Brennig Jones (and friends)

http://www.tsgnet.com/pres.php?id=46832&altf=Csfoojh&altl=Kpoft

Oh yes. It is.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

B.

So, I was led by my strange need for coffee into Costa. Again.

But, I thought – it’s a Monday morning at 9.30am. Kids? Surely not.

However, I should have heeded the advice provided in the previous post.

I think Costa must be a meet-up place for young mums.

Ergh.

The comfy sofas were taken and I suspect even when the takers had left it would not be fit for a normal, non-offspringed person to occupy. The state of it was disgusting.

I wonder if these ‘young mums’ have houses scattered with crumbs and half salivaed-on cakes and spilt coffee?

I doubt it – because they seem to spend all of their time in MY LOCAL COSTA.

Don’t they know who I am?!

And it’s not only the screeching and ineffectual shushing that bothers me.

I went to sit at the bar-like area in the window, but started to feel claustrophobic when yet more mums poured through the doors and parked their MASSIVE pushchair-cum-shopping trolley directly behind me.

So I sat outside. Convinced myself it was because it was a beautiful morning.

And that was nice, fresh air, a dog-eared copy of Take-A-Break (shaddup!) and my fast cooling Latte.

Until…

The smokers came to reclaim their territory.

Hoorah.

Could everyone please fuck off while I drink my coffee?

Please?

(But then, what would I have to complain about?)

Most people have a degree of civilisation about them. Any degree. From a wafer-thin veneer to a big fat juicy chunk of civil behaviour.

Today, on our trip ‘out and about, exploring the towns, villages and countryside of Oxfordshire’ we stopped off in Witney and used the large, comfortable Costa.

Unfortunately, within minutes of our arrival, a family of six camped at the table next door.

Six.

Two grandparents, two parents and two completely out of control children.

None of whom had any degree of even the notion of what constitutes civilised behaviour at all.

It was a brilliant opportunity for Soph and I to observe not only two examples of ineffectual parenting, but also two examples of ineffectual grandparenting.

So for any efficient, effective parents (or grandparents) who may be looking in who are seeking tips in Higher Ineffectualism, here’s just a couple.

1. Take your children to Costa

2. Make sure that at least one of your children has only just woken up and therefore guaranteed to be tired, grizzly and grouchy

3. Ensure that this child (if not both children for good measure) is/are still dressed in his/her pyjamas for maximum hygiene

4. Allow the child(ren) to run absolutely fucking rampant around the place

5. Ignore any shouts or cries from the child(ren) [so, for instance, when the child says: ‘Mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY!!!!!!!’ you should ignore it. No matter how much noise it creates. Please, don’t even ‘Shush!’ it. Do not at all costs do not consider removing it from everyone’s hearing by taking it outside until it quietens down

6. Remember, the goal is to be ineffective at all times. So when your child leans over the furniture in to the space of complete strangers and eyeballs them, their food, their drinks from a distance much to far in the personal space of the strangers, please do absolutely nothing

7. Keep on doing nothing

8. When the out of control child/ren bumps its head and begins to cry in a loud horrid whiny fashion remember rule 7. Do nothing. You are, after all, trying to be ineffective whilst causing the maximum offence to everyone else in the coffee shop

9. Ignore the child/ren at all times

10. Ignore everyone else around you. Let’s be honest, the aim of the exercise is to be ineffective. If your child/ren is/are making so much noise that you can’t hear your conversation amongst yourselves – to the point that over the din of your rampaging brats you have to keep saying ‘What?’, you’re pretty much on the right lines you selfish fucking bastards.

Thanks.

By following these rules you too could be transformed from a caring, thoughtful human being to a completely ineffective human being – and one displaying as much care for your offspring – and as much consideration for your fellow human beings – as you display for that turd that fell out of your arse the day before yesterday.

B.

I just nearly cried at X-Factor.

That’s sealed it then, I’ll be watching for the next few weeks, following the guy who nearly made me cry to make sure he does well.

Until the next person makes me cry and I become confused about who I want to win.

Ah, whatever. I’ll probably forget about it after a couple of weeks – I mean, it’s just not Will Young telling Simon Cowell off, is it?

So – how was your Saturday?

Ours was good, thanks for asking.

While Bren was up at the Yard tending to Vinnie’s carrot-based needs, I was dropped off in town and did a little bit of shopping. And walked home tittering away to Russell Brand chatting up Dita Von Teese. And wondering if it’s possible to feel slightly turned on and totally embarrassed for him, all at once?

Then we went and picked up Podcast-related fixers from Maplins, where we encountered Saturday Grrl. Bless, she was trying. But just ever-so not helpful.

And then we got on the Park and Ride into the city of Dreaming Spires, or whatever it is. Oh, yeah. Oxford, that’s the one.

Packed is not the word.

It was heaving.

Lots of people all walking into me do not bring out a favourable side of me. It’s weird. I’d probably have been OK if I was on my own, but when I’m in that situation with someone else, anyone, I feel a bit freaked out. Because, when I’m on my own, I won’t lose anyone. But I was clinging onto Bren, and at some points dragging him out into the middle of the road, just to get away from them.

Bloody tourists.

And don’t mention the cyclists.

I’ll let Bren tell you the cyclist story. Bless him. How he loves that breed.

Anyway, we pottered. Ate a very lovely lunch. Watched in awe at various outfits – many, many instances of Fugly boots and getting-dressed-in-the-dark-syndrome.

Astonishing. Really.

See – just because it’s supposedly breeding ground for intellectuals, doesn’t mean they have any idea about clothes.

Also one or two knotted sweaters around shoulders on boys.

WTF? That actually happens in real life?

Anyway, we were glad for a sit down, in a darkened room, so trotted off to the Odeon to see ‘Taken’.

First thoughts: bad, bad hair dye. I do like Liam Neeson, and he basically is this film. But, really? The hair was right out of the school of Paul McCartney-I’m-not-really-going-grey.

Otherwise – brilliant action flick.

Had I not been in ‘healthy-eating’ mode, the popcorn intake would have been fast and furious.

Instead, Bren has a big bruise on his thigh from my clammy-handed grip.

It could have the tagline: ‘Jason Bourne is Older…But he can still fucking kick your ass’

Or something.

Anyway, ’twas good.

And now we are home.

And apart from my tearful intro to The X-Factor, I’m annoyed that they’ve put the old black dude through. I mean – really? He’s shit. Sorry – I’m sure he’s a nice enough bloke, but when they are sending some pretty good singers home, and letting him through, that’s ridiculous and smacks of them wanting to tick some age/race-related box.

And now I shall go. I’ve said my piece.

The problem that stopped this morning’s podcast episode from being recorded seems to have been a broken microphone-to-mixer deck cable.

Tests with replacement equipment indicates that normal service will be resumed tomorrow morning.

Thanks.

And Masher…

Did you hear Johnnie Walker’s documentary about Hendrix this evening on Radio 1? Brilliant! Worth the licence fee for that one programme alone.

B.

Two hours of unsuccessful fiddling about (which is a highly technical term) have yielded absolutely no fruit.

There’s a problem with the config.

I have eliminated The World’s Fastest Laptop, the software, the audio/usb converter and the four cables between the audio/usb converter and The World’s Fastest Laptop.

Which leaves, as possibilities, the mixer deck, the microphone or the microphone-to-mixer deck cable. I really hope it isn’t the mixer deck!

My money is on the microphone-to-mixer deck cable (he said optimistically).

So a trip to Maplin’s is on the cards, I’ll take the microphone and cable and – hopefully – find out which one is giving out the horrendous earth-buzz which records over and swamps all audio signals.

Once I’ve got the problem sorted I’ll get Episode 31 recorded; there are a lot of things to go through, so I’m quite anxious!

Anyway, the bottom line: normal podcast service will be resumed as soon as possible. And by ‘as soon as possible’ I mean that if I can fix the problem today then Episode 31 will be released no later than tomorrow morning.

Thanks. And sorry.

B.

The two oriental-looking-but-eastern-european-speaking girls sitting behind me haven’t stopped yammering since we got on the coach in Victoria.

We’re now in Buckinghamshire.

I’ve got no issue with them yammering non-stop at each other in a tongue I don’t understand. No. My problem is nothing to do with the language.

My problem is everything to do with the non-stop yammering. And the simpering girly voices.

I want to turn round and say ‘Shut The Fuck Up!’

I want to do it in a mean and threatening way.

I don’t want to have to take refuge in the ear-bud world that I usually enjoy because today – being Friday afternoon/evening and also being the end of the week – I want to sleep.

I dozed off a couple of times on the way out of London but on both occasions I was dragged from the arms of Mary Morpheus by the incessant yammer yammer and girly simpering with accompanying giggling.

Sigh.

Guess how old they are.

No, go on. Guess.

They’re both in the 24-26 bracket.

Fuck me, I’d like to do something with them and a bracket.

Hang them from the wall of the bus. On the outside. In a ‘stitch that you bitches’ kind of way.

[pauses]

I’m not normally grumpy when I’ve been woken up.

At least I don’t think I am; a little lower in the vocals, sure, but not grumpy at all.

Honest.

This has nothing to do with being woken up.

It’s everything to do with being kept awake – and that’s a serious crime.

They’re at it again – and we’re nearly in Oxfordshire!

Now then, where did I put that bracket?

B.

I waited all day yesterday.

And the pattern is repeating itself today.

But I am determined not to spend my entire day waiting.

It’s my own fault, really. I could have phoned the estate agents to say that I was popping out.

But I don’t want to be any trouble.

So instead I pottered around the house. I moved some boxes from one table to another corner. Put the mirror up in the living room. And the expensive wedding picture opposite so that we get to look at it from whichever angle, and therefore get our money’s worth.

I unpacked a few books to try and clear out the cupboard in the spare room, so that I could fill it again with…other stuff.

Alas, I underestimated the amount of books we seem to have accumulated.

I wonder if we could build an extension to use as a library? Or perhaps I could donate the books to a local library and become a patron or something? Hmm. Perhaps I’ll just go through them and give some away to charidee.

But the house is starting to look more like a home.

And already I am more comfortable here. I can’t explain why – there’s a just a better ‘vibe’ to the place.

Yep, I’m a hippy.

I was just e-mailing a friend a few minutes ago, and the postman came.

I nearly pooed myself. It sounded like he’d forced a dead body through the door.

But it was just a couple of cards (one from Mum and one from a member of Droitwich Readers Group, which brought a little tear to my eye) and insurance docs.

Tell me – how come my car insurance has rocketed £50 a year due to this move?

Is Witney really more dangerous than Bromsgrove in terms of owning a car?

I just compared the two documents. My previous cost was £22.02 a year. We are now paying £76.78.

WTF?!

I look forward to seeing the difference in Bren’s car insurance…

Conversely, our home insurance has gone down. It was £5.70 per month. It is now £5.01.

So, let me get this straight. It’s a safer area in terms of the contents of our house, but look out for the car thieves?

I must have missed all those burnt out cars on the side of the road on the A40.

But, perhaps I’m missing something. I mean, I can be quite the bimbo sometimes…

No sign of the electrician yet. I think I’ll pop into town soon and buy some stuff from the Shop Of Dreams – I love caressing that Laminated Book Of Dreams (as Bill Bailey so eloquently puts it) as I search for my chrome-plated toilet roll holder.

In other news…

My dreams have been quite mental since we moved.

I told Bren about a very disturbing near-sexual one involving a Christmas tree on Monday night.

Previous ones are fading from my mind, thank God.

The one last night was…complicated…it involved someone trying to control the world (which, obviously, was just the town where I grew up), and making everyone do things like jousting and some kind of army manoeuvres. But I stood up to him. And stole his precious white butter saucer. Which the caretaker snatched away from me and threw down the drain. And I made up some story about taking said butter dish to Mum and Dad as a holiday gift, and was faux-upset that he had taken it off me. Pretending that I didn’t know how important it was to the Ruler of the World.

Yeah – it was much more involved than that, but those are the wisps that I can just about see if I squint really hard into my disturbed subconscious.

Hopefully it will all have gone by noon.

And on that note. I’m off.

Otherwise, I’ll get sucked, once again, into daytime TV.

So  I’m on the coach, right?

And we’re in Kensington, right?

And we’re stopped at the lights, right?

Well, this cyclist courier guy pulls up alongside us, right?

I mean he gets in tight and close to the coach, right?

And then, because he can’t go further forwards because there’s a van blocking his way, he has to wait there for the lights to change, right?

Well what he does is he keeps his feet on the peddles and just leans in to the side of the bus, right?

I mean, WTF?

When did ‘please feel free to lean against any vehicle’ appear in the inconsiderate bastard cyclists manual?

B.

p.s. Sorry about the chavspeak; I’ve been listening to a parody of how youffs talk to each other and it’s cuttingly accurate but slightly addictive.

Yesterday – Monday – might not be typical; being the first full working day based at the new house, the temptation was to try and cram everything in.

You know, try and squeeze in all of the benefits of now working within commuting distance of home and horse.

So yeah, the day started well with the half-hour drive to the Park and Ride where I picked up the express coach. And the trip in to London was OK and uneventful but slightly too long. I think I might be putting my Superpower (sleeping on the spot) in to action, if I persevere with the coach as my primary form of transport.

And at the end of the day the trip to Oxford was equally OK and uneventful and still slightly too long. Go figure. We pulled in to the Park and Ride at Oxford with little warning which left me panicking to get myself, my rucksack and laptop all tidied up and off the coach without leaving anything behind before too much time had elapsed. It wasn’t quite like a racing pit stop but it felt as though it was.

The half-hour drive home from the Park and Ride was hassle-free too.

Soph greeted me with a cheery ‘Hiyer!’ (I can’t help wondering what the locals reckon to us) and a cuddle and a mug of tea and despite the day I’d had everything was suddenly well again.

After a little teamwork which turned a tubular steel Chinese puzzle in to some kind of storage device I got changed, climbed back in to the car and did the half-hour drive to Vin’s new home.

Vin, unsurprisingly, showed his displeasure when he saw me; pulled his ears back and gave me his best grumpy face.

I don’t think that was because he thought I might shove a quantity of worming paste down his neck again, like I did yesterday.

I think he was telling me how unhappy he is to be in a strange, new place with none of his friends; he was telling me he wanted to be back home. Hayley, one of the yard grooms, said that Vin had been whinnying for his friends all day.

I wish I could explain everything to him, in words or symbols that he would understand; but I’ll just have to try and win him round and let the memories diminish. But it makes me sad.

On the positive side he looks absolutely gorgeous. Being pampered, groomed twice a day and with his mane and tail beautifully smartened up… it agrees with him! As well as the hands-on care he’s being well fed and his stable is kept immaculately clean and tidy. I have no worries about how well he’s being looked after.

More positive news: his displeasure at seeing me was short-lived. After a couple of sliced apples he decided he quite liked me really, and whickered and whinnied for me whenever I bobbed briefly out of sight to fetch things.

I took his stable rug off, groomed and tacked him up and we rode in the indoor arena for a little while – just 20 minutes of gentle schooling. And he was pretty bloody good.

The large mirror at one end of the school showed me what I’d felt but not been able to see before; he really does try hard. And when we catch those special moments when his weight and balance are in perfect synchronisation with my weight and balance and he understands precisely what I’m asking for and his balance and bend and rhythm and impulsion are spot on… We capture – precisely capture – the epitome of correctness. And it looks good. No, it looks much better than good. It looks excellent.

Afterwards, after being groomed, rugged up and more sliced apples, I kissed his nose and drove back to the house where Soph greeted me as if my favourite dog had died and we had cuddles on the doorstep.

It was only when she silently mouthed at me ‘what’s wrong?’ I realised that the beautiful music I was still listening to had moved me so close to tears that actually – I was probably looking as if my favourite dog had died!

The mood altering music was the beautiful, captivating, enchanting, hauntingly brilliant Ára Bátur by Sigur Rós.

Over our evening meal we planned Saturday activities and then decided on an early night which involved much hugging, kissing and cuddling followed by an episode of Angel. Then more hugging, kissing and cuddling and very suddenly… sleep.

Not a bad first day, but perhaps I won’t try and squeeze quite so much in to every day.

How was yours?

B.