SOUTH WEST

I watched South West 9 the other night, a 2001 film titled after the old London postal district that is Brixton. Being the home turf of my childhood, I thought it would be interesting viewing. It was a bit geezerish and for the most part, poorly acted; the runty offspring of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Trainspotting. But it sparked some memories, one of which was an earlier recollection that prompted me to write a vignette of a time in life when 'best friend' was something mysteriously but unequivocally understood and felt. So I reproduce it here for week 6's story. 

Although it's not fiction, it's sepia-toned enough to suggest it could be.

Stockwell at 8 also has the merit of quickly clearing the writing desk ahead of tomorrow's England v France Six Nations Rugby International, which as I have the day off work, I will be able to watch with my similarly cursing, opinionated, armchair-expert friends. This counterpoint to earlier male bonding will no doubt confirm again the gendered insightfulness of women who perceive men as 'Little boys in long trousers'. If I spent more time thinking about this stereotyping, I could probably get round to feeling offended. But I have more important things to do, such as ensuring the beer and chicken are cold.

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OLDER

It's my better half's birthday next Monday and its tricky. It would be indiscrete to reveal her age but she's not feeling happy about it. Not celebrating it however, is out of the question. So the tricky bit is how and with what?

I've heard it said that you can never have too many handbags or pairs of shoes but she is close to proving the exception. Mystery clothes and jewellery still make appearances and I know I am a source of disappointment in not remembering their purchase often enough.

She's not a reader, so I'm reasonably safe writing this but by the same token, books are out. Technology is viewed with suspicion and fitfully operated with exasperation - I am her remote control - so a personal music player for audio books, whilst appealing in principle, wouldn't be so personal. Besides, she doesn't like sticking things in her ears. Whiskey or wine are always a good fallback but I tend to drink most of it. Chocolate is loved but unnecessary guilt sours it. Kitcheny stuff is too domestic and anyway, I'm the cook. Vouchers are a copout, cake is naughty.

It's Friday and I'm still undecided but when you have lived together for as long as we have, you get to a point where presenting tokens of affection should show the subtlety, understanding and nuance from our lives' journey together. Perhaps that's why I'm stumped. Getting older. That's the theme.

SHAMELESS

When I decided to go all things e to get my work into the ether or cloud or whatever the term is for upload-download interconnected webbery, I was wary of facebook. This despite the fact that I could see the possibilities for potentially geometric progression in the acquisition of readers. Nevertheless I got myself a facebook account at the beginning of the year (and made friends with Holgate Windmill), then just left it there as a toehold to come back to later.


This past week, I've been trying to get to grips with it. Mostly, I've been wrestled to the ground pretty quickly. Following on from igoogle, blogging and putting up a website, I though I could breeze it, but it's been the most demanding of my e-education so far. One evening, I was struggling with navigating around when I got a friend request from a relative in California. I click a button, see a pop-up called chat, we start doing just that and I'm sold.


The next part of my shameless self-promotion is to provide a direct and obvious link from facebook to my blog - and my stories. I haven't worked it out yet as I've found these 'social networking' tools designed as much around not letting you do things how you want to as they are about possibilities. I sometimes feel using them is like being in a large store where the displays have been arranged to ensure you have to walk the way they want you to. But it's a minor irritation - if I stay strong! Now for some relaxation and sensual pleasure, I'm off to make some puttenesca sauce.


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WIND

A day late. Slippage already! My hands feel swollen, fingers like sausages. I put this down to an excess of manual labour. Whilst not beyond or beneath me, it's something I would rather not be doing. But needs must. I seem to have become the 'drinks' guy at Waitrose Supermarket in York, where I work the twilight shift, stacking shelves. Drinks are bastard heavy! How much Coke or jazzed-up water can people drink? Lots - beer buying seems puny by comparison. On the subject of beer, another of my doing instead of talking about doing 2011 resolutions will soon be underway. My micro-brewery kit arrived yesterday, 40 pints of ale waiting for water, warmth and the passage of time. This will be my first attempt at home-brewing and I feel a childlike excitement and impatience to get under way. But 50-50s comes first, even though my sausagey fingers and bacon head (drinks last night) have made my latest posting a clumsy experience. 


The finger thing is down to having to clear up a fallen tree in our garden. The UK has been windy this week and when I got home Thursday night, I found a pig-tail screw on the kitchen worktop. Kim told me meaningfully, that a tree had blown down, breaking exactly where I had put that pig-tail screw for my hammock (deep-down, I think she disapproves of my capacity to relax) and all the sawing and lopping to reduce the tree to manageable pieces has taken it's toll on my trusty right hand. None of this however, is intended as an excuse for slippage and now I have to think about getting on with the next story.


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