“Many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese - toasted, mostly.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

What a dull week, or a holiday as I call it.

Plus the weather has been lovely, which makes sitting here all the worse.
When I had a nice garden, back in the old country, I never ever used it (except when ordered to cut the grass). Now that I have no 'outside', so to speak, all I want to do of a sunny day is go sit outside and read my book - a cruel thing, the mind. 
I'd go sit in a park, if modern sensibilities didn't mean a  middle aged man alone in a park is obviously up to no good.

And to think, I used to look down on people who sat on their front steps on a sunny day, at least they have steps.
Still it could be worse.
Oh, it is,
I'm back on nights on Tuesday, oh dear...

“Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.” - P.J. O'Rourke

“If you think it's going to rain, it will.” - Clint Eastwood

Another review?
And so soon?

Yes, but a very special one, to me at least.
My copy of 'Mid Air' by Paul Buchanan, arrived today. (It must be in short supply, as it was released last Monday.)

The two or so people who actually have any insight into my psyche, might know how important Mr Buchanan's music has been to me over the past 30 or so years (should they ever care to give it any thought).
The Blue Nile only released 4 albums over that period, and sadly, it seems, will almost certainly not release any more. I'll not retread old ground (strange - you usually relish such an opportunity) , but their music has powerful memories and associations for me, and is almost always my first choice for self inflicted melancholy.

This is Paul Buchanan's first solo effort and comes only weeks after Garbage's first album for 7 years. Why is that interesting? Well it seems Mr Buchanan wrote material for Shirley Manson's long since shelved solo album, and that sort of led to the genesis of this solo effort.

So far I've only had a quick listen, but I already recognise that these songs will be keeping me company during many a sleepless night, for many years to come. As I've said elsewhere this album is best suited to intoxication, darkness and rain, preferably all three.

“One can find so many pains when the rain is falling.” - John Steinbeck

 

“If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” * - Orson Welles

Just a quickish comment on the 'House' finale.

Thank goodness that's over. I used to love House, the first five seasons or so were excellent. But the past couple of years, have simply been a dutiful chore.

Shark jumping occurred, for me at least when House interrupted Cuddys dinner by driving through her dining room. Eyes were rolled, including mine, well mostly mine, I live (very) alone after all.

Anyway to the finale. It started disappointingly and then got worse. Houses oh so predictable faked death, switched dental recods, the manifestations of his conscience (who strangely, well for apparitions, had aged and got new hair cuts).
Hugh Laurie seemed completely bored with it all (but I imagine the $700,000 per episode must have helped).
I look forward to whatever he does next though, apparently some kind of Fry/Laurie reteaming is imminent.

We now return you to the scheduled programme...

*sorry for the repitition, but that quote is too perfect...

“One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure its worth watching.”

My silly mind dredged up yet another version of my recurring 'night mare'.
Nothing happens that could actually be described as scary, more unsettling and ponderous... (clap of thunder).

I'm on holiday and bored, so very bored.
I'd like to at least get out and go for a drive, but it's week four of a five week month and my already shallow metaphorical pockets are, well,  less than metaphorically full.

This is the busiest week of Billies exam time, so I'm hovering around the periphery attempting to be supportive, while she studies and stresses, poor thing.

I don't want to appear in any way flippant ,so it's goodbye for now...

(I'm an atheist, but I bought this album just after Billie was born, and this song always has quite the emotional effect on me...)

I'm sorry...

“Music is the art which is most nigh to tears and memory.” - Oscar Wilde

Horror of horrors, I was moved (for a day) to another ward the other day. Care of the elderly, which by it's very nature is physically very demanding. Of course the next day I could hardly walk, my vintage 90s back injury flaring up big style.

Last night I went to see 'The Unthanks' (more on that later), and two hours of attempting to sit bolt upright have made it even worse. I can hardly walk!

As to the Unthanks gig. I arrived ridiculously early, and they wouldn't let me go upstairs (gig was at Newcastle's Discovery Museum, a wonderful museum and the 'Great Hall' is a marvellous space to listen to music).

As I sat waiting more and more people arrived and yet none of them were coming back outside. The rascals! they'd let people form a cue up the stairs! Anyway, the show itself was in the round, and I was in the second row, so I had a frankly incredible view. due to the lay out of the space I was variously only a few feet from Becky and then Rachel Unthank, it simply couldn't have been any better.

Since the evening was advertised as an 'intimate' one (and it surely was) there was a stripped down five piece only, and frankly it only made the emotion of the music more intense. A lot of the songs I was unfamiliar with, but they were still transcendent, the familiar tracks had me welling up with tears. Rachel Unthank herself was absolutely adorable, and, apologies to her husband, my new celebrity crush.

The highlights were Becky Unthanks incredibly moving version of Nick Drakes 'Riverman', and very uplifting rendition of 'Here's The Tender Coming'. I wish they had played my favourite of theirs, 'Fareweel Regality', but you can't have everything, where would you put it? (thanks to Steven Wright).

As a super duper added bonus I got a fine view of the much hoped for clog dancing the Unthanks are famous for. I'd thought the nature of the evening would mean clog dancing would be excluded , but I was delighted to be wrong.

Now how I wish I hadn't chickened out last year when they played gosh darned Durham Cathedral! along with the Brighouse Brass Band!! What was I thinking in not going?? (frankly I was worried about the sad spectacle of the lonely middle aged man).

Apart from the back pain, I'm feeling uncharacteristically euphoric.

(they sang a song which mentioned Vancouver, that made me smile... )

“Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul” - Plato

“When I was young, I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old, I know it is” - Oscar Wilde

A week of two birthdays, mine (very old) and Billie (16).
We went to the cinema to see 'The Avengers' or as it's called succinctly in the UK, 'Marvels Avengers Assemble' in case some forty something twit expected John Steed to save the day, I imagine.
Two of my cinematic pet hates reared their heads. First the quality of digital projection, at least in my local multiplex, is dreadful. Whites are uneven and flicker like a rear projector TV from the 1980s, and focus is , well unfocused, fuzzy edges a go-go. I understand screens are now automated so there isn't even a projectionist to shout at, but frankly my projector at home gives a better picture (not hyperbole, this is almost certainly true).
Secondly in the next but one seat was 3 year old boy!(accompanied by young Mum, who looked exactly as I imagine you think she looked). I can understand how a 3 year old would love superheroes, but the film is a 12A for goodness sake. The first 40 minutes or so are almost all scene setting, very little action. He spent ALL of this time banging the empty seat between us and asking what was going on, very loudly of course. I don't get out much, and it was my birthday, needless to say I was a little peeved. Being an uptight middle aged man , this only manifested itself as body language and deep sighs. We even exchanged a few heated (about 8 degrees I imagine) words. She accused Billie and I of moaning, and I pointed out the strange logic of bringing a child to a film he was not cognitively developed enough to understand. after a few uncomfortable minutes, they got up to go to the toilet, and never came back. How Strange!

Anyway the film itself was entertaining enough to make me forget the technical issues. Even Billie enjoyed it. The whole world has reviewed this film so you don't need to hear me saying essentially the same thing.

Then came a week of night shift, one of my personal bête noire. Somehow it passed, 'nuff said (one for the Marvel fans there).

Last night was Billies surprise party, which somehow I'd managed to not blab about all these many weeks ( I was invited and also I designed the invitation, which, it transpires, was never used!). From the outset I fully intended to not go, and informed my ex-wife thusly.  Then at work, at around 4am, I realised that the only thing stopping me was my social awkwardness, ie meeting my ex-wife avec entourage.
It would be my daughters only 16th surprise party, like ever! So missing it would make me not only a coward but a very bad father.
So I went.
After an awkward hour of avoiding eye contact, and stepping out of the way of marauding drunken 16 year old girls, Billie finally arrived (after three or four tumultuous but bogus arrival announcements).
I promptly burst into tears, hugged her, came back round for another hug, and went home.
I know that sounds odd, but I had one supremely emotional moment with Billie, and she had an evening of dancing ahead of her, so we both won. 


Going out is getting to be a real problem for me.
I'm far from fond of my physical self, and combined with rusty, nay homoeopathic social skills (so diluted so as to not bloody exist anymore), an often overpowering desire to be alone, and my, er, 'unique' outlook, it's never going to get easier. most of the time I couldn't care less, but every now and then...

“There is no perfect marriage, for there are no perfect men” - French Proverb