Whatever… #937

I know it does me absolutely no credit, but I currently seem to be afloat in a sea of lassitude. I am the sunburned prat bobbing about a mile out to sea on an inflatable unicorn. I am the Lifeguard’s darkest nightmare; adrift at the whim of every breeze. When I am shepherded in directions I don’t want to go, ‘persuaded’ to do things I don’t want to do, I no longer stamp my little feet (actually size 8 – perfectly normal for someone of my size I’d say) and shout ‘No!’ I don’t even plead for time to allow consideration. My spirit is now the watered-down stuff they put in All-Inclusive cocktails. I no longer rouse myself to suggest a moment’s contemplation on the sheer folly of it all. “Whatever” is what I say: I bow to the inevitable and steel myself to do whatever must be done. That it might (in my eyes) be completely the wrong course of action is immaterial. Things, these days, seldom reach my ears until they are a fait accompli. They have been pre-decided elsewhere. Objections, I have discovered, can delay, but never prevent. “Whatever,” I say, and await instructions.

First thing in the morning schemes are the worst. I know how my mind works overnight. It is unhinged. It seldom reaches conclusions that could, in any way, be considered rational. My overnight cogitations are suitable only for one fate – they must be quashed before they have the opportunity to precipitate unrest. My own nocturnally generated plans remain locked between my ears.

With the flow is where I go these days. I follow all the safety information: I lay on my back like a starfish (do starfish even have a back?), relax to the best of my ability – which, in water, is extremely limited – and hope that I am carried to safety. I sink, even in sea water. I think I have a lead-lined soul. Now I know what you are thinking, and I do accept that the fault is all mine, but I have found myself at the pointed end of such schemes for many years. I have always dealt with them in the same way: I succumb to the sanest, transitorily voicing my reservations, seldom loud enough to precipitate change – the deleterious effects of which might be dumped at my door – and object only to the patently potty and those that would challenge the resources of a small nation.

Now I say “Whatever…” and hope that the law of natural attrition – which I believe I have just invented – will apply: that the holes in the cold light of day filter might be small enough to let through only the most plausible of plans.

And don’t get me wrong here: I do get things done – admittedly often in the grip of a monumental huff – and plans do come to fruition. When things work, it is generally because of, in my opinion, the modifications I have air-dropped into them; when they do not it is generally because I told you so! It should be obvious to any even vaguely sane person that the humps in the road can be seriously smoothed out by just getting on with stuff, knowing that the impractical will fall, like ambition, by the wayside, whilst the practical will get well and truly done, by me, to the very best of my extremely meagre capabilities. It is the way that things now go.

You live, you learn. Whatever…

Free to be whatever you
Whatever you say, if it comes my way, it’s alright… Whatever – Oasis (Noel Gallagher)

I wrote this on the third of August and, to the best of my knowledge, published it shortly afterwards. As far as I can see I did not do so. It has remained in my little ‘to be published’ file ever since and, for no better reason than it gets it out of there, I have posted it today. Whatever…

Holidays in the Sun

Warning: this post contains many unfounded, sweeping generalisations.

…A long day on a trip with multi-nationalities has just made me realise how different we all remain, and also that the three little words without which no British person could even function – ‘please’, ‘thank you’* and ‘sorry’ – appear to have no equivalent in a number of languages. I will not name races – insert your own – and I can understand why ‘queuing’ might be an alien concept to some (it is clearly a cultural thing) but not why ‘not queuing’ is actually an acceptable excuse for some to physically barge past those who choose to patiently wait their turn, in order to get what they want when they want it, without any admission that other people even exist. Most galling to we pathetic queuers is the absence of manners – a failure to even acknowledge that human interaction is vital. Even more infuriating when we are in a place where our hosts are very much more mannerly than even the most uptight of us. The world appears, quite suddenly, to be full of people who believe that they have the planet all to themselves. Anyway, breakfast over…

Multi-cultural groups are always an education. The guide will inevitably speak English which means they have a chance of being understood by almost everyone except Australians who have recently picked up the baton of wilfully ignoring everything they are told, doing everything they should not be doing, not doing everything they should. I am fully aware that I am from a nation that has for many years had the reputation of supplying the very worst of all travellers, but since we have learned that it is not entirely necessary to drink until we collapse, demand egg and chips for every meal, or consider our host nation as less important than our own, we are – I hope – no longer viewed as quite so bad. I have met many Australians and have always found them to be the very best of company – open, friendly and funny – but something seems to have happened since Crocodile Dundee. I have no doubt that this view is a grossly unjust oversimplification, based on a tiny group of people who have been massively rude to both staff and fellow holidaymakers, but it is clearly apposite. The gently mocking sarcasm of their conversation persists although no longer accompanied by a Shane Warne wink and smile, but a sneer instead.

Obviously we have just been unlucky with some of the company we have been keeping – quite surely they will be saying exactly the same thing about us – but I am saddened by it. Travel is meant to broaden the mind, not narrow the outlook, and surely nicking the very last breakfast doughnut from right under my nose is not part of that…

I dared to ask for sunshine, and I got World War Three,
I’m looking over the wall and they’re looking at me… Holidays in the Sun – The Sex Pistols

Look, I’m sure that I don’t have to explain that this piece is intended to be wholly ironical, but just in case, I will. I do try very hard not to be a complete twat…

*I realise that ‘thank you’ is two words, but only really because autocorrect keeps telling me so. You will have to excuse my inaccuracy. Thankyou.

Could Have Been Worse

The three most scary words my wife ever utters? ‘…I’ve been thinking…’ Three little words that translate as, “You are about to be coerced into something – possibly electrical, certainly difficult, probably dangerous to the uninitiated, and definitely something that you will find right at the very top of your ‘Things I really don’t want to be doing’ list” – a catalogue of all the tasks for which I am uniquely ill-equipped. I am fully aware that it would be considered churlish to respond to “I only want you to paint one wall” in any negative way, whilst being similarly well-acquainted with the fact that one wall will inevitably lead to all walls, all curtains, all carpets, all doors and all electrical fittings. It is, of course, quite illogical that I should kick-back against what I am assured will be “a two-minute job” even though I carry the certain knowledge that it will escalate into something that will consume at least six months of my life and involve God-knows how many trips to A&E, not to mention innumerable three-figure invoices from the qualified tradesmen we are forced to employ in order to ‘put it right again.’

The room that is currently chalked up for the lick of paint is the hall/stairs and landing combo and it fills my heart with dread. It has 9 doors and two windows – so I can, at least, take comfort from the fact that I am not being asked to wallpaper – as well as a virtually inaccessible stair-head which I can only reach from an improvised scaffold made from 3 ladders, part of an old kitchen cabinet door and several rolls of gaffer tape (“So, you might as well do the ceilings whilst you’re up there.”) I will fall – of this you can be certain – the only question is whether I will land on the stairs and stop where I land, or whether I will barrel-roll to the bottom in order to be in exactly the right position to receive the ‘scaffold’ as it follows me in my downward trajectory.

It has been a few hours now since the coat of paint was first mentioned and the discussion has already passed through paint shades, new sockets and switches, new door furniture and new light fittings. It will eventually encompass new carpets and flooring after I hit the deck with a five litre can of emulsion in hand. The total rewire the house will need after I have fused the entire National Grid will, of course, be something we should have thought about anyway – not to mention the complete redecoration that will have to follow. And so it goes…

I have grown used to the exponential growth in the magnitude of disaster that pursues me in any practical task: a kind of incremental plunge into the abyss. There are many contributory factors that have a role to play in the remorseless collapse into pain and chaos; the universal one being me: the tool on the end of the tool. I am a gift to authors who can spare only a single word in describing a character’s (in)competence in all things: inept. From all manner of human interaction through to hammering a nail in without hitting a thumb, pipe or wire: inept. Like a cockle* in a rockpool, I yo-yo wildly between out of my depth and beached, despite the instinctual knowledge that the tide is always coming: closed tight when I should be open, gaping when the seagulls arrive.

Now, I realise that this magnitude of whining does not make me sound like the world’s most enticing man. I’m sure that I must have some redeeming features (Please God, let me have some redeeming features!) but none of them appear to be based anywhere within the scope of ‘practical’ for any mildly proficient person.

I feel as though I should list some of my positive attributes: I am honest, loyal and affectionate (and all of the above without being a dog). I think that I am reasonable company – when I’m not decorating – and I’m a wiz in a pub-quiz. (I sense that I’m beginning to lose you.) I laugh easily and I find joy in the smallest of things. I am always in possession of chocolate and wine. I figure that by constantly fearing the worst I, by and large, preclude the possibility of reality slumping below my expectations – so that, generally, I am relatively satisfied with the way in which things turn out. I think that ‘Could have been worse’ may well be my epitaph.

Anyway, I have already placed myself in the hands of the Gods and assembled my scaffold and minced the length of the plank of wood that I have laid across it. It is just long enough and it bends under my weight only slightly, so it should be ok if I keep to the ends. I have moved the telephone table from the foot of the stairs because it does not look ideally suited to fall-breaking (although, ironically, it does appear to be supremely well assembled in order to facilitate leg breaking) and given full consideration to how I intend to fill the holes I have made in the wall when the scaffolding is down (I am considering the possibility of lengthening two of the four legs on a kitchen chair so that I can balance it on the stairs and, if necessary pile books on top in order to achieve the required altitude). I’m quite proud of that plan – and we all know where pride comes…

A man, he’s like a rusty wheel
On a rusty cart
He sings his song as he rattles along
And then he falls apart…
We’ll sing Hallelujah – Richard Thompson

*I think that this might, to many of you, be ‘clam’ but, be honest, cockle is definitely funnier.