Life in the middle

If hell was a towel.

Being the cycling to work type (and the clean type), I often utilise the work shower facilities (they come free). And while doing this I've noticed something - that is that men seem to go out of their way to bring into work their most grim and offensive towel. Each and every one are nasty - either by colour, fabric, treatment, or all three.

Having been subjected to this towel disgrace for some months I've managed to build up some resistance, a tolerance if you will. That was until I saw the monstrosity pictured above. I was so put out by the thing that I was tempted to set fire to it immediately and tender my resignation. But then I thought - maybe that's what the owner wants. Maybe it's a trap.

Now I just ignore it - pretending it's not there, though I do always carry matches (just in case).

My so called life.

Today I spent the day pondering matters of great importance. For instance, I wondered, if I was a heating and plumbing type bloke, if I'd be able to get more messages on the side of my van than 'O'Dwyer Heating & Plumbing', it's a big ask.

I wondered whether my new shades were too cool for school (decided they probably were).

I wondered whether saving the planet was going to get any easier - the plastic has to be hand delivered to the council (unlike the metal and the cardboard).

And finally, I considered where I am and where I'm going.

Then I pondered blogging about it all.

Then I did.

Bananas.

I'm almost certain that this kind of Tom Foolery shouldn't still make me laugh, but it does, and it did. I've found myself hoping someone brings in a whoopie cushion to work next week, or maybe some fake dog shit.

Either way, I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Take your tea as it comes, please.

I spend a lot of my time messing around with tea. Craving it. Making it. And drinking it. As I move through this tea-scape, I often come across people with theories to share, tales to tell, and orders to issue, around the idea of how to make the 'perfect' cup of tea. And I myself have often pondered this question. But today I realised - tea is like the day. You should not worry too much about it, but simply take it as it comes. Be it good, bad, or forgettable. Sometimes it will be a tea of small things, of little flavour and strange after-tastes. Occasionally it will be great. But it will never be predictable. The better, the best, will always be an unexpected joy.

So play around. Experiment. Milk in first, milk in last. Stir a little, stir a lot. A dash of milk, a dollop of milk. Out of a mug. Out of cup and saucer. Out of a pot. Out of a pot again. Out of a flask. Or even out of a plastic cup (but not too often).

So treat a cup of tea like the day. Let the good ones come to you. And let the bad ones slip away. You are, after all, only ever a cup away from things getting better.

Don't rush your fences.

It would appear that I have to eat about three quarters of any dish I don't like, before I realise I don't like it. Take goats cheese for instance. I tackled the above omelette incarnation of the cheese of the goat for lunch today. I don't know why I ordered it. I was in a rush. I'd had some startling news. And I was with a very cosmopolitan crowd (one of them ordered a starter as a main course). So I ordered it, ate three quarters of it, or there abouts, and then realised it tasted like puke. So I stopped eating it, and pushed it to the side of the plate.

Luckily I was able to secure some sausage and a little mash off one of one of my dining companions to make up for the loss, but despite that I was disappointed. Of course I'll get over it - I'll just avoid goats cheese in the future. But the experience will make me wary of any new meal until I'm over three quarters of the way through it.

Get you.

I saw this super looking fellow crossing the road in Camden the other day. It's not a great picture but I think you can tell what a smooth operator he is even from this shot. He struck me as the kind of guy who if he said, in a low murky kind of voice, "hey, let's go play some ping-pong", you might just think - yeah, I fancy playing some ping-pong.

I followed him for a bit before he ducked into a local barber's. I don't know what was said, but I imagine they told him to "get out of here you glorious bastard, you're hair's smashing already, there's nothing we can do", at which point he nodded, and went about his daily business.

As I said - I don't know, but I'd put money on it that's what happened.

What?

What are you looking at? Oh that. That's just my voting card, or polling card. And yes, I did use it this morning. I got out of my sick bed and made my way to the local polling station.

Once there I drew breath, relaxed my neck, stretched off my back, and did one of the things I love to do most in the world - I voted.

I love the smell of church halls in the morning, the sight of wonky rosettes, the taste of democratic power. I've said it before but I'll say it again - I'd vote every day if I could.

Harry and his cat.

Read all about my Mum and Dad's new cat, here.

Blogging's getting good again.

"I bet it was those bastard kids we have"

Tom hosts an enthralling Viennese Twirl over at Raymond.

(Blogging of the highest order old chap.)

The internet, there when you need it.

This is the view of my neighbour's garden, which is coming on nicely (they've been working hard on it).

This is the view from Beeker's window. She's in New York on a top secret planning mission. I'm ill with man flu in London. She is there. I'm here. We've got the internet. So we can exchange mails. Post pictures. And generally be silly.

I know this isn't what the internet was invented for, but it might just be was it's best for.