It is the 29rd29st 29th of February and that can only mean one thing…
It is a Leap Year – the one day that someone, somewhere, has decreed in a totes authoritarian manner that women can propose to men.
I mean, that’s bloody bonkers. Why the hell can’t a woman propose for the other 365 days of the Leap Year?
Or any of the other 365 days of any normal year?
Well of course she can.
It’s all a control thing; the patriarchy is controlling 50% of the population of the planet through it’s outdated quasi-religious doctrines.
Well blow that.
So women of the world (and women of any other worlds who happen to be looking in), you go girls, you get out there and if someone (animal, mineral, vegetable, human, whatever) takes your fancy, you just get on and propose to him/her/it.
But don’t propose to me, OK?
Because on 28th December last year (yes, alright, just a couple of months ago but anyway), I got married.
This isn’t going to be either of the blog posts I was mulling over, during last night’s long but unremarkable network changes.
It was either going to be about weird pronunciations (absolutely *not* looking at any random Kiwis who might occasionally drop by), or about Sprocker the Elder and her remarkable gift of seeing things that aren’t quite there.
Instead I’ll tell you about something that happened this afternoon.
The dogs and I were hiding in the bedroom (not really hiding) because Mavis (the cleaner – not his real name) was wreaking all manner of cleaning havoc on the ground floor of the house.
The dogs were fast asleep on the bed.
I had just come off a remarkably brief Teams call and was looking forward to a spell of peace and quiet during which I could type up the call notes.
I eased the headphones off and instead of a large helping of P&Q I could hear what I can only describe as someone having a lot of fun.
In amongst the fun sounds I could distinguish a few words.
‘Yes! Oh! Oh! Like that! Yes, there! There! There!’
At first I thought Mavis was having too much fun with the vacuum cleaner, but then I realised the sounds were coming through the wall and originated in the adjoining house.
I can only assume that Mrs Next Door (for it was she) had adjusted her bedroom loudspeakers and finally achieved stereophonic nirvana, where the Left and Right balance had hit that elusive sweet spot that so many people find difficult to achieve.
It was such a shame her husband wasn’t home to share the good news.
Still, she and her friend probably demonstrated how they achieved audio perfection when he came home.
When I started, I told Alex (for that is his name) that I was the most rubbish rhythm guitarist in the world and I had about 20 years of bad habits to correct (even though I’ve only been playing for 15 years).
Well I’ve been playing with Alex (if you know what I mean) for over a year and now I think I’m almost the most rubbish rhythm guitarist in the world, and I have hardly any bad habits left.
I have also become the world’s most rubbish lead guitarist because yes, that’s right, Alex has me playing lead parts as well as sorting out my rhythm technique.
Speaking of technique, I have accidentally developed a habit of soft-muting (using the heel of your plucking/strumming hand softly against the guitar strings) when I’m not concentrating.
This has lead to an unexpected reggae feel to whatever we’re playing (e.g., Pentatonic scales or What We Did Today by the Beatles or whatever).
It’s an interesting effect, but it’s not how the pieces were intended to be heard, so I’ll try and sort it out and revert to George Harrison.
While this was underway, I zoned out a little and listened to the conversation in the shop: Cars, cars, cars, football, football, cars, old schoolfriends, cars, and football.
It’s no wonder I feel like I don’t fit in.
If the conversation could be: Wales (and the Welsh), Welsh politics, 70s and 80s prog rock, 200bhp sportsbikes, bad films, contemporary literary fiction (and authors thereof), European road trips and our spaniels, I’d fit right in.
There’s a Twitter account called @Fesshole that I’m slightly addicted to.
The principle is people make anonymous confessions, and these confessions then get reposted to all of the @Fesshole followers.
It’s simple really.
Some of the confessions are a bit close to the knuckle, some are just hilarious, some are a combination of the two, and some are just sad insights into other people’s lives.
Here’s a few of my current favourites:
When I was at university, I lived round the corner from a pub. Whenever we needed toilet roll we would go for a pint and come back fully stocked with bog roll
Actually, this sounds reasonable to me
I had a one-off outdoor afternoon tryst with an old school girlfriend I met on Facebook then spent the following week trying to prevent my wife seeing the rash of ant bites covering my back after having had sex on an anthill
Ants in your pants?
I found out my husband looks at porn when I am at work, what he does not know is I was paid to pose for a granny porn website last year
Wait. Granny porn? That’s a thing?
Our cleaning lady has been cleaning our house for 8 years, we exchange lovely presents at Christmas, I know all about her son and grandchildren. But both me and my wife have forgotten her name and there just seems to be no way we can find it out.