like a drain that Dyno Rod were busy working on. Trying in vain to transport myself out of my current predicament I focus back on the TV screen and watch the journey my food takes on a daily basis.
Eventually after much prodding, poking and worst of all inserting I am wheeled back onto ward to recover for a few minutes, given a nice hot cup of tea and a sandwich and then sent on my merry way, walking out of the hospital as if I had been riding a horse for the last week.


I have been having trouble with my back for a few weeks having twisted my spine a couple of months back and the built up accumulation of many years of ill treatment, overworked lifting and shifting and incorrect posture, having been to see a physiotherapist I thought that I would book myself in for a sports massage to ease out any further knots. I have never had a professional massage before and was quite looking forward to it. I am welcomed into the centre with a nice cup of tea and asked a few routine health questions and if I had had any recent injuries. Very soon I was lying face down on the table with my face in a hole. As I think I have mentioned before I am not great at small talk, this is hindered even further when I have my face through a hole in a table, am half naked and a woman I have only met five minutes previously is pummelling my back. There I am staring at her parquet flooring and trying to discuss the weather and holidays etc. Before my hair rebelled on me and started disappearing and I actually went to hairdressers I always went to the same chap, we had an understanding, we would exchange pleasantries and then just shut up. None of this where are you going for your holidays rubbish. This is something I am going to have to instil on my masseuse should I go back again which I think I probably will. So there I am studying the floor, listening to the plinky music in the background and making the odd remark about the rain. You cannot have any intimacy issues if you intend to go for a massage, although primarily aimed at my back and neck apparently it was also necessary to attack my gluteus maximus, thankfully it had been a couple of weeks since my earlier experiences with the doctors or we could be telling a whole other story.
I have discovered that a sports massage is very different to a regular massage. A regular massage is designed to relax you, to send you off into a pleasant dream world leaving all your troubles behind. This was not. This was designed to loosen stiff overworked muscles, releasing the body toxins and realigning that which is out of place and considering that I have never had a massage before over the years my muscles had become very stiff and tight. Not being able to see a great deal other than floor I had no idea what she was doing and at times I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had climbed up onto my back and frog marched up and down my spine. She really did throw her whole being into the massage, twisting, bending, pummelling, stroking, rubbing and digging into my back. I could physically feel my muscles separating and moving around. At one point with my arm being pulled over my head my Lats clunked quite satisfyingly back into place. All in all it was very satisfying, albeit at times slightly uncomfortable re-manoeuvring muscles back into place, my back feels good, my small talk techniques have been exercised and I have a new intimate knowledge of parquet flooring. I do however feel it necessary to go for a relaxation type massage for comparison purposes only of course; however there is a small part of me that thinks this would result in me worrying about wrinkles and grey hairs, before you know it I’d be buying moisturisers and hair dye. A sports massage can be cunningly disguised as a medical procedure and not a treatment reserved for WAGS and pretty boys.
And yet it dawns on me that now having watched so much daytime telly, had a colonic irrigation and now a massage I may have unforeseeably slipped onto the downward spiral of male grooming…



I fear the worst.