The Rumble in the Jungle

As one season moves into the next, it provides one with time to look philosophically at the changes in nature and how these are reflected in my own personal frame of mind.

Winter is traditionally a time for keeping your head down and letting the cold storms blow over and with any luck escape without any lasting effects. Expect the usual floods in some areas, and the snow concerns in another, hope your heating keeps working but be prepared for the annual whinge about how much it costs.

Then Spring slowly comes out of its hiding place. It gradually becomes a little bit warmer, and then all of a sudden the sun starts shining and you remember what it feels like to be alive. The same streets that looked depressing and grey a fortnight ago, are now joyous with the hope of spring. The whole of nature comes to the party. The flowers start shooting up, and young animals come out of their winter beds for a first look at the big world.

All of this goes on at this time of the year and so it is no wonder that people also perk up. For me, this year especially, I feel that I have come out of a long hibernation and I am now energised to achieve what ever I want.

This winter has been particularly bad, and without dwelling too much on the negatives, I have compared myself to Rocky in the final round against Apollo Creed. I’m in the corner of the ring and every event is another punch winging its way on to my face. I’ve looked over at the Ref to stop it but he can’t see me through the blood and puffiness. Another trip to the hospital… bang… the worst Christmas I have ever had… bang… Claire’s Grandad dying… bang… Sophie again in hospital… bang… cancelling the New Year plans… bang… guess who in hospital… bang… work being the most stressful it has ever been… bang…

And then the sound of a distant bell can be heard amongst the din of leather on flesh, and the primal screaming from anyone within earshot. Is it the iron bell that they talk about at the end? Then the sun shines through, and you are bathed in light, you can’t feel the pain anymore as it subsides into the experiences that will one day make you richer.

My “bell” (to keep the analogy going) was the news that I had passed my final exam for CIMA. Now to most people this would be quite a routine event and although cause grounds for celebration, you would then continue with your normal life. But for me, this exam had almost taken human form by this stage and was acting as a monstrous devil dancing on my future grave, taunting me with failure. Five years has gone by in the time that it has taken me to pass one exam. It had affected me so much, I knew that the only way that I would win would be to pass it and then close that chapter and move on. Until I had passed it I knew that it would never end.

So the relief of passing this, otherwise quite meaningless, exam is that it has shone a different perspective on my future path. In the short term it has resulted in a pay rise and promotion prospects, but in the long term it has enabled me to once again dream of other avenues in which my destiny lies. Now that I am qualified you would think that I would now put on my battle dress, and march into a corporate career that will achieve outstanding honours and command the utmost respect from all of my minions. But to me it means that I can now concentrate on other opportunities in the time when I am not working.

I plan on writing these blogs more often again, so that I can look back and work out what is happening. When I first started writing these, the revolution was already under way, it has continued changing and now I feel as though I have the energy to continue with it.

Happy Days!

The Wheel

As the winter sun was setting on another busy Monday, and the early finishers were making their way’s home, Claire was also making her journey back across Stockport. She had been required to make the journey in order to hand deliver some important documents to a solicitor connected with our imminent house move.

The rain was, as usual, a companion for the wanderer, and this was the reason that Claire decided that with a new pushchair in tow, laden with two cherubs, the train would be an efficient means of transport. With the old pushchair that we had, it was impossible to use the train. The width of a double pushchair is slightly wider than the girth of an average-sized fat man, and this is the measurement that Rail companies use in assessing such decisions.

So with a touch of excitement about her, due to the kids experiencing their first train journey, she boarded the choo choo and off they went. The time it takes to put your bags down and unzip the rain cover for the pushchair is roughly the same amount of time as it takes to get from Stockport station to the hamlet of Heaton Chapel. As Claire tried to reach around the chair to open the door, and then try and alight on to the platform through an opening that seemed a lot smaller the second time around, she managed to wedge the front of the pushchair between the edge of the train and the platform. This area is infamously known as the “GAP”.

A little push, a pull, a wiggle, a big push, a slam, and eventually a sideways shimmy made the front wheel come away from the pushchair and drop right down the “GAP”. Claire then finally broke through on to the platform with all of the coolness of the Tasmanian Devil. A little ruffled she ran to the conductor, who was stood at the end of the train, and explained the tragedy in easy to follow syllables. The response to this was a sympathetic shrug, and a comment that she should see the stationmaster. Off the train then went, leaving Claire in the rain, on the platform, with a pushchair balancing on its two back wheels, and an angry disposition.

The wheel could be seen on the track, but was just out of reach. She looked for the stationmaster but inevitably he had already left for the day. He had probably had to go home to lift his mother out of the bath, so that they could continue the jigsaw that they had started the night before.

When Claire finally reached the house, she phoned several numbers to alert someone to the situation, and try and receive some help from the department that helps get things off of tracks for people. Suprisingly, this department does not exist, but a few people recommended that she ring the station at 8 o’clock the next morning.

On my return from work I was informed of the drama, and we decided to write a note to the stationmaster and put it under the door of the station, so that he would see it and rush immediately to the damsel in distress first thing in the morning. We had written our phone number on the note and, when he had rescued the wheel, he could ring us and we would collect it.

The following morning came and the rain was once again tapping at the window as we waited in the kitchen for the phone to ring. I know that you will not be shocked to hear that the phone never rang, but when you are in these situations you would rather believe in humanity and hope, instead of negative cynicism.

At 8 o’clock I decided to go to the station personally and speak to the stationmaster, and hopefully retrieve the wheel that he had probably collected and been too busy too have let us know.

But life seldom turns out the way that you think, and when I did get there the chump behind the ticket desk muttered something about health and safety, and that he wasn’t insured to go on to the tracks. He pointed me towards a timetable that had a customer services number on the back of it, and that maybe they could help.

I picked up the timetable and then walked down on to the platform just to see if I could find it and check that it was still all right. I had images of it being snapped in half and poking out of a bush that ran parallel to the platform. But, as I walked passed about 40 commuters on their way to Manchester, carefully scanning the tracks, I then found it at the end of the platform in perfect condition.

It was just resting on the nearest track, and was teasing me to grab it. I quickly weighed up the hassle that would be involved in having to ring up customer services and explain to them what the problem was, and then wait for them to arrive so that we could collect it from them; and the off chance of getting electrocuted and dying.

I am not an expert on the mechanics of the modern railway; I know a few tricks for fare dodging but technical knowledge has evaded me. So, I quickly asked a girl dressed in a nice business suit if she knew if the first rail was electric, or not. She shrugged, but in her eyes she was thinking who is this mad man that is talking about touching tracks.

A new pushchair wheel was, Claire and I had assumed to be, about £70. I quickly decided that £70 is enough to make me gamble on my own health, and so jumped down into the tracks and flicked the wheel off the rail using a rolled up timetable. I grabbed the wheel and then jumped back up on to the platform.

I was expecting everyone to cheer, and hail the hero that had just fought the system and won. Instead, they all just looked at this suited man jumping on to train tracks and coming back with a pushchair wheel. Their eyes were wary as if I would strike out at any second, or put my tie around my head and roar. I thought it best to just make a quick exit, stage left.

So the moral of this story is don’t drop anything down the “GAP”, when it says “MIND THE GAP” it damn well means it.

Property Ladder 2

I haven’t written an entry in this journal for nearly eight weeks. The reasons are of course endless, and you probably don’t care anyway, but for the record I have been exceptionally busy at work and have also taken my last exam again. It has been a busy time, juggling different aspects of my life simultaneously whilst all reach fever pitch at the same time.

Life tends to spit out these phases where you have to deal with everything at once. It isn’t so bad as long as you prioritise what the most important thing is at that moment and then try to do it to the best of your ability. You hit a snag when, because of the constant effort given to each pursuit, you are so tired that your best ability is still not that effective.

However, that is the reason and now things will resume more normal levels of intensity. At least for this week, because I now have a grand announcement to make… We have sold our house, and finally bought another in the village of Marple Bridge. It is a picturesque 18th century hamlet that has kept its olde world charm, whilst still installing phone lines and traffic lights.

The house we have bought is a humble 4 bedroomed house with views over the neigbouring hills and a garden that backs on to parkland and the River Goyt. We are quite excited to be getting this house, especially as it is out in the sticks in a nice area where there seems to be a real strong sense of community still.

However, it will still be sad to say goodbye to our current house. Heaton Chapel has been good to us over the years, and Claire especially has met a lot of nice people over the last year that all live nearby. But the promise of Marple Bridge will offer the kids a safer, more innocent childhood as we move away from the irritating element that occasionally stray into the “Chapel”. I’m hoping for no more pitched battles outside my house in the future.

We have only just had offers accepted at this stage so there is a myriad of obstacles to still encounter and navigate through, but we are confident that it appears quite straightforward in terms of a chain. I expect that we would be looking to complete at the end of January time 2008.

Enough of the house for the time being, you will hear plenty about this in the near future. A completely different thought occurred to me the other day.

Why do daytime television programmes interview the actors of soaps about the plot that their characters are involved with? I admit that I am not a subscriber of the various soaps on TV; my opinion is that if you want to see real life then turn off your telly and live your own instead. But I can still understand the concept of a soap and the need for people to escape from their own life and absorb themselves in a make believe world.

But what is the point of talking to an actor about their opinion of the, character they plays, destiny in a script that has already been written. It is because of the constant demand that there is for these soaps, that consumers cannot get enough of the people who are now part of their lives. But would it not be a better idea for interviews to be conducted in character, in the set of the soap. This way they can still provide additional material to the market without ruining the illusion of a parallel world. Also, it could provide the actors with more challenging work that would involve them being responsible for ad lib answers in character. Is the world ready for this? Just remember where you heard of it first.

Another idea that I have had will revolutionise the card giving culture of the UK. I don’t mind mentioning it here with the risk of the idea being nabbed and presented in front of Dragon’s Den in a year’s time, but I am asking for 25% of the profits when someone makes millions. But I am going to look in to the Patent possibilities before I unleash it to make sure that it is protected.

The Battle of Britain

Last Friday night was a night like many other Friday nights that are common in the Holley household during these times. The wind was mildly wisping from a south, south-east direction and the darkness had made itself welcome on Manchester Rd. Not the band, but the part of the day that follows the afternoon and early evening. Claire and I had settled the kids to sleep finally, and sat down to watch Jonathan Ross. Claire fell asleep, and eventually at the big hour of midnight that was enough, and like the runner-up of an endurance contest we took ourselves up to bed.

Then, all of a sudden, I was alarmed to hear some raised voices in the street outside. I quickly raced to the window (one step from bed) and looked out at the mystery scene that awaited me. Four blokes walking to the east suddenly turned around and started tracking back towards the west, shouting abuse at an unknown recipient. All of a sudden one broke from the formation, running at the target, and when reaching the target began to knock him over and proceed kicking him on the ground.

It did not look like it was one of these travelling minstrel shows that tour the country putting on impromptu shows for their supper. Nor did it resemble the meeting of two old friends. It looked very similar to a scene taken from the musical “Italia ’90 – The Fans Fight Back”, and this similarity became closer when the three amigos that were a bit slow in the initial confrontation joined in taking on all comers.

Just as I was trying to commentate on the display of one-sided pugilism to Claire, and also thinking how handy it would be to have a red phone that connected me direct to Commissioner Gordon, the Boys in Blue turned up. Screeching around the corner with the Fanfair of the Sirens blaring out, the scene became one of chaos. The brave foursome that had obviously started the proceedings were well versed in this particular melody, because when hearing it they all tried to run off and hide somewhere. Two of which went down the side of our house, hoping for a Bat cave to appear out of our gable wall. When realising that the wall was pretty solid, they both turned around and then ran over the road to the alley opposite us. Thus escaping the long arm of the law, that actually wasn’t very long at all.

But the Police, like the Canadian Mounties, had their man. I could not tell if it was the first of the Famous Four, or another one of the supporting cast, but they did not seem happy. The Police, however, did seem happy. If there is a pet hate that any Officer harbours around the world is the feeling of going back to the station to fill out a desk load of paperwork without the inside glow of another job well done.

So, the scene began to calm down and the truncheons were re-sheathed. And after a couple of eyewitness reports were jotted down, everyone went back to have a post game drink of tea and discuss the possible winners and losers.

But, this event has spurred me on to want to move house more than ever. Not that my wanting to move house will actually move it on any quicker, but at least it will add to my frustration of not being able to sell my house. Running street battles outside your house is fairly high on the list of reasons to move.

Pete, Claire’s brother, has also travelled back from the US to visit us this week. This is nice, as he last saw us a couple of years ago, and since then we have been married and had two children. There is no worse a moment than, when you meet someone that you have not seen for a number of years and asked, “What have you been up to?” you can only shrug your shoulders and look vacantly at the speaker. It makes you feel that you have not contributed anything to your life in those years, and that you may as well have said that you had been in prison for the product that you had produced.

This was avoided though, and pleasing it was to be able to talk through the events of our life that had been missed by both parties either side of the Atlantic. The only problem is that the next time we meet we will have set a standard, and nothing less than a par performance will be satisfactory.

Also, nice for Dylan and Sophie to see their Uncle Pete and cry at him for a couple of days. But for a man that would admit himself that he does not specialise in childcare, he has taken to the task with grace and composure, and I am sure that one day the kids will pick up some valuable lessons from him.

Before I go, I nearly forgot the next edition to the Hospital saga. Sophie picked up a water infection, and also caught Bronchalitis last week, and had to remain in hospital for a few days to be monitored. She is perfectly well now, and is on the road to recovery. However, she is on anti-biotics that have turned her waste into a crayon type colour of blue and green. It does not look right, and the sooner they pass through the system the better for all concerned.

Both are now eating solids, to a degree, and they are making big improvements to the way they interact with us. Hopefully soon they can master the can opener, and the kettle, so that Claire and I can go out for five minutes.

The Revolution is Back On

For those of you that think I have disappeared off the face of the planet recently, then… tah dah! I am still here. I have not visited anywhere interesting, I have not met anyone of any note, and I have not been involved in anything that would make your ears prick up like a fruit bat. But I have had some much needed rest and have been keeping a low profile in my local sphere of existence.

One of the most comforting points to note is that we have not been to any hospital for at least a fortnight. I’m not the type of person that feels comfortable in hospitals because of some weird feeling that you feel safe. I come from the school of being as far away as possible from the thought of anything going wrong, and then if it does, think about it then. Until this year that way of life had kept me out of hospitals for most of it, but this year just goes to show that if you’re thinking of moving half way up a mountain in the middle of the Central Siberian Plateau, then make sure you have a contingency in place. A First Aid box may not be enough.

I’m aware that I do not always mention the skids in these little weekly anecdotes, but that is because a) I do not want to bore people with the newsflash that Dylan has just picked his first nose, and b) most of the interesting news about them is between Claire and I. One day, in twenty years, I will re-publish these memoirs with more detailed news on their progress, once I have the knowledge that it will all work out right in the end.

I am sure that Claire and I have a naturally high level of worry and sensitivity, compared to normal parents, due to what has happened. We are now six and a half months on, and Sophie is now in Newborn clothes and the weight is still monitored weekly. There are still tests being carried out regularly and we are trying to ignore all of that and listen to people’s advice of “just enjoy them”.

We are enjoying them for probably 95% of the time, but there is still that element of doubt and fear that creeps in to your thoughts and makes you so scared that you feel like crying. But we try not to, and we both act as each other’s councillor at those times. It gets a bit tasty when we both get down, but at those points we put on a Portsmouth FC DVD and realise that there are people worse off than us in the world.

But as a quick run down of progress. Dylan has learnt to stand, all be it for about 5 seconds before he takes a dive like a Portugese midfielder. He can also laugh at me (which is probably going to be a useful life skill for him), and has recently developed a high pitch squeal that he uses now to communicate with us. We are still none the wiser of what he means, but the cat goes upsatirs and fetches him things.

Sophie can now grab toys on her own, and is forming the cutest little smile. She is also sleeping all through the night, much to the delight of Claire. But, Dylan however, who is not really understanding what nighttime is for and still waking up once or twice for a feed, balances this out.

Sophie is catching up with her weight and getting close now to the lowest centile, where as Dylan’s line is beginning to form a big yellow M.

We also have a second viewing tonight from someone wanting to buy our house. Hopefully we can pull it off and start our plans to move. It would be nice to be in a new house by Christmas, although we are not in any rush to leave here. It’s just nice to finish something once it’s begun.

So there’s the update. I will keep you posted when interesting things happen, but like the farmer said to the milk-maid sitting under a Bull, “You don’t need to milk it!”

Down on the Farm

The Hospital

The man quietly put his key in the door and slowly turned the handle, making sure that he did not wake the inhabitants above. As he tiptoed upstairs he could hear a strange moaning coming from the smallest room, and now he drew nearer he could see that it was coming from the cot on the right. The small blue night-light was on, and in its glow he could make out the writhing look of anguish upon the boy’s face.

Acting quickly, and picking him up to comfort him, he rushed into the main bedroom where the mother was sleeping. There wasn’t any point in staying quiet anymore, so he woke her up and asked her what she thought was the matter with him.

By this stage Dylan was shaking, and his lips had turned a very dark purple colour. The look in his eyes could be compared to the look that a small wildebeest gives his mother as a lion approaches, and doesn’t know the word, “Help!”

After a few minutes pondering on the next course of action, they decide to take him to the local hospital where experts are waiting for the next purple-lipped case.

This journey involved picking up his sleeping sister and throwing the two of them in their car seats, and then racing off to the hospital as if they were being chased. It looked very similar to the Ant Hill Mob from Wacky Races pretending to be chased by Burt Reynolds from the Cannonball Run.

After a few hours, with a plastic bag strapped around his meat and two veg, his urine sample convinced the panel of experts that he had a water infection. To the untrained eye it looked like a glass of traditional lemonade, which still raised a few alarms that something wasn’t right.

The family were taken upstairs so that they could be kept away from the public. This suited them, as an alcoholic tramp was sitting just outside their cubicle shaking and randomly shouting.
After a quick ten hours the consultant finally popped his head around the door to check on the patient. A course of anti-biotics were administered and confirmation that the parents had behaved in the right way. Apparently the water infection can spread into the blood stream in babies, and this is serious stuff.

The poor, little man has now all but recovered, but ever since that day he has never been able to look at Burt Reynolds the same.

So that wraps up another adventure in the world of medicine and fear, tune in next week where I’m sure there will be another one.

The Wedding

It was a beautiful, sunny day in the Shropshire countryside as the Holley family rolled along with the scenery. Passing through hamlets of Tudor houses with old phone boxes. There were farm shops selling freshly dug potatoes, and it was possibly these that were to be served a little later at the wedding of a close friend of mine from University.

The venue was a disused stud farm set in the middle of about 100 acres of the greenest countryside I have ever seen. To express it in the manner of the poet James Blunt, “It was Beautiful.”

The house cost £2.5million a few years ago, and if I ever go to a more idyllic setting for a wedding then I will consider myself a very fortunate young man from Itchen.

The wedding itself was actually a blessing (the ceremony part happened a few hours before in a registry office). Picture the classic Hollywood interpretation of a wedding in the garden and you would be close. It looked very similar to Forrest Gump’s wedding to Jenny in Alabama. Anyway, a classical guitarist was playing in the background and the sun played along by behaving itself and staying put for the whole day.

The meal and evening soiree were adjourned to the Marquee that was situated in another one of the fields, and the whole day went swimmingly. Considering, the house was owned by his mum and step dad, the actual day was low key and relaxed. There were none of those waste of time frills that you get at so many weddings these days. Bottles of bubbles with hearts on, gold love hearts on the table, and a stringed quartet playing insipid music in the background. None of this occurred. This wasn’t about keeping up with the Jones’; this wedding was real and about two people making a commitment in front of people. The speeches, although brief, were honest and heart felt. Everyone there was relaxed and you didn’t see the usual scene of a representative of the wedding party running around because Uncle Fred has just eaten the posy.

The only problem with the day was my chair lifting technique let me down. I, along with most of the male contingent, carried through a pile of chairs from the first field to the Marquee. When I set these down I bent with my knees in the correct ergonomic fashion, but the trousers gave way. All up the seat, at least 20 inches. Claire had to perform an emergency operation that required several stitches; otherwise I would have been walking around for most of the day with my backside hanging out from its hidey-hole.

This wasn’t a case of a stitch in time saves nine, but a stitch in time saves the wedding.


Health Check

It is worth a mention that Sophie has just had her biggest weight gain so far, and put 8ozs on in a week. We are now going to be putting her on a diet before she gets too big.

A Day at Lords

A wise man once said that there was nothing better than to watch an enjoyable game of cricket on a warm summers day. I had neither of these this weekend, but we still sought to make the best of a bad situation. For this weekend saw the author travelling to the big smoke to attend the one-day final at Lords, the home of cricket.

The sun was still on its journey from the other hemisphere, and the streets were void of life, as we drove through the deserted markets and cobbled streets on our way to the station. Making the same voyage as millions of others through the ages, aiming to realise their dreams and achieve the riches that the gold streets of London offered, we felt in good company. My travelling partner, on this pilgrimage to the mecca of cricket, was an elderly gentleman that had never made the journey before. He desired to see the vista of Old Father Time looking down from the left tower of the pavillion just once, before the long, black cloud came down over his eyes. I also need to add that he gets quite irate at the smallest of obstacles, as is the trend for men of his age, depicted so neatly in the programme, “Grumpy Old Men”.

We arrived at the station, which was packed with excited people waiting to make the same journey, and as we eventually sat down on the train three fuses had already blown. There were not enough people serving coffee, the newsagents was not open and the Saturday kid waiting outside the door would not sell a paper for cash, and finally the seats that were supposedly reserved (if we were in the last century) were not. Not a bad start. But, by the time we had arrived in London things had calmed down and we were looking forward to the adventure of getting to Lords.

I had been to Lords once before, but that occasion was not so memorable, the third day of a four day game between Surrey and Middlesex. The place, however, has an aura of respectability and Englishness, and when you walk in through the gates you feel honoured to be there. Instead of the bars serving popular beers, they should be selling Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches. The surrounding area of St. John’s Wood also feels the same. The district in which Abbey Road is located, the cornerstone of English music, is now filled with posh café’s and Australians everywhere. The buildings seem to be holding their breath, acting like an old war hero, who is tolerating some children running around him at a picnic on the Thames. Eventually their patience will be exhausted, and people will hear a large explosion from this small area of London, and nobody will talk about it but understand that it’s best left alone.

The talk on everyone’s lips was why did Hampshire win the toss but choose to field first. Half the crowd thought it was crazy whilst the other half had faith in our legendary Australian skipper. Through out the day that faith seemed more and more misplaced, as the game slipped further away from the Hawks.

We kept our bodies lubricated through the day, knowing that dehydration was a big killer in this part of the ground. As we became less capable of controlling our faculties, so did the Hampshire batsmen. One after another they were sent back to the pavillion, like naughty children that had received a punishment and asked to send the next one in. Apart from a stubborn resistance from Crawley, no Hampshire player deserved a lift home.

But then, thankfully, the rain came and put us out of our gradual slide into depression. The game wasn’t won or lost at this stage, but the writing was already on the wall and the anti-climax of the end to the day was at least some satisfaction. It meant that the Durham supporters who had travelled twice as far didn’t get to celebrate either.

The old boy and I then tried to weave our way back through London to get to our awaiting carriage. At the halfway point, we stopped off to fill up our water bottles and met some delightful Brazilians. We built up some what of a friendship with them and learnt how Queen were still massive in Sao Paulo. I didn’t have the heart to explain that Mercury was dead, and May had been discovered as the missing link between human and poodle. (A Pooman, for anyone taking notes)

After an inevitable delay at the watering hole we had realised that we had missed our train, and needed to rush back to Waterloo to catch the next one. This resulted in a slight mix up at Bond Street Underground where the elder of the duet was unfortunately left behind, as yours truly leapt down an escalator and on to the awaiting tube. Not often found in less athletic company these days I was quite surprised by this, but I still found the funny side as I disappeared off through the tunnel.

One way or another we ended up on the train home to Southampton, and finally made it back to our base in one piece. A good adventure had by all, but unfortunately the result of the game had gone. Cricket tends to be like that though. It is more the taking part and the being there that go to having a good day, rather than the outcome.