Normal for Norfolk

T-rex on the radio

2011-11-15T10:47:00.000Z

T-rex on the radio. Always makes me smile.

Kate was never a fan of Marc Bolan - as a teen she was disdainful of the prince of pop rock excess.

With a loving tease I'd turn up the sound. Ride a white swan, ricky ticky licky, bleurgh...
Can see and hear her now. Bless.

Since I turned 27...

2011-07-26T10:01:00.000+01:00

Since I turned 27 I have...

Met the mother of my children.
Fell in love.
Became a father.
Scrimped, saved, and scavenged the hedgerows to feed and warm my family.
Travelled around playing double bass in a band.
Recorded albums.
Written songs.
Made some friends.
Lost some friends.
Built some cars.
Raced a car I built.
Appeared on television.
Performed live at festivals and on the radio.
Lost the mother of my children.
Cried.
Worked out that laying in the bath with cheap gin fixes nothing.
Been in therapy and on tranquillisers.
Rediscovered friendships that will last for all time.
Discovered that I can love again.
Laughed.
Changed from father to embarrassing dad.
Made chutney and copious quantities of cider.

Remained humble; thankful for everything good that life cares to share with me.

Inevitable news

2011-07-25T10:00:00.000+01:00

Success. Excess. Senseless. Lifeless. Pointless.
Another tarnished silver spoon rebel without a clue.

Dew between the toes.

2011-07-23T01:03:00.000+01:00

And it's an early, early morning flit across the back yard grass to raid the greenhouse for just turned red tomatoes, and a healthy clump of basil leaves. Bare foot and dew between the toes. Them peppers, them's next; for the feel fine lunchtime dine.
Been to the Fat Cat Tap with Them Harvey Boys for a fight the noise battle. We unplugged and won. Too pooped to climb the one to eleven steps, bed beckons but the sofa's nearer...

Let it rain.

2011-07-18T08:22:00.003+01:00

Brilliant weekend.
Gig, village fete, gig, steam rally.

Rain. Glimmer. Torrential rain. Evening sun. Rain, shine, rain.
French beans, peas, broad beans.
Beetroot for roasting with honey.
Digging my potatoes in a thunderstorm.
Friends for tea, blackberry whisky, sofa sleeping.

Perfect weekend. No gaps.

Nostalgia Nationals 2011

2011-06-28T15:15:00.001+01:00

I'm a charlatan.
Drive my '24T Modified around pretty much as I built it, bar a stock 24 stud flathead replacing the tired 21 stud and a 3.54 axle change. Twenty years of glacial progress.

I'm at the Nostalgia Nationals surrounded by people tinkering. Checking. Adjusting. Changing something. Looking for a way to gain some precious tenths. With time to kill, the charlatan takes off the screen, silencers and mechanical fan belt. Three tenths difference that may have been the late afternoon air, a better dogleg first to second change, or just luck. Not even an oil light to keep the ammeter company - the dashboard tells me nothing.

We're here to remember Tony Cardy. Fellow member of the East Coast Sidewinders. Twenty five entries in the Flathead Meltdown to celebrate the passing of man who whittled and filed his way down through those precious seconds until he ultimately put his '27T modified way down into the 12's. Pump fuel through two carbs, fragile three speed banjo axle, wire wheels and crossplies. And driven there and back.

Tony sweated the details. Who knows exactly what tricks he performed inside the engine, but weight was his obvious enemy. Every component skimmed, shaved, drilled and subjected to the hole saw in a bid to cheat gravity. Every superfluous part that wasn't required for that quarter mile trip, removed. Screen, headlights, radiator on a pile in the pits. Belt and zippo lighter too...

Quiet and cantankerous. Wicked humour and nervously serious. Our straightline featherweight. We celebrate your dedication and brilliance in making anchors fly.
Think it's time procrastination ceased and this charlatan started stressing the iron.

Shelsley Walsh

2011-05-16T15:56:00.003+01:00

Last year I missed the first run with the flat-8 boys at Shelsley. Mirror. Check. More grey hairs. Right - not going to miss out again!
 Poor old flivver spent the winter outside under a tarpaulin barely turning a wheel since Prescott until about a month ago when it was popped into a nice dry barn. Excellent then - shouldn't need a thing. Wrong. With a week to go, I dragged home a spitting, coughing, clutch slipping wreck. Engine out. Threw in another old cover and new plate, blew the dust out of an old Holley 94, popped it on, and we're back to normal (torque tube clunks, squeaking pumps, slapping pistons...). Even found time to wipe a rag over the dirt and varnish the string bound steering wheel.  Had the chance to send on a set of Blockleys in the Buckland Automotive shop truck, so, on a gloriously sunny Friday, with scant camping gear tied on, I set off after work, met up with Sue & Adrian, popped in to see the progress of the Ben Nevis Centennial project at Tuckett Brothers - mad - and arrived just in time to pitch tent before the rain, walk up the track in fading daylight, get trapped at the top by a thunderstorm, and retire to the bar...

 A night sans mattress, more rainstorms, and random wildlife prompted an early start - sticking numbers on a damp car, stripping off the cycle guards, carrying wheels up from the camp site... proper knackered when I noticed a queue forming at the signing on shed. Half hour lining up chatting to some lovely people and I have a prized'first thirty' yellow ticket which, time allowing, will let me get one more practice run. One more chance to break my car. Gulp. Not helped by the incredulous looks from those that realised I'd driven there? In that? Luckily I'm used to having my sanity questioned early in the morning.

Scrutineering over and, after realising I had to hand my ticket back in to book my practice runs, I had my first run up t'hill. And the rains came down. Visor steams up. Glasses steam up. First gear useless as the car stands still on the slippery start line, a tentative dribble up the hill, no braking and lifting far too early for the Esses, long uphill sprint to the finish, bogged down with a change into top... 54 seconds.
 Another run, bravery increasing, slowing later into the bends, 51.8 seconds. Third practice, still very wet - forgot to close my visor, flicked it down on the climb for a perfectly vision free assault of 51.7...
 Finally the skies clear and on a drying track we're into the forties with a 48 second climb. Excellent! Still lifting where I needn't, far too early for the Esses, and still not braking. I'm beginning to question my delusions of adequacy.  Our high spirited entourage were treated admirably well by the cheery restaurant staff and, ignoring the weather, we took advantage of the open fronted bar. For some reason I thought now would be a good time to have another walk up the hill. Yup, it was still steep, dark, wet - and my only useful strategy decision was not to slide off at the Crossing corner into the hawthorn and not to brakes for the bottom 'S' until I smelt the wild garlic, or saw the bat fly over...

 Sunday. Rain stopped at 5.30 but started up again in time for the first runs of the day. Luckily however, by the time the 12-strong ASBO's rumbled to the line there was enough grip to completely bog down pulling away in second. Kept it in second for a greasy bend run of 48.6. After lunch we had one more run on a pretty dry track. Queuing in the sunshine - it was lovely to have people come over asking questions, genuinely entertained to see us there. Pulled off the line with a tad of wheelspin in first, smiling as the announcer said "we were chatting to the flathead boys last night and they're all quite insane" lift a little for Kennel bend, again at the reverse camber of Crossing, out of revs and a late lift at the bottom S - but still too early! - hint of tyre squeal between the Esses, and a final breathless out of revs in second sprint to the line. 46.27 seconds. Waving to the marshals all the way back down. Lovely.
 Back to pits, pop the wings back on, tie on the camping gear and charge for home. Four and a half hours burbling across the country with a tray of tomato plants for company and a friend's A roadster silhouetted against a never ending sunset in the mirror. Brilliant.  Only a few more grey hairs till next time...

Suicide Masters no more.

2011-03-24T10:51:00.003Z

Sunshine! Spurr-rring!
Past few months I've been in survival mode. The Skylark - trusty, crusty, rusty Transit has been put put out to pasture. Ice, fog, rain and darkness my grey freezing companions on the daily commute. No such thing as bad weather, jut inappropriate clothing. More so on a motorcycle...

Ah, but this morning! Warmness. And not from stopping and putting my gloves as close as I dare to the engine or accidentally leaning against the silencer in my leggings.

Smarted a little spending what I've saved on fuel recently to buy some tyres for the Enfield. Way back when I first ventured out on a motorbike, tyres were round things filled with air. One each end and made from something jurassic period black. Normally ribbed Speed Master front and zigzag Safety Mileage rear courtesy of Avon with a propensity to throw you down the road without a moment's caution. SM. Fondly dubbed Suicide Masters and always blamed without any consideration for the handling foibles of the worn out bikes they were fitted to. Never remember wearing any out, never remember buying any new either - but if they looked too perished there was always another set lurking on a scrap bike somewhere.

Big revelation! New tyres are are made of honest to goodness rubber. And grip! Even though they look the same as the Suicide Masters of (very) Olde I feel confident enough to go round corners and everything! Obviously this post is tempting fate like it's going out of fashion, but hey that's what it's there for. No matter how sad, I just wanted to share how loop-de-loop I am with my new rubber hoops...

Last Rod Run

2010-12-03T15:46:00.000Z

On the first day of the last month of twenty ten, we said farewell to a friend who stopped getting older.
He finished the race that none of us want to win. Nor finish last.
Life is short. Make every beat count. Give every tear it's moment, but let each memory bring a smile.

Hair today, goon tomorrow.

2010-11-24T09:12:00.001Z

Steppin' out all glow and glitter,
Curtains twitch and eyelids flicker.
Low, low buzz of tongues a-twitter,
Red hair. No knickers.

I see a story in the world, and it's friends that set it to music.

Stopped counting

2010-11-22T16:47:00.001Z

The years creak by, one more missed birthday. Sister cooked us tea and made it special. I sat by the fire till midnight clicked through.

Been clearing my inbox today and found some old matter of fact messages - shopping lists, 'spag bol' for tea? And this one.

"As the bright light from the sun shone onto the patterned floor in the
sitting room, there 'dead centre' of the room appeared two nasty
looking patches. Was it a trick of the light, a shadow or something
worse? No, it was nasty smelling OIL - we may have to do something
about replacing the carpet if the marks won't come out - Robert and I
have done our best, we'll just have to wait and see.

PS could you also get some cooked ham for the kids sandwiches."

Message received, understood - and kept. Glass raised.

Wanderlust

2010-11-22T16:36:00.000Z

Wanderlust. Hmmm. The lust I've always suffered.
As for wandering? Well in the words of Ted Chippington - I'm not the wanderer.
As for the king of wanderlust? Me and the long haired ginger freak went to see Gogol Bordello a few months ago.
Superb.
Formed a queue outside, picked a spot down front, and watched the world roll in to the point of heaving. Wasn't the oldest one in the room either. Excellent!

Out again last week to the talent show at my daughter's High School. No longer the stomping ground of the boy - he's moved on to pastures new but couldn't resist coming along to catch up with all his old buddies. Some of who came along on Friday to the Shed for a spot of Them Harvey Boys. For what was a rollicking good evening!

Cheers Eugene, but I'm alright lusting and wandering around my own backyard...

Click. Brrrrrrr.....

2010-10-29T00:05:00.000+01:00

Chatting to the ether. Less than white noise in return.
Not to be disturbed, no keyboard sparring with the wicker teapot.
Click. Brrrrr.....

Productivity

2010-10-18T09:11:00.000+01:00

Harvest time. There's a hundred and one things I should be doing. Instead the dining table is now covered in jars of beetroot chutney, pickled onions, garlic cloves bobbing in spiced oil, apple chutney and for good measure there's a goodly five gallons of dark yuletide ale bubbling into life.

And beside it all last night's Scrabble score of 250-odd to 475. Against. Beautifully beaten to bed...

New phone

2010-10-12T12:00:00.000+01:00

No trumpets.
No fanfare.
No Android.
No iPhone.
No smarty pants phone at all, just the cheapest cheapie phone that I could buy to replace my ancient dying Nokia that I swapped for a 99p penknife.
No it's not turned on.
No you can't have the number.
Know me too well.

People with Flat Heads at Prescott.

2010-10-12T11:48:00.005+01:00

I first went to Prescott to watch a damp VSCC meet about 14 years ago. Tripped down in the band van, parked in a field on the hill. Discussed three-wheelers with Dick Buckland. It took me till last year to make it back as a spectator when I parked my scruffy A Fordor in the Orchard. The only set of whitewalls amongst the VSCC set...

Summer was a washout this year with no time nor money to enjoy but when I was badgered into entering for October the 2nd I knew I had to do it. Had to! Driving there and back in sheet rain and sleeping on nothing but a blanket in a ridiculously small tent? Didn't notice. Had a tense couple of weeks sorting out my very own barn-find roadster - it'd been standing up for 2 years. Squeaked it down for an MOT with a few days to spare, fitted the tyres up last week, ignored the slapping piston and clunking back axle and thrashed it a couple of hundred miles across the country.What could possibly go wrong?!
Fun? Oh yes...
Brilliant.

Bizarre shopping list

2010-09-26T23:43:00.006+01:00

So I went to town the other day. Little spin out in the resurrected roadster. Just to see how it went you understand. Not to hoon it round the back roads or play squeally tyre noises in the market place.

That bit just happened.

And whilst in town I purchased a few items. Wax cotton long rider stalking betwixt shops for:

Two yards of white fablon
One blowtorch gas cylinder
Talcum powder

Apologies to our local Big Issue seller for having no change left. The list? Talc for tyre fitting, blow torch for soldering, sticky backed plastic for making some racing letters for next weekend. If the car survives from my heavy feet until then...

Wedding of a lifetime.

2010-07-27T08:57:00.000+01:00

When I heard about it I thought - lovely. When the invite was pegged to the kitchen wall I thought - this is the don't miss event of the year. Probably decade...

A rodeo weekend of camping, eating, drinking, dancing, and all round superbly faultless loveliness.

I'll sum it up in two photos.
Happy couple leaving the wedding...

The groom being greeted by one of the guests...

Lives Lived. Part deux.

2010-07-09T09:23:00.002+01:00

Wedding anniversary a couple of days ago.
Blip. Ever had that moment that gets you down and nothing shakes it?
Thankfully being surrounded by lovely people is a sure fire way to turn that blip into a bubble. Guided home by Mark on a flit across the dusty, hazy lanes; flathead coupe full of warm oil vapours. Ticking leads, random misses, slipping clutch. Home into fading light with more friends and home-made cider.

Wrote a bit of a poem a while ago. Lives lived. One wonderful Ian went for a wander and came back with a tune in his head. Worked it up in the studio Tuesday, adding a spot of double bass, and wore it like a hat inside through Wednesday. Fitted fine.

Curried Pea Soup.

2010-03-02T14:22:00.002Z

Upright freezer didn't actually die. Just took it upon itself to start freezing on the outside too... Replacements came courtesy of some new neighbours - a smaller upright freezer and a complimentary fridge to stand on top.

Which is a long way round explanation as to the excess of frozen garden peas that a "two-for-one" Morrison's deal forced us to buy... After three days of peas with everything it was time for a more drastic solution.

Curried Pea Soup.

Ingredients:
2 small, or one larger onion. (Y'know, some onion will be just fine.)
Garlic. (My choice, I don't have to kiss me so I went with four cloves.)
1 Red bell pepper.
1/2 teaspoon chilli powder.
1/2 teaspoon of dried mint.
1 tablespoon of Balti curry powder.(Again my choice, it's all I had...)
1 carrot. Chopped or grated. (Optional. It was leftover from the day before with a sprig of broccoli...)
1 vegetable stock cube. (Or a teaspoon of Marmite if you prefer. I did.)
Salt/pepper to suit.
Dash of double cream.
1 bag of frozen peas. Obviously

Method.
Chop n' fry the garlic, onion and pepper in a little oil.
Add the seasoning.
Dissolve the stock cube (or alternative...) in a mug of boiling water and pour it in.
Stir in the peas, chopped/grated carrot. Bring to the boil and simmer for about 6-10 minutes. Add extra water if required (I used a little cider that was too hand...)
Hit it with a blender to hide any 'extras' the kids won't like. See if it needs any extra seasoning - or open another bag of peas if you've been a little generous!
Stir in the cream to suit, remove from the heat and shout 'why isn't the table laid yet??!' as if it would make any difference.
Enjoy. Surprisingly my two came back for more, but then they're used to my cooking by now!
And, yes. It freezes. Of course I didn't have that option...

More lost things...

2010-02-03T14:10:00.001Z

Well, I've been continuing the search for lost things. A camera and a V5 this time. Why do I remember what I've lost and yet not where I've put it?

Hah! Still, this gem slipped out from yet another pile of paperwork. Written "oh so long ago" inspired by a Gary Larson cartoon...

Edgar's found his Purpose.

Edgar's found his Purpose
He's got the whole damn lot.
He's turned the key on reason,
and now he knows what's not.

Edgar's found the remedy
to turn back missing time
Till the day before is dawning,
And everything seems fine.

Well that solves everything then. Using the word 'got' was a deliberate jibe at my English teacher who went to great lengths to impress upon us it's redundancy. That and the abhorrence that is the word 'nice'...

Bump, scrape, grind.

2010-02-03T08:58:00.000Z

Wonderful weekend last summer.
Alice. Me. The ol' Fordor.
Field. Tent. Tap. Beer.
Morning. Bounce, splash, scrape, charge. Lovely day.
Up, breakfast, Curboro' sprint, Castrol R. Super.
Drive home, non-stop, heat, sun, exhaust fumes, bad head. Not dead. Neighbours barbeque, bath. Wiped out.

Seemed like a good idea when it was still wet n' cold n' winter. Curborough VSCC Sprint, just a few miles from a friends backyard. Why not go up early, have a day or so bumping the ol' Cee-dan around the Staffordshire countryside, go to the sprint on Sunday and drive home? Most pleasant.

Went back through that way yesterday. Rain. Wind. Sleet. Snow.
Really hope to do that all again this year!!

Fat boy. No slim.

2010-01-12T13:14:00.009Z

Last years new years resolution. Downsizing me. Didn't happen. All this sitting at a screen for too many hours in a day is still increasing the cuddliness.

No amount of gigging (too near the bar) or digging (too near the fresh produce) has changed my current configuration. Homemade cider, wine, cheese, and the general sweet excesses of Christmas have not helped. One bit. Well - in the absence of scales, I suspect that to be the case...

Still. The sudden cold spell has sent me out into the garage beating on chill steel for another entropy suspension mission. Another Model A - a pickup this time. On a charge to complete it for the summer months and press it into usefulness upon the allotment. If only as an oversize wheelbarrow for this years courgette mountain.

Been learning myself some fresh skills, beyond pounding curves into 18 gauge steel, too. Unfortunately it's involved more screen sitting, but the self esteem boost during my darkness travelling to windowless office world is worth it. Probably.

So. This years resolution? Carry on happily ignoring my failed shape shifting and get to recording the new songs what I writ last year?
Tune in next year I guess and see where that gets me....

Cucumber sandwich darling?

2009-08-11T10:56:00.006+01:00

Thirteen long years ago, summer of 1996. Home from an Irish tour, gig free weekend, best buddy Mark n' me threw a few things in the band bus and headed to the Cotswolds. Prescott hillclimb. Pitched up atop an empty field and went to watch the Vintage Sports Car crowd throw vintage cars up the hill. The Orchard, Esses, the Circle and across the finish. Rained on the Saturday so we picked a dry bank at the Esses where I snapped off a roll or so of poor pictures on my OM10. Evening found us camped beside Dick Buckland and his Lomax driving friend. Dick was a huge influence when we were designing our Trifid - and he'd somehow managed to park up beside us.
Night fell. Laying in the pits between Bugattis, Bentleys, and wonderful vintage specials, listening to the sounds of a dixieland jazz band wafting down the hill from the evening entertainment. Bumped into James Diffey, wonderful bloke who'd befriended us at local trials. Now sadly left the planet and despite the fact our paths crossed seldom, the world notices the loss. Sunday sun brought 'god's beautiful people' out in ancient grand tourers. Champagne, crystal and cucumber sandwiches.
We vowed to make this our annual pilgrimage.

Promises, promises.

So. Thirteen long years. And we went back. Mark in his Standard 9 special - I took the Cee-dan packed for camping.

Cheese n' wine in the campsite. Stayed a week and travelled to the Forest of Dean, much of Gloucestershire, a few teary memories of a Cotswold holiday long past, and a torrential trip back. Loving it. How long to the next time, and how much water to pass beneath life's bridge - time only knows.

Blue Peter Badge

2009-06-02T08:40:00.002+01:00

Found! Not lost at all, just hiding. Had the loft insulated which involved emptying out three, five, nine, sixteen years and beyond of assorted boxes, hand-me-downs, old carpets, old stereos and general it'll-come-in-handy-one-day schmutz.

Amongst it, one baby backpack, decorated with a handful of badges. There it was all along, my Blue Peter badge right between a small Austrian cowbell and a Golden Shred golly. Next mission to find the letter from Biddy Baxter...

David Harkins.

2009-05-06T11:05:00.002+01:00

Saturday. Went Maypolin'.
Should have gone to an auction in Cumbria. Regretting not putting in the effort to bag a bargain now...
Instead I find a Cumbrian poet.

“You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.
Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want:
smile, open your eyes, love and go on.” David Harkins.

Ah, bugger. Happiness and beyond.

New Years Eve reflections

2009-01-09T13:53:00.003Z

New Years Eve, party with the neighbours. Been right here before. Mirrors to the past. Taking stock. And talking to a friend who understands. Tragic loss and all alone. Guilt for surviving and carrying on without them. Her husband. My Kate.

Looking forward to a myriad of futures each clock chime promises. Still back to times past ended.

Cider, confetti cannons, chinese lanterns, curry and wine. C'mon New Year, give it y'best shot.

Apples, bathrooms, tinsel n' cider

2008-12-12T13:16:00.004Z

Christmas coming, things to find, MOT on the van looming, carting stuff for the Nervous Bob till it runs out... rush. Rush, Rush. Again.

But, wahay!
Amidst all this I have somehow created a bathroom that I'm getting real pleased about! A bath that I actually fit in, a toilet that flushes, and a mirror in front of a stable sink that I can see to shave in. When I get a moment... With; count 'em - TWO taps!

Just the tiling, ceiling. lights to go. And a few more floor tiles. And some more stuff that I can't remember without some kind of list.

House been cleaned and decorated too despite the mess, all thanks to the lovely Lynda. An angel sent from heaven I'm told. How christmassy. Busy weekend ahead of parties and gigs, so tonight's the time to deal with the heaving quantities of apples that have languished for the past week or two whilst I played plumber. First up I guess is another batch of chutney before racking off the cider. It's all getting very exciting!

So - for those that don't receive a jar, here's my own personal recipe for the eradication of the excess of eating apples this year has brought. I have also used other recipes for all the cooking apples that didn't become pies and cider....

Spicy Apple Chutney

Ingredients.

2.5kg cored and peeled eating apples, chopped (type unknown, largish, red n' yellowish but most importantly flavoursome n' free...)
1 large onion
500g white sugar
125g crystalized ginger, chopped
0.5 litres of white vinegar
8-10 little dried chillies, chopped (bought on special at Julian Graves on a whim - they go a looonnggg way!)
1 teaspoon peppercorns
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon paprika

Method.

Chop up the apples, ginger, and onion and place in a pan, add the sugar and chillies, pour over most of the vinegar and begin warming. Meanwhile combine the other ingredients with a pestle and mortar and dry roast them in a small frying pan for a minute or so before adding to the apples. Bring to the boil, and then turn down to simmer for about one hour. I like to stop cooking it whilst there's still some lumps left. Eating apples soften quickly and produce a fair amount of liquid - add more vinegar if required.

Clean some jars and warm them in the oven, bottle the chutney. Resist eating it for maybe a month... Try to make enough to last a year.

I've made a few batches of this so far - adapted from a mango chutney recipe. It's warm, lovely, and yellow.
Tried juniper berries in one batch. That worked but make sure they're crushed. More chillies in the last batch. That worked too!

Lives Lived.

2008-12-05T10:58:00.003Z

For some alone's the only way that they desire to be.
To never feel the waking warmth of someone's company.
Why bother listening if there's nothing heard to share?
Why keep on looking if you stand alone and stare?
Wasted life is drumming to the beat of just one heart,
Love more complete together, than we ever were apart.

I ain't never not wanted to share my life with you.
Take everything and more, for there's more enough for two.
I ain't never not wanted to spend your life with me.
From the moment we first met, until ashes on the sea.

(Still haven't found that Blue Peter badge. And I didn't get it for poetry...)

Pressin' Things

2008-10-27T09:01:00.008Z

Well - been absent for a while, rushing about.
Bathroom's sinking. Everything bought and paid except the very floor to stand it all on; so there's a lovely suite sitting in the van. Oh dear.

Only one thing to do. Ignore it. So, yesterday, all hands turned to the need to crush the mountains of poor defenseless apples that have been gathering since I mentioned to the neighbourhood that I was building a press. And after a couple of trial pressings, a small posse of villagers descended to process the apples into muslin wrapped cheeses, in preparation for squeezing. Barrels of Bramleys from our tree, mixed with eating apples various. Friends sitting in the dining room, cutting out the bad bits, chunk chopping, minced in the Moulinex food processor, Three drums to each cheese. Five cheeses to each pressing and out flows a gallon of tasty, cloudy, golden brown, juice each time.
Lovely. Five gallons flow between the start of the Archers Omnibus and the beginning of the Food Programme. The bulk of which was added to the three gallons pressed last week and already fermenting into cider, the ultimate apple preserve!

After clearance of the worst of the frenzied apple cull, enough space discovered for a lunch of olive bread, apple chutney and brie - all washed down with a little of the morning's liquid produce.

No time to rest for long, clocks changed, early darkness promised. A barrel of dry apple pulp is taken to the allotment for composting and the empty barrel - and barrow - is brim filled with the sweetest of windfall eating apples. And here we go again...

Two and one half gallons of sweet apple juice squeezed out before the light fades. Working up a sweat in the crisp clear early evening. Some more juice added to the cider barrel, some bottled, the rest sacrificed to a pan on the stove for a slightly too warm attempt at pasturising. Still very drinkable although some of the brightness of colour and flavour lost. Lessons learned. More clearing and cleaning, tea cooked, and what a surprise?

Yet more apple juice.

Dodgy poetry

2008-10-08T11:32:00.003+01:00

Whilst searching for my Blue Peter badge last night, still un-found which is hardly surprising, I happened across some decidedly dodgy poetry. By way of explanation, I once worked soul destroying weekends collecting eggs in a battery farm. The chickens were the brightest creatures there. As the sole member of the workforce with the requisite number of fingers and toes for decimal calculations, I recorded the egg production rates on little slips. To keep myself amused, I doodled on the back of them.

Here's a couple of these recently found archives...

Wherever I go, so does me go.
I hope you never meet my alter-ego.

and,

Dog chews Dog

It's dog eats dog, and Jane eats Peter,
Pat just sits where Peter fell.
Pat the dog has tasted Peter,
Loves his flavour, loves his smell.
But poor old Pat has none of Peter,
Hungry Jane eats Pat as well.

Probably why I don't write songs very often! Hopefully I won't find anymore when I resume the Blue Peter badge search...

Secrets of Speed on the Suffolk border.

2008-09-30T10:35:00.004+01:00

The sun burnt bright this weekend. Shirt off, diggin' my potatoes. And onions. "Bikini girls with Machine guns" playing on the iPod set to Genius mode – finding songs I never knew I had.

Late afternoon, fellow hot-rodder Glen arrives and discusses the dirt a while. Helps drag home the uprooted crop in exchange for a cup of tea. And vegetable crumble with roasties. And a skiffle night out. And crackers, cheese, and home-made pickles washed down with Jim Beam into the small hours. And so to bed. Pickled.

Waking, back aching, more sunshine a-plenty. Sunday morning, off to meet Charlie Yapp at our local early Ford vendors, with fellow modifiers and rebuilders of all things flathead.

The Secrets of Speed Society on the Suffolk border. Enthusiastic fellow, purveyor of Scalded Dog speed equipment, fresh in from the Mid-west, happy to share our obsessions with obsolete engines and valve gear.

All aboard, we motored over for tea and buns with some bloke - name o' Pete. Sitting amongst the apple trees. Let us sit in his racing T's and make like we were going reeee-al fast.

Lovely. Sun sinking and we scatter into the approaching evening. Coupes and roadsters to the south, two lonely Cee-dans chugging northwards. Couldn't resist a hammer down blast past Nick's Vicky - rushing ahead out of sight just to pull over and sit on the luggage rack reading my complimentary copy of "Secrets" magazine.

Blust, 'ow we larfed bor!

Jeremy Vine.

2008-09-24T12:06:00.001+01:00

Jeremyvine |'jere'mi-vīn| v. To use shallow, hackneyed inflammatory remarks to extract worthless, ill-informed comments from a tired or lifeless subject.

Oh, how I wish I could listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4 instead of the factory radio...

She's back

2008-09-04T21:31:00.004+01:00

Ugly.
Betty.
Friday nights in.
Excellent!

Edit: Actually, every night in is fairly normal, although due to an impromptu Scrabble session and a bubbling pan of Apple n' red tomato chutney that needed bottling, I've yet to see Ugly Betty...
Beginning...

End!

I'm going to pickle the world

2008-08-15T14:15:00.002+01:00

Well - our little corner of it anyway.
Just to keep tabs on myself, so far I have:-

Courgette chutney, numerous jars.
Courgette and Runner Bean chutney, some jars exchanged for onions to make....
More chutney. Probably a spicy runner bean one this time! With maybe courgettes. Or apples.
Marrow, apricot n' ginger jam.

Next come the apples. Look at them hanging like grapes! I must progress the press. It's cider season for sure.

Brown eyes blue.

2008-08-07T11:00:00.002+01:00

Radio alarmed itself to on. News. Weather. Van Morrison wailing "Brown eyed girl" and I begin to panic. I can't remember the colour of Kate's eyes! Laying there, beginning to sweat, trying to recall. Every detail still there, except in shades of grey. Memory playing tricks. Colours fading like last moment breaths.

Then.

It's OK. The answer still playing in crackily transistor.
Brown.

White van!

2008-07-30T12:18:00.003+01:00

Trying to save some fuel money - making the most of the dry days by moto-sicklin' to work. This morning, me and the monkey nearly became a grease spot on a white van. Car pulled out to slingshot past an artic stealing the road in front of me. Builder's van decided likewise. Hello hedge.

Luckily the Blessed Lady of Acceleration had forsaken me! Fuel tap had blocked and I was limping along at moped speeds...

Update: Another van had me in it's sights as I crossed the main road in the village barely feet from home. Red one this time! Ha! Missd me! Guess I'm either small enough to avoid, or too large for a bonnet mascot.

Confessions of a wheel nut

2008-07-29T10:21:00.007+01:00

Bathroom cold tap started dripping about 3 years ago. Drip became a trickle became a flood.
There's now an empty chocolate spread jar upside down on top of it to stop people turning it on...

Sitting at the Supernats, kids sharing chips, clear dark night falling. Talk turned to that first spark of interest. For friends, the music was first, followed by the obligatory Consul, before leading to hot rods.

Probably my uncle's fault, but for me the cars came first. 1973, it was he who gave me a copy of Custom Car aged eight, green cover, with an original T Tourer on the cover, machine gun mounted in the rear... anyone have a spare copy, mine's a little ragged?! Played in a Pop in the garden till it was replaced by a 100E. Cried for days when some pikeys cut it up. First drove, aged 7, around the farm tracks and fields in a 105E, whilst blackberry picking. Helped uncle with his 1340 Anglia engine change and the V4 Mk2 Cortina swap. Changed the clutch in my yellow painted, red flamed (Dulux flicked from a toothbrush) Anglia, aged 11, using a broken ratchet Haltrac hoist tied to the neighbours fence to defy gravity.

By the time I hit teens, I'd dragged home an Austin Devon pickup. Stripped apart, welding abilities failed me - sold for parts with just the number plate left to remind me.

Hit the road, impoverished student, shiny topped, crispy silled, Mk1 Consul. Lived in it, slept in it, tail dragging the village disco circuit, pressing dubious vinyl into the hands of suspicious Dj's to play. Just the once... Vespas, Lambrettas, Mini's by the multiple dozen - thrashed without mercy.

The Caister/Hemsby Rock and/or Roll thing given up to build my first hot rod T. T given up to play in a band. Band given up and finally finished my flathead T modified. By which time, I was a family of three. Then four. Restored a T just to learn how to dance the pedals. Kate ill again - so a big, comfy sofa, '51 Chevy, for a season. And now the Fordor, shabby and loveable.

I must have driven the planet. Loving every costly blessed mile.

And I'm sitting in the queue leaving the Supernats, waiting reasonably patiently as a lowered Consul Capri scrapes slowly over the speed bumps pondering the other wheel nuts around. In front of me; a megabuck Range Rover towing a huge caravan. Surely lost?
£60K dark glass wagon towing say a £30K trailer? They could have saved a few thou and bought something to actually take part in? Likewise, camped across from us all weekend was a shiny "metal made to look like plastic" street rod beneath it's gazebo complete with an entourage of half a dozen modern cars and caravans. Support vehicle madness? Never turned a wheel all weekend until the Sunday showfield roll call.

There's something I'm not getting.

Still. Mile down the road, riding along in my own little world, wearing the bearings, and loving it.

Never felt more like singing the blues...

2008-07-11T09:26:00.004+01:00

I love the Blues. I guess some people don't get "it". I don't necessarily, but hey, it matters not. I still love the Blues. From hick blues songs of Billy Wallace and the Bamba Drifters to the world weariness of delta bluesmen like Frank Frost. The Rythym & Blues that begat Soul. No, not R n' bloody B - what next?! Calling Green Day a punk band?! Jeessh.

Anyway. The Blues. Sad songs about heartbreak, loneliness, hardship. Beautiful songs of woe. Works for me. No matter what life offers up, no money fixes it like a blues song. Listening to someone else's troubles that are worse than your own - lifts my spirits!

Old cartoon stuck in my head. Wealthy looking singer, alone on a stool in the recording studio - "I've got the so much money, I don't know what to do with it Blues..."

That. And Screaming Jay Hawkins "Constipation Blues". Real pain...

Soul gladdened.

Normal service

2008-07-11T07:46:00.002+01:00

This melancholy moment was brought to you by tidying out the cupboard beneath the stairs. Multiple years of hoarding enough memorabilia and rubbish to fill both the kitchen and the dining room packed into a five by five by three wedge.

Took two days. No, I lie. It's not finished. There's still piles of magazines to sort through for the keepers. I think I may of sprained the bin man's shoulder last week...

Two years from D-day

2008-07-11T00:52:00.004+01:00

Awake. Fuzzy head, dehydrated, aches n' pains. Topping up on pink grapefruit squash.
In the Heat of the Night on the box.

"They call me Mister Tibbs!"

Last saw this nigh on eons ago. First night out playing after the demise of the band. Back turned climbing out of my overcoat, BOOM, CRASH, splinters. Two part bass, no playing tonight. Home to the sofa, comfort of home, comfort of love. Crazy cracked chaos to sensible sort it solution.

Delores, white trash trouble on the telly. The night I named my musical wardrobe...

It's two in the morning. To cuddle till there's breath no more. How do I explain? Oh to a future, yet the past so real.
Tickity tock.

Stir crazy

2008-07-09T10:57:00.003+01:00

Stuck working at home - although this week of all weeks I had no desire to go into work - with my little sick Alice off school. Only a matter of time before I go down with whatever bug is getting her down. Aches, pains, sickness. Joy.

Distractions a-plenty. Broken tap, blocked drain. Just had to rush out despite the weather and wash the mould from the window to get a better view of the drizzly world...

Courgettes again for tea I reckon. The most prolific produce from the allotment so far!

Guilt tripping tick tock.

2008-06-19T23:18:00.003+01:00

Once again too late to say I'm sorry. Missing my little Kate again.
From the half term holiday to the middle of July. All the things I should have said. And all the things I failed her on in just six weeks. Two years have gone by and still it hurts. Camped with the hot rodders whilst I left her to pack for our annual week in a drizzle lashed caravan. Running out of fuel on the late way back to help with Alice's birthday party. Happy vague nonchalance about getting married as though we had all the time in the world.

I've wound up Kate's old grandmother clock. Loping tickity tock. Sitting in the dark. Tick-erty tock. Eyes closed. Listening for her breathing upstairs.

Can hear you in my head. And feel you in my bones. G'night sweet.

Nature grows the seed

2008-05-15T13:16:00.002+01:00

Went to jive classes on a hot Tuesday night after an hour spent rotovating the allotment. Pushed everyone round the floor in a tight, shaky, two-handed grip - just like that damn borrowed Howard 350 epileptic spider...

Bet the pigeons are now enjoying my strawberries.

Never ending Chilli...

2008-04-09T12:55:00.004+01:00

Still bubbling on the stove. Yet to top it up with fresh secret ingredients. Hmm, try something new with it maybe?
Google soon pulls up a few recipes for Flour Tortillas.

Y'know - they were OK. Probably even easier to create than the kitchen full of flour and very stick dough I managed, if only I'd followed the recipe. Like the bit about leaving the dough for 20 minutes. And 3/4 cup of milk - not 3 to 4 cups....
Here's where I borrowed it from.
Flour Tortillas

Ingredients:
Two cups of all-purpose flour (can make them whole wheat by substituting one cup of whole-wheat flour for white flour)
1 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder
1 teaspoon of salt
2 teaspoons of vegetable oil
3/4 cups of warm milk

Method:
Mix together the flour, baking powder, salt and oil.
Slowly add the warm milk.
Stir until a loose, sticky ball is formed.
Knead for two minutes on a floured surface. Dough should be firm and soft.
Place dough in a bowl and cover with a damp cloth or plastic wrap for 20 minutes.
After the dough has rested, break off eight sections, roll them into balls in your hands, place on a plate (make sure they aren’t touching) and then cover balls with damp cloth or plastic wrap for 10 minutes. (It’s very important to let the dough rest, otherwise it will be like elastic and won’t roll out to a proper thickness and shape.)
After dough has rested, one at a time place a dough ball on a floured surface, pat it out into a four-inch circle, and then roll with a rolling pin from the center until it’s thin and about eight inches in diameter. (If you roll out pie crusts you’ll have no problem with this.) Don’t over work the dough, or it’ll be stiff. Keep rolled-out tortillas covered until ready to cook.
In a dry iron skillet or comal heated on high, cook the tortilla about thirty seconds on each side. It should start to puff a bit when it’s done.
Keep cooked tortillas covered wrapped in a napkin until ready to eat.
Can be reheated in a dry iron skillet, over your gas-burner flame or in the oven wrapped in foil.
While you probably won’t have any leftovers, you can store in the fridge tightly wrapped in foil or plastic for a day or so.
Makes eight tortillas.

Alice's verdict. Tasty. Robert's? As long as there's no walnuts in there he'll probably eat anything!

Still not sure on the quantity of milk...

See icy seaside air beside the seaside. See?

2008-04-08T14:56:00.003+01:00

Last day of the Easter holidays - house full of kids. Load 'em up, off to the beach for the afternoon. Through sunshine and wind and rain and hail and arrive. Sunshine again! Girls make a dumpy mermaid out of sand, marron grass hair, mismatched pebble eyes. I wouldn't crash my boat onto the rocks for her. Boys climbing on the rock sea defences. Sea out - perfect for mindless stone skimming. Robert has improved his throwing skills since last year...

Kites up. Kites down.

All hail the hail. Beaten into the arcade clutching pots of copper coins. Visit my madman on the cliff edge for a cuppa. Looking out to sea. A smile for Katie.

Miss ya hun.

Shoulders shrugged and so to home. Bus filled, back through every weather, to sunshine home, fire lit, chilli by the gallon. And rest.

Achin' bones

2008-03-31T11:53:00.002+01:00

Decided to make the poor old cottage look a little less redneck and dug out a ladder to take down the Christmas lights...

Creeping about on ingrowing toenails, tennis elbow in both arms, bent double with a ricked back from lugging engines; I caught a glimpse of the strange old man reflected back at me in the grubby windows. Face as grey as the hair on his head. Where the hell did he come from?!

Gravity shifted

2008-03-18T12:56:00.003Z

Alice. Me. A Cadillac. Heading south in the rain and fading light.
Helping a good friend move to be with his love. Up in the sky and looking out to sea.

It feels like gravity has moved away. Guess the doorstep just got bigger that's all. And it makes us smile.

Digging my potatoes

2008-03-10T10:11:00.004Z

This weekend I have been mostly enjoying the garden...

Well. Almost. Growing up and life was always full of chores. Helping mum on the milk round meant trips around endless villages, often baked to a crisp, but mostly wind blown and freezing, perched amongst the crates in the back of a Morris Minor pickup. Or down on the farm with Dad, mucking out, straw carting, shovelling dusty feed or muddy beet, rounding up the cows in a four in the morning frozen fog, and getting crapped on in the milking parlour. Joy.

At home too, the work continued. Fighting the dusty outwash sands that favoured hot nettles as a crop, helping double dig in thousands of tons (or so it seems) of the same slimy muck brought home from the farm. Planting vegetables to feed the masses - sacks full of potatoes, inedible kale, slimy cabbages, poisonous sprouts, maize for the rabbits, beans various and green, carrots like parsnips, and parsnips like the tree trunks we felled and cut for firewood with Uncle Oscar's old two man saws. Equally woody.

So. I've been digging the garden. De-weeding, spreading compost, and preparing to produce a few of my own vegetables on a far less grand scale than my growing up at home life demanded.

Followed by a bike ride with the kids to a local art exhibition a couple of villages away, glass of fizzy wine, home - beating the wind and rain - to the garage to nurture an engine back to health for the Sedan.

Tired, grubby, dreamless sleep.

No is the hardest word

2008-02-23T09:29:00.003Z

I have no idea why, that despite always planning to do too much for myself, I still never manage to say no when others come calling. Think it's lifts a weight from my mind to take on other's problems. Probably selfish when y'look at it.

I guess I just love to help. Want to help even when it's the last thing in the world they need...

It's got me into so much extra trouble in the past, when an easy life was there to be had - just by saying no. And the fun it's brought me.

Like being the pilot of a Cadillac for an evening. After months of secret planning, a close friend needed dropping at his surprise birthday party. Take the keys on this frosty night and chauffeur? Hey, why not,hadn't anything else planned? Except maybe playing in the band that night as well...

Worth it. So very worth it. Blinding evening, bring on the dancing girls, bring on the cake...

Rushed by, never saw it happen. Spooky driving through sleepy villages, burbling all alone after dropping off the happy revellers by the dozen.

Had to say no recently though. It's hurt. So very much. Certainly the hardest word to say.
Except maybe the last goodbye. Now that's a pain I don't want again.

Misty mystery tour.

2008-02-14T10:16:00.002Z

A Cadillac full of fellas. Off to the fens. Bright sunshine turned to thick fog. A pointless hour or so spent well.

Think it was something about counting cash in Kings Lynn. Guess you had to be there...

The finer points.

2008-01-28T09:29:00.000Z

Not my picture. But oh how I love irony. Close enough just isn't good enough.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, BOOM.

2008-01-21T12:32:00.000Z

A walk in the rain without a coat, no chance to wonder at the clouds.
A strange journey without a map, enjoyment of the scenery all lost.
To live without a dream, just a life without future.

In the words of the lovely Nanci Griffiths, "I am a clock without hands
I'm just tickin' and that's all".

Simple pleasures

2008-01-10T22:53:00.000Z

Found this picture today. Face of joy. Shaven head, chemo weary, no matter.
Nothing can stop the sheer pleasure of finding some bargain stretchy, stripey trousers in a jumble sale.

Le Flathead Francais

2008-01-03T11:31:00.000Z

Is an engine female? Can't remember.
Last Sunday - decided to just get on and bloody sort something out. Sleepless night, up at dawn with a warm cuppa and into the garage with an empty cornflakes packet...

Cutting gaskets, bolting things up tight, torquing down headbolts. Damn - four short. Sparkplugs two short. Filling to the top of the "Safe Driving Limit" on the dipstick, and a tentative cranking over. Damn. Tight as hell. Barely a clunk.

Doom and despondency building, I call the Nervous Bob for a spot of encouraging advice. And some manifold gaskets. Can't make them from Kellogg's finest cardboard.

Oh well. Despite my glumness - press on to at least turn the floor of bits back into something car shaped. After I've fed the kids. And the woodburner. Been outside for hours now and the cold is really creeping into my tired bones.

Bob arrives to lift the mood. Well. He tries. Clutching parts and batteries and jump leads, he diagnoses a lazy starter and sets about rebuilding my spare, whilst I carry on assembling.

But the starter makes no difference. Second opinion diagnosis from Doctor Bob - it's just a bit tight. So I begin tidying up for an evening sulking in front of the fire. Hmm. Except, well - it's raining by now, and move three cars, what else stops me from getting a rope on this sucker and dragging the damn thing down the dark lane to at least here the fire within attempt to start?

Bob reluctantly agrees. If only to stop the sulking... And within yards, spit, bang, ball of flame from the over rich carb -and it runs! Sweet as y'like. Throttle blipping to keep the fiery V8 staccato, I reversed back up the black rain sodden lane to quickly throw some water in the radiator. Oh - and tighten those loose hose clips. Manic laughter and a mile wide grin. The water is probably freezing, the giant engine driven fan quickly sprays it through my clothing, as I try to rush the filler neck from a two gallon bucket.

Oh yes! Success. Still running - and I'm frozen and wet through. No matter. Excitement means I don't feel a thing, except the urge for a quick local lane tyre squealing blast, until I can smell that new warm engine and I turn to home. Wind chilled forehead and the rain stinging my barely open eyes.

Every skinned knuckle, burnt arm, frozen joint, and trapped finger now hurting. So very, very.... Worth it.

Just another day

2008-01-02T08:24:00.000Z

Christmas was a rush. Here and there, barely stopping, visiting friends, relatives, cooking, barely home with a constant in and out, relighting the fire two dozen times, playing at sessions and gigs, even a fun, fun, fun trip to the seaside.

New years eve - up in the dark and on the road to collect two cars and two van loads of spares for Nervous Bob. Bless him - last minute man... Over the Dartford bridge twice, back through the tunnel again and again.

Evening with friends down the road, relaxed and all. Fell asleep, woken by the kids in time for party poppers, chimes on the radio and parteners kissing and...

Hadn't thought about it but "my wife died last year" became "two years ago". And my mind is still a wake alone mess, hazily listening in the night for Kate calling me for a help back up the stairs. Count 'em. One to eleven. Sorry everyone. Letting you down with my new year misery.

Tightening the nuts

2007-12-19T10:10:00.000Z

I've always seen engineering as reversing entropy. Putting some order to chaos. Over the years as a draughtsman, I've brought chilled air to giant overheating mainframe computers; storage tanks to prevent all Belgium being flooded inch deep in pig shyte; elevating booms for hanging the tangle of Blackpool illuminations; tankers for shipping thirty thousand litres of lard, Marmite, molten chocolate or boiling sulphur around the country without spilling a drop.

Thankless task. 100,000 lines in the right place count for nothing against that one misplaced hole that someone has to drill.

Instruction and service manuals to help the nervous operator, and confused engineer, make sense of their new machine; install it, use it, adjust, service and repair it. Pick the right part from exploded views, find the fault via spidery electrical drawings.

Thankless task. A million words correct, one dyslexic number and Canada gets a fuse instead of a relay.

Can't help myself, this fighting chaos spills over. To help straighten things up and oil the wheels for friends. And yet all the while skirting around my own need to fix it now problems until they become unavoidable.

Ran out of petrol rushing to Alice's school concert yesterday. Idiot. You meet the nicest people though, thumbing with a petrol can. Arrived in time to catch her singing and playing guitar. Lovely. Sat with a prim old lady from the village at the back of the church. Friend of Kate's from WI, and various local committees. Suddenly she turned to me and said "Are you finding this Christmas harder than last year?". I'd forgotten she lost her husband last year too. Guess she's right - last years numb, frantic autopilot replaced by confidence crushing self doubt. Losing time hand over fist. Getting nowhere fast.

Where's the effin' manual for Christmas?

Last year I lost the one who checked my work. De-cluttered my mind, straightened things out and ordered our world. I feel lucky to have found that certain someone again to hold spanner to bolt whilst I tighten the loose nuts of life. Some would say I'm still unhinged though...

Interlude

2007-12-19T07:44:00.000Z

Ho, ho, bloody ho.

Each day nearer

2007-12-18T12:18:00.000Z

Weekend of getting closer. Closer to the ones I love. Good thing. Closer to Christmas - oooh! Really bad!

Engine in, out and in again this time with a flywheel attached on the Model T special. Languishing in the garage since it disgraced itself by slip, slip, slipping it's clutch and throwing all it's fluids out in a hissy fit. Helped by Mark, Andy, and Miranda - all hell to pay if I'd chipped those nails!

Last minute dash to Bury - meal out with my sister and friends. Jen and I sandwiched between Mad Janice and her date for the evening. A huge scruffy light blue stuffed rabbit that once haunted my sister's bedroom. Harvey no doubt.

Food was, well. OK.
Company was better...
Constant room wide birthday greetings were - teeth gratingly annoying!

Sunday morning collecting my Brownie from her sleepover. Went home to put up the decorations and tidy the house but somehow ended up back in the garage. Still no tree. Helpful dad felled a sparse spruce monster which wouldn't fit the Sedan in any way. Half a dozen branches and ten feet tall.

And off in the bracing mid-afternoon to play a gig at the Banham Barrel. Quite a number of folks swapped whatever their plans should have been, to come see us play. Or sit in the comfy sofas and drink real ales in the warm. My whole extended family grown by one. A long tall Alex, that Char sucked a bit of face with, whilst the boys played chess and Alice stacked draughts in dangerously close piles to their game. No doubt looking for a "wasn't me" fight...

Didn't want to leave. Enjoyed the band playing, although minus part-time Dan, and didn't want it to end. Always leave yourself wanting more? From that kind of a high; back to the reality of a freezing, no-fire, un-christmas-decoration-y, no tea cooked, house. Bump. Really felt like I was letting the kids - and Kate - down. Woosh. Where did that come from? Fire lit, cheese and potato pie, beans and some boiled veggies, no secret ingredients, and the Archer's Omnibus on Listen Again breaks me back to life. Hmmm - made some more mince pies. That's better!

Enjoying it y'all. Merriment still t'come!

Minus four, chug-a-boom, chug-a-boom

2007-12-12T22:09:00.000Z

Due entirely to being hopeless, the ol' Fordor Cee-dan remains my sole means of transport. It's making her weary and I feel for her.

Hey ho. Temperatures have sunk and the faded golden browns I'd been loving - all crispy white. Minus four - glad I brought the geraniums in. Puddled road outside the house, treacherous ice built on ice. Scrape the frost from the windows, one through eight. And again on the inside. Four kid school run, and they breathe a fresh layer of ice on the inside. Even the mirror...

Once again windows scraped, I gingerly set off with the low sun making a half-hearted attempt at keeping the view clear. Diffusing through the glass in a blinding glow. Chug-a-boom, chug-a-boom. No rush, taking my time on the crunchy roads and watching out for ice rinks formed by splashed through puddles. Plenty of them too, from all the recent rains.

Homeward bound on still slippery roads. Chug-a-boom, chug-a-boom. Low diamond white mists beginning to smother the fields where the feeble winter sun failed to win against the day long frost.

Fires lit, tea cooked (hidden ingredient - organic cider - in a peanut chilli), out to see serious Alice at her school play. Back home in a festive mood to a warm house. Kids hanging decorations with a quarrel whilst I make some roly poly mince pies. Hidden ingredient? Thick cut orange marmalade. Lovely. And like the weather, I don't think they'll last long...

Lights to ON!

2007-12-09T23:26:00.000Z

Rush rush, run around. Here and there.
Late night shopping sans smalls. Lovely evening just Jen and I, having a giggle, heavy bag laden down. Weary, smiling, last bus and a takeaway to home is where the heart is...

An evening of beers and ciders with some old friends, breakfast and a haircut with another. A day tinkering in the garage whilst the rain fell. What could be better?

Well - more shopping obviously. Hitting all the cheapie shops for silly fun stuff. Me and Jen, still giggling. This time with Alice and Char along to pick out the glittery and furry bargains. Showered with confetti from broken cannons. In a shop called "99p or Less" what more can you wish for?! Spent plenty till we could carry no more.

And once again to home, picked out with the flashing bulbs I hastily hung this morning. Feels like Christmas is rushing up on me again. Happy to let it...

Flathead Fever

2007-12-02T21:09:00.000Z

The car that mobilized the U.S of A was the Model T. Fact. At one time, every other vehicle on the road was a Ford. By the end of the twenties that lead had slipped and Henry's Lady - the Model A - did little to halt the slide to Chevrolet with their Stovebolt Six.

So in 1932 Henry tried to shake the world from it's depression with the Flathead V8. The cheapest V8 ever produced. Two more cylinders than Chevy's six.

It boiled. It cracked. But it went, and went well. Smooth running, beautiful sound. Bonnie and Clyde's favourite car to steal.
From 1932 to 1953, Ford churned out this cast iron monobloc sidevalve and threw it into everything. Cars, vans, trucks. They sold it as an industrial engine where it ended up in generators, water pumps, forklifts. The flathead went to war where it sat sizzling in the belly of bren gun carriers.

Hot rodders grew to love it when they didn't hate it for it's idiosyncratic ways. Modified it till it burst at the seams. Fixed the seams and went at it some more. Fitted superchargers, multiple carbs, high compression heads, and filled it full of exotic alcohols in search of a bigger bang.

And then, almost overnight the Flathead became obsolete. Overhead valves by Cadillac, Oldsmobile, Chevrolet - even Ford themselves.

Except. In some strange twist of fate, the Flathead lived on. Ford sold their French factory to Simca who carried on producing it. And supplying it. NATO bought Marmon trucks fitted with a new improved version of this ancient 8. Which guaranteed it's prodution until the early 1990's.

A little history of a quarter ton of cast iron. Nestled in the confines of my garage there's a few of 'em including a couple of French ones. After draining three pints of water from the sump on the old 21 stud in my T Modified, it's time to wrestle another in it's place...

Kate's Half Century

2007-11-21T13:45:00.000Z

I dreamt last night of my little Katie girl. Awoke in the small hours thinking of the loneliness she must of felt those last few weeks.
And on this special day I shed a tear for each of her fifty years. Most of them for the joy of knowing her.

Relentless time

2007-11-19T23:11:00.000Z

This time stuff. Tricky fluid. Some moments moving too quickly when life is desperately late; the next moment dragging treacle slow, waiting for the world to catch up. But always, relentlessly, moving in one direction.

No amount of looking into the past changes the future. And gazing hopefully into the future is only second guessing what's around the corner. Each day that brings happiness justifying that hope.

Fires gone out. Feet chilled, warm head with a beanie hat pulled down over my muffled ears. Warming my thoughts.

On Wednesday, Kate would have been 50. Five-oh. A landmark amount of time beneath her little feet. Alice remembered to remind me, but - despite my frankly dire ability with a calendar - it's a date that's burnt into my mind. I feel for myself, and the kids, that I need to celebrate. However hollow that may seem.

And I have some very understanding friends who can cope with my feelings. Having to share me with a memory. Thanks to all and one.

Pleasure and pain

2007-11-19T21:48:00.000Z

Been playing Delores since Thursday night. Well. Almost. Third Thursday session at Tibenham Greyhound. Good fun friends. Her name is Rio and she dances - bluegrass style.

Long, soon over, night of gambling at a friend of Jen's to raise money for Children in Need on Friday. Roulette, blackjack, Escelado - wind those horses! - and countless rounds of "Chase the Ace" on a board borrowed from Shelfanger Fete.

Sharp frosty early morning carting chilled steel rusty scrap for a handful of sheckles before slapping some skiffle with Kiwi Pete on Saturday night, John banjo-ing, fingers sweating, blisters forming, Jenny driving and suffering to stay awake...

Home to a dead sleep bed, up seconds later, and back to Norwich with a bus full of kids. Shopping in the penny and pound cheapskate heaven of Anglia Square. Greasy spoon lunch for seven.
Running across town to a second session of skiffle at the Shed. Blisters wrapped in gaffa tape to numb the pain. Aspall cider and a bowl of olives, jalepenos, and cheese certainly helped too!

Feeling burnt out and beautiful...

Kicking through leaves

2007-11-12T00:56:00.000Z

Cooked quiches, made chutney, played scrabble, drank wine. Friends came calling; tea, chat and a chill. Caught out in the rain on a short monkeybike trip, sheltered in the trees. Kicking up the leaves.
Happiness ten-fold.
Passion-a-plenty.

Autumnal passion too

2007-11-09T09:56:00.000Z

Enjoying the golden brown drive this morning - vivid reds and yellows made brighter by sunglasses on a cloudless day.
Passionate thoughts turn to whether I'd like to make love on a bed of leaves. Or wrapped in blankets on a winter deserted, sunset beach.

Or whether I'd prefer a nice cup of darjeeling and a piece of shortbread by the woodburner, watching Ugly Betty. I sometimes feel old age creeping up and tampering with the odds. Well. It's something to fight against...

Autumnal passion

2007-11-09T09:17:00.000Z

My drive to work, over Chumbley Warner Corner and beyond takes me through the woods and forests on the way to Thetford. From my birthday onwards, I love to see the gradual brightening of the trees as greens turn to many shades of brown, yellow, red and gold. A month of lively change, brightly lit by a low, cold sun. Beaten by rain, whipped by winds, until the leaves give up their grasp and flurry to ground.

It's man without soul that doesn't find passion in kicking through a carpet of crisp, dry, autumn. Take your time to do just that this weekend if you can. I will!

BOGOF tofu

2007-11-05T18:03:00.000Z

And tonights not so hidden ingredient. They spotted it straight away in a stir fry sauce. Is this Tofu?!
Yup. Two for one in the supermarket - they'd better like it as there's a freezer full!
Seemed to go down well.

Didn't spot I'd fried it sweet chilli and sesame oil though...

Halloweeeeeennn....

2007-11-01T10:28:00.000Z

All Hallows Eve.
Growing up - it meant only one thing. Getting tortured by my one year older neighbour as his birthday treat. Little older and it was probably around the village, door knocking and carbide tins. BANG!

Wasn't me.

Going to Halloween? A strange request made sense of by Tarby Davenport. Event organiser. promoter, all round lovely person. Created a once a year, all things to all men, Halloween Fair in Thornham Woods. Acrobats amongst the trees, children's crafty things, bar, juggling and drumming, bar and brilliant bands into the night. Success caused it's demise, hoards of cars abandoned along dark lanes...

It's where I met Kate. Her dressed in a bowler hat and black cape. Lovely sparkly eyes. Me, dressed as a vicar. Cassock and surplus, black nails and eyeliner, wooden cross and dusty from hair to boots with flour. Wholemeal obviously.

Dancing like a loon. Badly.
By the time we went the following year, Kate was pregnant. Happy. Tired, left early to find we were blocked in. Blagged a cup of tea and a comfy sit down in a nearby cottage waiting for the roads to clear.

Years on - home with the kids and I remember the first invasion of trick or treaters. Alice answering the door to a masked face and screaming down the hallway. This year, carved her own pumpkin and went out amongst them. Robert on duty handing out the contents of the larder as his friends came calling.

And I had the chance to play for an hour or so with Them One Night Only Boys down in the town. Home to a woodburner warm house.

Lovely.

Wet and dry weekend...

2007-10-29T13:00:00.000Z

Wet. Chips, washed down with a quantity of cheap pink wine. Enjoyed amongst friends at gate-crashed Di's, with a riotous, and very hilarious, impromptu game of.... Scrabble.

Dry. Probably best too. Never learnt to say no, and I end up on stage at the Norwich Beer Festival playing with a band I've never met but an hour before. Loads of lovely real ales, nothing but a name on the end of a barrel to me. No matter - I was high enough without the need for Oatmeal Stout, Barley Wine, or cider.

Wet. Moving borrowed Chevy pickup loads of horrid sticky leylandii branches in all their never ceasing greenery. In the rain. From my parent's place to a sprawling bonfire in the making, for the celebration of burning Catholics and not politicians next weekend.

Dry. Back indoors. Apple and jalepeno chutney simmering. Into the making of big Sunday tea. Apple crumble again, roast spuds, a cashew, pepper and vegetable pie. Livened up with some Jamacian jerky sauce... Broke out the water jug, kids two pints dry!

Wet. Drizzly evening. Cleared up, looked out, first winter clock changed, dark, dark night. Little lonely tear. But lovely, lovely weekend. Guess I was just sad it came to an end. And so. Weary to bed.

Mostly good

2007-10-16T14:09:00.000+01:00

Even keel faultered.
Missed some DVLA notification - continuous taxation, my arse.
Bitten by a fine for forgetting to declare one vehicle off the road. Where's my chance to fine MY government agency for making a mistake on the other one?
Exasperated evening scouring for paperwork.
Trying to get the kids to help.
Shopping for a starving cat.
Refreshing cuppa with a friend.
Home to sofa.
Unmade bed.
Tears to sleep.
Up and down.

Taking the lady back home

2007-10-15T12:45:00.000+01:00

Wonderful weather. An autumn summer...
And on these warm, dry, days I helped Jenny move house. Fill the van. Drive a few miles. Empty the van. Drive and repeat. Everything in the house, boots off, sliced my big toe open walking backwards onto a who knows where from shard of glass. Fresh blood in her new home. Aaarggh! Oww. Limped to the chippie to be bought a congratulatory tea for a job half-arsed...

Escaped the emptying of boxes into nooks and crannies to slaughter some more years old bramble bushes in my sister's new garden. Make that "garden". Hobble, slash, limp, slash, trip - over all the uncovered hazards amongst the undergrowth.

More blood from my self-harmed arms. Home to watch "Car Wash" with the kids. Drifted off way before the end...

So. Lazy no plans Sunday. Washing on the line, listening to the Archers Omnibus, and a bundle of through travellers to and from the Hemsby Rock and/or Roll Weekender. Teas, coffee, omlettes and cheese on toast. Mmm, balsamic sauce.

Late afternoon, decided to join them. Bundled into the old A Sedan and set off to Hemsby for a cruise of the campsites, checking out the sights and picking over the fleamarket clothes rails. Into Scratby to our favourite Abigail's Tearooms for a meal, and popped around the corner to visit a friend atop the cliff.

And to say hello to my old friend from the cliff edge. Feeling her spirit in the evening sea breeze.

Hazy fading light brings farewell to the coast. A snuggly oil vapour warm trip back through the mists over Haddiscoe. But not before a trip down the Golden Mile. Taking Henry's Old Lady - our Model A - back to where she was once young. Rolling down Great Yarmouth's seafront from the North Denes, past boating lakes and bowling greens, Caesar's Palace, the Winter Gardens and Wellington Pier. Welcome home old dear to the neon gawdiness of it all. Arcane meets arcade.

Busy doing living

2007-10-10T20:08:00.000+01:00

Lovely weekend.

Cooked. The seemingly never ending fight against the over active apple tree. Pies and crumbles. Stocking the freezer for the winter months ahead. The last of the beans picked over for stringiness, carrots plucked from the ravages of slugs.

Ate. Big Sunday lunch. Bunny devoid of oven for a week or so following a kitchen wrecking explosion, Sarah, Jenny, and Ryan, made a table of seven for roast potatoes and veggie shepherds pie.

Played. Suffolk Folk Night, baudy tales, songs and stories, real ale and ploughman's err.. tea. Serviced the ol' Sedan after her hard charge to southern places. And played again for a wedding barn full of revellers. Bonfire and fireworks.

Helped. Moving things around, clearing up. Fighting the acres of vicious brambles in my sister's yard. Lost. Cut to ribbons. Bleeding thorn filled hands.

Loved. Days spent with friends, warm evenings cuddled up close. Felt alive. And relaxed.

The Deep South

2007-10-03T23:45:00.001+01:00

Spent the last weekend on "interesting" roads in Sussex. For non-locals, that's a county below London on the south coast of the UK, where every leafy lane has a pristine 4x4 coming the other way, and every oak framed thatched roof has a Porsche in the drive.

Enter the hoodlums on the Kopy Kat run. Inspired by the Flathead Meltdown Reliability Runs that have been held in Norfolk (oh for Pete's sake - look it up on Multimap...) we all stayed in a field beside the Bat and Ball public house in Wisborough Green. Spirtual home of lawnmower racing. Took Ratty - a real good friend along as my "map bitch". And the non-stop laughter started from the moment we began our journey south. Met with friends along the way. Sitting on a rain soaked motorway, clockwork radio, giggling at our dampened roadster companions.

Arrived - 2-second pop-up tent and into the bar. Lovely evening, good food, Ferret and Badger ales - and I took cake. Apple and Strawberry.

Next day, loads of tiny roads, trees growing out of the banks, rough flint strewn tracks, long hills that needed 1st gear in the Sedan to climb them, and turned the brakes to plasticene on the way down. A dip through a river. And a dip through the sea.

Brilliant fun. More than three hundred miles on a round trip to do a 100 mile charge through the countryside. Journey home took us to a private car collection - members of the Model A club looking on at our mud spattered jalopy with equal amounts of respect and disdain...

More leafy lanes, and a sprint for home. Home to the warm welcoming arms of loved ones.

Bliss.

A very nice man

2007-09-24T10:41:00.000+01:00

Feeling good this morning. Driving in, torrential downpour and looming out of the spray, a down on their luck scooterist, vapours run dry at the bottom of the tank. Hefted the scoot in the back of the van whilst it's poor bedraggled owner clambered in. Down to the garage, tank filled, and took them on to Diss to save getting their raingear back on.

Bless. Seems I'm a very nice man.

Can't resist it seems. Forever Uncle Phil.

edit: Ah. I now realise why my back is in absolute agony. Idiot.

Simple things

2007-09-20T14:14:00.000+01:00

Last Friday, weather fine, I took the kids to Fair Green in Diss. Our metropolis.
And upon the Green we joined friends in consuming some deep fried sliced potatoes slathered in genuine Heinz redness from the former Jack & Eileen's fish n' chip emporium. Followed by a pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord from The Cock, whilst the kids played into the fading light.

Checked the weather. Fine. And repeat...

A year goes by.

2007-09-18T11:42:00.000+01:00

Been rambling to myself here now for a year. Sharing my own personal therapy.
Has it done any good?

One conclusion for sure. Of one thing I'm certain.

Kate was lovely.

And when I miss her - it's with a smile on my face. If I never love again, that would be a shame. But I realise I've had what some never get. It'd be selfish of me to expect any more.

Bad Biker Boy

2007-09-17T16:32:00.000+01:00

Well - trying to encourage some creativeness and rebel behaviour within my offspring finally paid off this weekend. Taught Robert how to use a hacksaw. Fingers crossed, he managed to keep his and not break my last blade... Tube bending around an old Ford Pop wheel assisted by Mark - my fellow royal bodger - cut, scraped, ground and welded to extend the forks on Alice's old from the dump brakeless bike. All hail the apprentice bodger wobbling dangerously down the road...

Growing up. All in good time.

2007-09-10T10:22:00.000+01:00

Sleepy, spread out village in Norfolk carved in two by the A1066 and passed in seconds; I grew up in Garboldisham. As much as I ever have.

All memories popping back every now and again.

From damming the Little Ouse under Hopton Bridge, poking dead sheep in the stream on the common with penknife sharpened sticks, feet black trudge home from the fens down Prickwillow, to bigger, better bonfires come November.

Spent most of it exhileratingly scared.

Climbing trees in private woods, can they see us scrumping of inedible apples, picking daffodils to sell from around the Black Prince's Temple. Knock and run. Rolling enormous snowballs taller than ouselves into a blizzard blind road and running like hell from the police Mini van. Hurried, deafened scouring in the darkness for the ting, ting, tinging of the lid after lighting a Tate n' Lyle carbide tin. Loads of "get off my property" shouts at bicycle gangs. Riding a Raleigh Runabout into the snow drifts - dead halt somersault over the handlebars, dig it out and try again - that cut off the village twice. Stopped by the police for open reverse cone megaphones. Wasn't me. Switching allegiance from the Swan to the Fox.

And. As for sitting on the village hall wall, I confess. I was responsible for the obscenities written in the grass one dark night using a garden sprayer and weedkiller left over from home made explosives.

Just trying to encourage the same behaviour in my kids now I'm in Shelfanger...

Corrine, Corrina!

2007-09-06T10:14:00.000+01:00

In the words of the song.
Which we didn't do. Neither Dean Martin, or Bob Dylan.

What we did do - entirely by luck, word of mouth, and a couple of calls - is descend on the winebar where Liam hosts a regular busker's night. Without telling him. Or the lovely Corrina who's off to start a new love full life in Belgium.

We drank, played, danced, heckled (actions to "smoke on the water" nearly made Liam falter - we'll get him next time...) chilled, and hugged like there was no tomorrow. Remembered Kate and I meeting you in Safeways, tears of joy for familiar faces after months away at college. Threesome hugs that seemed to never end, all those years ago.

So long dear. Thanks for the excuse for a party.

Face down in reality

2007-09-05T10:27:00.000+01:00

Made it through the summer. Pillar and posting the kids, feel sorry for them, no real time spent enjoying the summer with me. Here there everywhere.

Back to school and the calm and order that brings.

Chilled evening last night. Summer waning, nights drawing in. Apples and the last crops to gather to store away for winter.

Dark nights. Time to sweep the chimneys and sort out the wood pile. Eyes wide open but can't see a thing. Face down in reality.

No peas at Greenpeace. Courgettes though...

2007-09-03T19:20:00.000+01:00

Awoke in time, well way before time - but it took till then to get my sorry carcase out of bed, to listen to the Archers Omnibus. I wish Clary Grundy would keep her nose out of her son's business - can't see anything wrong with his new girlfriend myself. Always a ring! ring!, in the middle of it. Alice is off to the Greenpeace Fair. To do battle with the Pee Palace again no doubt. Hope she wins this time...

Into the garage, Archers on in there too. Stripping flathead A to put parts onto Flathead B in the impossible hope of getting the car ready for the Hotrod Drags.

Ain't gonna happen. Between 1937 (exhibit A - a pure bred lump of cast iron from Henry's empire) and 1990 (exhibit B - a strangeness revised Flathead turned out in relative secrecy by the Simca factory to suit the whims of NATO) there's a number of small but significant differences. All of which can be resolved but, oh look! Sun's shining, double bass is still in the car and, what the hey - off to the Greenpeace Fair myself.

Nothing says nutter like wandering around with a double bass under your arm, looking for someone to play with. Still. Although alone in the pursuit of stupid instrument carrying, fair to say I wasn't the only fool there...

Saw Becky amongst the huge, hours long, travelling Samba dance - husband David along behind. Bumped, literally into quite a few people, distant friends. Little kids daring to come and pluck at the strings of Delores when I stopped in my rambles. Lovely to see.

Played some tunes with a meandering melodeon player and then. Hang on? Two familiar faces? Suzanne and Katy, missing from the dreaded but actually fine school reunion, just sitting there. As open mouthed as I was standing. Never enough time to catch up - 25 years gone by just like that. Too much to think about, just wonderful to see them, both still as gorgeous as I never was. Am now though that's for sure.

Passing stall - free courgettes? Pockets filled...

Eventually found the kids and ex-neighbours, sampled some real love cooked food in the gloom of a khaki tent. Stood listening to Monkey Spanner, Ska support for Bad Manners a few weeks back, not dancing, but joining in on the bass. Carried on after they'd finished for a private party of cider addled, kissy faced, fancy dressers, until I suddenly realised in the fading evening that I was not only out in an ancient car with poor lighting, but I was still wearing my sunglasses. Clear set? On the dining table...

Exciting drive home, warm summer rain, flickering lights, unlit roads. Made it! Fun, fun, fun. So. No reason there for the depths of despair that kept me in bed so long today. Just one of those things, every action having a reaction. Normal service whenever possible...

Fly away

2007-09-02T02:51:00.000+01:00

Shopping for school shoes, visiting friends. Watching Mark craft with mud. Single minded friend. Played a ceilidh tonight, tidy barn, friends dancing. Dance, bass, raffle. Noise rattling off all the walls, rattle, chatter, laughter, boom and whistle, pounding back. Kids having fun, and home to bed.

3am and now I'm sitting all alone. Except for this damn bluebottle.

Yurts

2007-08-29T13:59:00.000+01:00

Always loved 'em. Ther's a lovely one at Bewilderwood for the children's birthday parties.

Saw a couple at Towersey too. Wished my childhood attempts at woodcraft extended beyond stealing trees for bonfires and building rabbit hutches from straightened nails and pre-owned two by fours...

Towersey home...

2007-08-29T10:31:00.000+01:00

I like sharing. As I've said before. At least once...

Towersey Village Festival is one of those things. Sure, there's other festivals that probably cater better for my eclectic musical tastes. And my age old love of things with wheels on.

No matter. Camp up, nice and close to friends of old, handy for the borrowed spot of whatever forgotten, a quick glance at the programme, and out around the sites to happen across whatever entertains. Some things remain cosily the same, others refreshingly new. Liquorice stall a-beckoning for a start! Different this year though - Towersey virgins in our party, kids older and more independent and...

I miss Kate.

Didn't realise it till we were on the road there at the turning to Woburn - our favourite route there in vehicles various. A quick flash, blink, flash, memory. And settled there, moments alone whilst kids in workshops of craft and melodeon, watching dancers practising. Laughing, joking, arms and legs twirling passionately, pulling faces at footwork mistakes...

Lovely reminders of Kate.

Hot this year. Ankles aching, walking to and fro as much as dragging a double bass allows. Our children circus skilling and making paper lanterns; some selfish time alone. Joining sessions at the beer tent and on the pub lawn beneath the tree shade. Enthralled in the Village Hall. Bumping into friends. Missing those I knew weren't there this year.

Especially my best friend.

Caught Sid Kipper, megostar of Norfolk. On walnut shells, violin, paper hankies. Brilliant. And David Holt, stories and music from the Appalachian mountains. Tales of Doc Watson's life. Player of whisky bottles, paper bags, banjos, guitars and more. Ticked every box like Them Harvey Boys I reckon; he even ended up story telling in the children's tent. Met him to say goodbye during the magical late night lantern procession. Kids old enough to take part this year. Tissue paper and sticks formed into giant feet, flowers, dragons, a double decker bus... Lit by soft candle light. Flash, blink, flash. Beautiful moments tinged with flecks of sadness.

Kate missing this.

Home again. Speeding fine - knew it was coming - laying on the mat. Down to earth with a bump. Nothing to pay it with, just twenty two solitary pounds to my name. Still, life goes on, van unpacked, clothes, cutlery and crockery washed. Photos slideshowed on the iMac - another hippy, happy Towersey. Lovely, gorgeous reminders of sharing the fun with friends. Evening with the kids watching Beetlejuice. Baths of mud. Bed. Alone in the house with melancholy and an IPA. Happy times shared.

But I still miss Kate.

Towersey Bound

2007-08-22T19:15:00.000+01:00

A good few times - been to Towersey Village Folk Festival.
Remember the first time. Left at midnight with my friend Alex, tents, bags, a spare wheel, oh, and a Model B grille shell I had to deliver, tied all over the Trifid. Crystal clear night. Arrived at err-o' clock in the early morning, found Kate's tent and giggle pitched it beside. Eventually. After waking everyone.

Met various bits of Them Harvey Boys there too.

And over the years? Met friends, mud, wind, rain, burning sun, cracking thunderstorms, more sun. Many acts various, from all around the world. Danced my little toes off.

Even played there - ticked the box for everything. Village hall, dance tent, concert tent, arena stage, late night party tent. Ran around like headless chickens all weekend and still found the time to take over the sessions in the beer tent.

Happy times.

Ad hoc attendance, but Kate took the kids when she could. After she'd finished all her treatment, we went together a couple of years ago. My ears blocked the day before we left - deaf as a post. Skipped out to some very quiet drag racing for a day whilst we were there. Not a thing. Played a session with a Tex Mex gaggle -still wonder how it was...

Skylark is outside. Going again - party of seven joining the Hoxne crowd. All packed high. Tents, cooker, food. Tables, chairs, bicycles. Clothes for warm, wet, and cold. Cameras, batteries, torches. Hats, blankets, towels.

Bound to have forgotten something...

Double Bass days

2007-08-19T10:55:00.000+01:00

Thursday. Out to Tibenham Greyhound, me and the kids, lovely relaxed session, beautiful singing (not mine...), Alice off to a friends across the road, Robert listening to Liam, Part-time Dan and me rambling far beyond the gone home early crowd.

Friday. 40th birthday party, then away from the disco and on to Walsham le-Willows. Sleepy Six Bells. Big John, Neville, Steve and all. Another session, all bluegrass, kids having a scream playing cards. Alice can't shuffle, and watch her - she deals her cards from the bottom...

Saturday. Built a giant parcel shelf for the Skylark - our minibus - somewhere safe to transport the double bass now it's seeing more use again. Bloody great thing. Why would anyone learn to play one!!!? And on to Ipswich, tank running on empty, driving around in rain cloud darkness to find the huge lawns of Chris's place. Caravans, tents, playing in a handful of marquees. Banjos by the half dozen, even two more bassists! Loads of old friends, new friends from all over the country. Barbeque, toasted marshmellows. Lovely.

Sunday. Later on today. Another meet up with them "one night only" boys. Really looking forward to this one - a no plans thrash through anything we know! And more.

Feeling alive this weekend. Oh to bottle the passion for all those dark times. To drink down better times and paint the world bright.

edit Gig was really good. Getting double flashed by a speed camera leaving Norwich - far less so. Driving rain, following traffic in the old Sedan, 77 year old speedo ain't all that...

Sitting here silently screaming "aaaaarrrrggggghhhh....."

Sharing fun

2007-08-14T10:44:00.001+01:00

Well, through a catalogue of rushing around errors, I ended up home from the Hayride in the Fordor.

So - it's been running well, and with no other choice, drove down to the Suffolk coast to see the kids who have been staying with friends in their caravan.

Cursory glance at a map, top up the tank - a wise precaution now the 77 year old cork on the end of the guage has decided to lose it's ability to swim - and the previous weekend 3 lane blacktops are swapped for winding country roads.

Sunglasses on, decide to go a different B road route now I'm rolling...

Along the A143 towards Harleston, dipping over a humpback, blind bend, narrow, red brick, bridge across the Waveney. South of the river? This time of night?

Pick up the B1118 heading to Hoxne, heavy sedan rolling on the tight bends, heady smell of fuel from the overfilled cowl tank wafting in through the open screen. Roads untravelled in a while, a dogleg crossroads in Stradbroke, church to the left, quaint old shops ahead, and back into open countryside. Big old four cylinders pounding away as each bend is steadily picked off. Getting in the way of nobody - me and this ol' girl the only thing on the road. Summer evening heat. Everyone indoors for tea.

Join the B1116 south at a T junction, down into Dennington. Left turn onto the A1120, some faster swooping bends heading out of the village, a sharp ninety degree left and onto to a long rolling roman road straight towards Peasenhall. Faster is a relative term - this is no nestled in the machinery, pin sharp handling roadster, just a ponderous, lurching, top heavy mix of wood and iron. At the far end of the charming, beyond my pocket, village of Yoxford, a left turn onto the A12, before nipping across as smartly as the A can manage onto a single track, high hedged lane, - pass at the bucket of apples for £2 - onto Westleton. A left through the village green followed by a right turn across the gorse bushes of Dunwich Heath.

And rest. Cous cous and curried vegetables, skimming stones and a game of Boule on the beach till twilight hid the jack...

After a one for the road cup of tea, time to try the lights! Retracing my steps winding back through the unlit narrow country lanes. Feels fast, heading into the two pools of yellow light no more than a few yards past the radiator shell. Staggered junction across the A12, late night lorries bearing down, and back onto the A1120. Screen still open, bringing in the fresh cut harvest barley smells, lights in the field as farmers take advantage of the dry night - corn trailers the only occasional fellow travellers on the road home.

Feeling alive, mildly tense, heart beating. No-one knows where I am, it's full black dark, ancient car, no torch, phone. No idea of the time. Nothing but a penknife in my pocket and three copper coins.

But the old Sedan didn't let me down. All the familiar noises amplified in the dark, no filter carb roaring, cheap silencer joining in, occasional rattle in the bearings, jangling mixture screw, squeaking door locks, protesting heavily laden tyres on tightening bends, throbbing beat of each cylinder finding it's way home.

Don't know how long it took. Don't care. Wanted to go on some more.

But most of all, wanted someone to share it all with. It was fun, but as with most things in life - so much better for sharing.

Driving, chatting, chilling. At the Hayride.

2007-08-13T12:19:00.000+01:00

Missed a few events I'd planned this year. Money, kids, but mainly laziness. That, and actually doing other fun and life important things.

But the Hayride. Missed the first two. Had to make No. 3. Didn't look likely for a while. Plan was to travel light in the Modified. Failed MOT. Passed MOT. And then? Clutch started to slip. Years of zero maintenance finally taking their toll on the thrashed little 21 stud flathead. Oil pumping out into the bellhousing, water leaving by the same and other routes. Too late for another plan. Angst building at the thought of a long motorway trip in the ol' Odeon Shag Sedan. Disappointment running high. So wanted to take to the dirt oval track. Sedan not gonna cut it as a substitute...

But. Not so bad. Left mid afternoon, missed the traffic that plagued everyone else, packed too much, forgot everything. Jen, me, childless for a weekend. In the prettiest, bizarre place we could imagine. The Hayride. Hotrods, and rock and/or roll pressed into the surroundings of Bisley Shooting Centre. Where corrugated tin appears to have gone to retire and every place had a veranda.

Dust, cloudless sky. Relentless sunshine. Beat us in the end, but watching the period stockcars, and fun-to-be-had hotrodders out on the dirt and flint oval. Priceless times.

Warm evening sitting outside the Pavillion, talking about anything and everything. Brilliant. Catching up with friends. Happy.

Against the advice on the packet, happy enough to add a beer or two to the tablets I'm on. Felt fine. Then, late night panic rising, surrounded by smoking friends, hate to lose them, thoughts mixed up. Hopped in the car to run off and panic alone.

Real friends care. Came looking. Sorry an' all.

Spent a while chatting to a drunken real friend. Hugged me, brought me down. Cheers bud, I did listen, just tiredness overtook me. That ol' Sedan is a weary motor to drive...

Back to the tent, Jen's ill. Bless.

Decamped in the morning, packed before the drizzle, easy drive home. Rolling with the traffic. Out again to pick up friends and family from the airport. More driving! Tired, happy, hungry, scruffy and unshaven, off to bed.

Highs and lows are all real life. And the highs from this weekend? Gonna last a long, long time.

But when the sun shone

2007-08-06T15:00:00.000+01:00

Moaning minnie that I am in my last post - the sun shone bright on Saturday. And I loved it. Beautiful day for beautiful people. Spent the day getting filthy. Fixing the car, sawing firewood. Helping Robert with the raking of the lawn. Or meadow as it had become...

And the evening? Rush, rush, rush. Last minute visitors, bass into bus. Off to play at a dance for a civil partnership. Hot setting sun, lounging in the welcome shadows, lovely food, strawberries and cream, choral singing on the rolling lawn. My Robert dancing in the warm night air with Jenny's Charlotte.

We all felt gorgeous. Still do.

Traditional English Summer

2007-08-06T14:23:00.000+01:00

Been a damp one so far. Up until last week.

Now, for me at least, it's about 20 degrees too hot.

Sitting in my darkened room, sweat building between fingers that feel as fat as prime porky worky sausages, I can just about make out the fact it's bright and sunny by peering through the crack in the door into the front office, through the bars on the window, and catching a reflection off a parked car. Just about. Sometimes. Unless the blinds are closed. Like they usually are.

And in the distance I can here that damned "You are my Sunshine" icecream van, circling the estate. Taunting me as perspiration builds beneath my hair. A bill for a new pair of glasses has wiped out any potential '99' purchase for this month!

It may have only been summer for two days. But it's two days too many for me and the water needing tomatoes. I'll change my mind once I have the T modified back on the road though...

Help you can do without

2007-08-03T11:43:00.001+01:00

I've felt lucky in some respects over the last year. Plenty of people have done so much to ease us through. Looking after the kids so I can get on with things has helped.

Summer holidays are the worst. Six hot weeks. Well. Sometimes hot.

Took the kids over to stay for a week with Kate's parents. They're always desperate to help, but live a distance away. Long story short - Tuesday evening I hear from them. Sad little voices on the phone, they'd been rear-ended on the motorway by a lorry. Car's a write off, but they're OK. Bruised, battered, but OK. Chatted a while, they miss me. Wondered what the hell to do. Rush over? Why? What could that fix? They needed a hug, but they had their grandparents to do that. Not quite dad, but. I needed a hug too.

Call it delayed shock. Or whatever. That sudden sinking feeling coming over me now as I plan to go and pick them up after there week away. I nearly lost the rest of my family. A split second here or there. It's all it would have taken.

I am so desperate to see them again. Ticking clock.

Day gone astray

2007-07-31T14:39:00.000+01:00

Woke up feeling lovely and warm this morning. All the way through. That'll be the deep fried, battered, cheese filled, jalepeno peppers I ate last night.

Took two attempts to leave the house.

And, when I did? Lovely day - took the Odeon Shag Cee-dan. Two miles up the road, cough and a burp and.... died. Never to restart. Pushed it into a friend's drive, thumbed it home. Damn. Diagnosis? Dead coil. Missed my appointment at the doctors. Rescheduled for this afternoon. So I won't make it back in time to pick up the parts I need tomorrow to fix the Modified for the MOT on Thursday...

Still. Plenty of time for things to start working out better, it's only halfway through the day after all! Nothing, but nothing, is going to stop the overall lovely feeling I'm, err... feeling. Good times. And good times coming.

Feeling fuzzy

2007-07-26T23:14:00.000+01:00

I have no idea why. Always kept my head trimmed short. If I had a zip up cardigan, I'd never be troubled by catching any chest hairs.

So why have my nose and ears decided to grow themselves there own little beards?

I blame global warming. And the rather damp summertime.

A Fete worse than?

2007-07-23T13:32:00.001+01:00

Ah - but it wasn't. This years annual Shelfanger Fete was devoid of a number of things including the car and bike show from the past few years. No matter. Somehow, for me at least, the whole day turned out lovely.

Gave the kids more than a few coins to go off and spend on the attractions. Alice as always was drawn to the tombola. Whilst I had been elected to run the Bowling for a Pig stall. No pig these days though - it's been replaced by a whole five pound note...

Afternoon full of fun and frolics. Meeting the neighbours. Cajoling people out of fifty pence pieces for the chance to throw seven balls across bumpy grass in the vain hope of getting them through three impossibly small cutouts in a sheet of plywood. Barbeque and bar. Tea and cakes. Silly, feel good stuff.

Would have been enough for the day. Except? Well, friends down the road had tickets for an evening concert. Quarter to six - on the phone, yup, still tickets on the gate. Six o'clock, pork pie trilby on my head and in the van and heading over to Beccles carnival. Into a huge black cloud. Perfect full arch rainbow. To jump and squelch about into the muddy darkness with Bad Manners! Buster Bloodvessel's tongue flickering in the spot lights. Sweat glistening on the big man's bald head.

Saw friends I hadn't seen in years. Still won't again, for the want of exchanging details. But that doesn't matter, just good to see them all. Jump! Squealch! Again!

Misty drive home, with tired, sleepy and achy people. Head ringing. The buzz of life.

Last year, the whole village turned out for a celebration of Kate's life. Really felt like they all did it again.

Lists and spreadsheets

2007-07-19T10:52:00.000+01:00

In an attempt to focus - in what felt like the first time ever, I started a list last summer. And inspired by a dear, don't know where she is at the moment, friend it contained both the mundane, easy to do stuff (plus the stuff I'd already sorted so I could start off with a couple of ticks!) and some more involved things like fixing the felt under the tiles and tidying the landing at the top of the stairs...

The landing is still a mess. The birds still fly in and out of the attic unhindered. Breathe in and out were on there though. Managed that all year. Time to start that list again.

More successful was my summer "help me out I have no idea who can look after the kids and where can they go whilst I'm at work" spreadsheet cum calendar.

That and my "what do they actually eat" spreadsheet where I gradually added enough new and interesting things to their suddenly vegetarian diet, to make the whole thing practically redundant.

Well - summer holidays start tomorrow. I can feel the panic rising. As are the carrots, potatoes, beans and tomatoes.

Sweet Memories

2007-07-13T11:40:00.000+01:00

Mmmmmm.
Parma Violets. Love 'em or hate 'em, they're a sweet from the dim and distant. Me? I chose to love them.
Great thing is, unlike others things in life, - Wagon Wheels springs to mind - you can find them in Giant size.
They've grown up just like me! (That is open to debate I guess)

And while I'm on the sweet nostalgia trip that'll take me to town later, I'd best stock up a quarter or two of sweet peanuts and licorice torpedoes.

Be still my rotting fillings...

Days

2007-07-12T10:00:00.000+01:00

One of the most pointless, tragic, deaths in the whole of the music industry, must be Kirsty MacColl's.
Kate, and me, and no doubt a whole bunch of other people, always admired her for just singing and recording whatever she fancied.

So I've decided that as she was wonderful, she must have sung the song "Days" just for me and Kate. Thanks m'dear. Hey, and that Ray Davies bloke isn't so bad for writing it...

Days - Raymond B. Davies

Thank you for the days
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me
I’m thinking of the days
I won’t forget a single day believe me

I bless the light
I bless the light that lights on you believe me
And though you’re gone
You’re with me every single day believe me

Days I’ll remember all my life
Days when you can’t see wrong from right
You took my life
But then I knew that very soon you’d leave me
But it’s alright
Now I’m not frightened of this world believe me

I wish today could be tomorrow
The night is long
It just brings sorrow let it wait

Thank you for the days
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me
I’m thinking of the days
I won’t forget a single day believe me

Days I’ll remember all my life
Days when you can’t see wrong from right
You took my life
But then I knew that very soon you’d leave me
But it’s alright
Now I’m not frightened of this world believe me

Days, thank you for the days
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me
I’m thinking of the days
I won’t forget a single day believe me

I bless the light
I bless the light that lights on you believe me
And though you’re gone
You’re with me every single day believe me

And James Blunt can just clear off now for a while. Bloody singer songwriters...

So many Somethings from Somewhere

2007-07-10T10:41:00.000+01:00

Always liked maps.
And maths.
So - obvious really. Maps, maths and music. Planned a compilation tape back in the midst of time, long drives to and from gigs with part-time Dan.
The So Many Somethings from Somewhere tape. From pop to melancholy country.

24 hours from Tulsa - Gene Pitney
6 more miles to the graveyard - Hank Williams
8 more miles to Louisville - Grandpa Jones
59 yards from your house to my house - Boo Hewerdine
Halfway to Paradise - Billy Fury
50 Ways to leave your Lover - Paul Simon
Last train to Clarkesville - The Monkees
16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought-Six - Tom Waits (not strictly maps that one..!)
30 days (to get back home) - Chuck Berry

More to follow as I remember them. It's been a while and the thought process is kinda rusty.