Ralph the Wonder Llama

Ahoy. Almost up to date. Jim lad. This Saturday just gone saw the third (I think) annual pirate party over at the Mathesons’ place. I do believe there were more pirates than ever before:

and let’s face it, one can never have too many pirates.

As always, the food was ace, the grog was plentiful and the company marrrrrvellous. It even managed to stay set fair till the sun sunk over the yarrrrrdarrrrrm. Noice. Some pirates weren’t terribly scary:

I was going to animate some ace pictures of Adele but I can’t find teh software and I can’t get any online ones to work Will try again if I find something/someone that can help.

Anyway – fab parrrrrty again guys, thank you. Relatively injury-free this year, too

The weekend before last, the latest in a series of busy ones, I was in Selkirk for a party to celebrate the second anniversary of Ims and Narendra. Basically they’d decided to have a party for all those folk who couldn’t get out to their wedding in India. And, as they say at casa llama, there was much rejoicing.

This time I actually remembered to take out my camera and nab a few pics, in between a superb Indian buffet and Scottish country dancing. Well, dancing after a fashion. One couple who knew what they were doing and a room full of incompetent amateurs. But it was fun, and I only stamped on a few feet. Ahem. Sorry about that Im.

The catering was provided by Selkirk’s only Indian restaurant. I was to meet Ims earlier that evening outside. I stepped out of my hotel a few minutes early in order to find the place (the Taste of Spice) and the glorious aroma wafting along the street made it oh so easy. They have, apparently, won awards and it’s not hard to see why. Brought up in large serving trays by taxi, there were about seven dishes to choose from and they were all fab. Well done, Sirs.

The music was provided by an accordion player and a violinist, and very good they were too. We could all perhaps have done with more constant calling of the dances, but I think we were slow students for the most part. Never mind, there was plenty of enthusiasm, and plenty of booze, and these things go a long way in the absence of talent

We were all also gifted a goody bag of favours by the main couple, which was a lovely surprise and very generous – so thank you for everything guys, top night out.

And here they are:

So, a bit of catching up to do. The other weekend (actually Sat 12 July) I went down to London just for the day (look, I make the rules around here, ok?) to meet my Uni friend Jane, who by this time I hadn’t seen for a minimum of 15 years. We met up in Paddington which worked out ok even though all the statues we’d agreed to meet by have apparently been moved.

We ambled up the road to find some breakfast (which we eventually did, despite some dodgy direction-finding from my good self), then we ambled round Hyde Park for a bit, stopped for tea by the Serpentine, wandered round the not-terribly-impressive Diana memorial, past the Peter Pan statue where we’d last stopped something like 18 years before. Blimey. It was one of those days where it looked like it might try to rain but managed to stay fine, the sun coming out now and again.

We ended up having a late lunch in a pub called the Victoria, one of many named after royalty in the area, perhaps not surprisingly. Very nice it was too, and was Fullers pub of the year last year. They even have a Dracula society that convenes there on a regular basis. I handed over a present I’d bought, a watercolour of Wallingford, Oxfordshire, just down the road from where Jane grew up, some 18-odd years ago and never got round to handing over. It’s spent many years on my own lounge wall, and I did like it. Fair’s fair though, eh

All too soon, somehow eight hours had whistled by in what felt like a few minutes, and I don’t think we stopped nattering all day. Fifteen years is a lot of catching up to do in one day, but that’s all the time there was to be had. In fact, so caught up in teh chat were we that neither of us remembered to take a picture, which was remiss of us, sorry. Still, I shall have to procure one when I go to visit her in NZ – sometime around 2010 I reckon. Good to have an old friend back.

I’ve got to tell you my tale…

Some of you will doubtless be familiar with the subject at hand, others perhaps not. For many years I’ve known that one day I would have to write down one specific story in particular. At the same time, I always promised myself that I wouldn’t do so until I thought I was capable of doing it justice. Apart from a grand total of one set of lyrics that were actually set to music, up until a little over a year ago I’d never really written anything much beyond what was required for work, university and so on. It took me long enough to gather the courage to submit anything for consideration, even to my favourite travel site. I certainly didn’t think that the time would come so soon for this tale to be told.

Then, in late April, several stimuli conspired to make me sit down and write the first draft of that story. I’d just read A Million Mutinies Now by VS Napaul wherein, at one point, he says:

…writing, the ordering of events and emotion, made things manageable for me, helped me as it were to clear the decks…

which stuck in my mind for many days thereafter.

Another was that for reasons I can’t explain I’d been thinking about the event in question on and off over recent weeks, and yet another was that I’d been reading the Experience column in the Saturday Guardian magazine fairly regularly. The feeling was beginning to creep up on me that it might be time to get it done.

Then on 24 April I met up with Joe in Robbie’s for a couple of after-work beers and the conversation turned to occupations, and how much better it was to do something that, regardless of whether or not it made one rich or famous, made one happy. He’s a musician and he’s trying to make his way at that. My obvious point of reference is my dad, who has managed to spend most of his working life doing what he’s best at and enjoys most. So it was, ironically enough, that I went home thinking about my dad and how much I admire his determination to stick to his calling, no matter what.

I say ironically because the story I’m talking about concerns my mum, the night of her death and the effect it has had on my life. Yet that first draft began by talking about my dad and my admiration for him. I worked on it until I thought it was good enough and then, not because I needed anyone else to see it, but because it had been part of the inspiration to finally write it down, submitted it to the Guardian’s Experience column. To not do so seemed somehow dishonest. The main point though was to write it, to clear the decks, as it were.

It was rejected, but they suggested I consider submitting it to the newspaper’s My Story column, which features in the supplement on a Monday and Saturday. “Oh well”, I thought, “I’ve taken it this far, why not?” They decided they might want to run it, and so over the past seven weeks or so I’ve been working on it on and off, first expanding its scope then whittling it down again. I haven’t worked so hard on anything for a long time. It’s inevitably been difficult at points, but utterly deserving of my best effort. It’s the end of a long process, to find peace with it, and I had to get it as right as I could.

A few weeks ago a nice man with a camera came and took my picture, as it happens while I had a nasty little cold, so lord knows how that’s going to look, but still. Maybe they can get the airbrush out. (Strangely enough he had a not dissimilar tale to tell – there’s a lot of it about you know.) I got the editor’s draft back on Tuesday and made a final edit myself. It’s due to be published in the G2 supplement on Monday.

I don’t urge you to read it – that’s entirely up to you – I did this for myself and for my own reasons. It was something I’ve always had to do, and now it’s done. If you’re not in the UK and wish to, I imagine it’ll appear here soon enough.

When thinking of a title for this (very long, I know) post, Mad Richard’s lyrics to History came to mind, but in fact only that one line is really relevant, so the notion’s not so appropriate after all. More apt, perhaps, is a verse of the poem from which he pinched half of them, Blake’s London:

In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear

Mind-forged manacles, indeed. History, yes.

Back in March I’d made an observation about how crunchy things were getting. A few weeks ago, I was informed by my dear, lovely agency that an overtime ban was being introduced with immediate effect. Now, and in fairly blunt terms, I’ve been forced to take a 10% rate cut, with the clear implication that to refuse would be to be to sign one’s resignation. I got suitably annoyed about this for a day or so, of course, but in the cold light of day, there’s little choice to be made. I need to keep money coming in, and there doesn’t seem to be an awful lot of work about up here all of a sudden. 10% is a bit of a hit to the budget, but it could be worse I guess.

I suppose I’m lucky to still be there. Most other contractors have gone or are on their way out. I imagine the same will be true for me come October. So much for coasting to a finish, though I never really expected it to be easy. Still, it’s a bit hard to just have to take it. I just want it to be finished now, I’ve about had enough to be honest. La la.

Last saturday I braved the fickle whims of national express east coast (who have yet, incidentally, to respond to my uber-flame letter of complaint, the lazy fuckers) to attend the pre-wedding party of Joe and Catherine who, avid reader may recall, spent some time at casa llama last summer. I lodged in a so-so but cheap-ish hotel in hammersmith and the party itself was at ye white hart in barnes, just the right side of the river.

A jolly occasion it was too. There were well-turned out folk from several continents, itinerant musicians of various persuasions, some singers, a cellist, music, dancing, fine emotive speeches, comedy, sideburns, comedy sideburns – it was all rather marvellous. There were even cupcakes:

which I completely forgot to eat. Damn.

The bride- and groom-to-be only had eyes for each other, but managed to reserve a hand each for more important matters:

and there was, as they say, much rejoicing.

I had a fine time – thanks to Cath and Joe for asking me down. I even bumped into an old friend, a former colleague from digitalpeople days (there were a few old hands there as it goes), who I hadn’t seen for what must be eight years or so. It was great to see Jane again (Tom, First Earl of Putney’s aunt, incidentally), who some of you will also know from days or yore:

I even managed to get home before turning into a pumpkin. Excellent. Joe and Catherine get married in Kansas City (no, the other one) on the 19th. Good luck guys!

I even managed to find time to fit in lunch with my excellent friend Claire on sunday in covent garden, which was a fab bonus. Event the trains were on time. You couldn’t make it up

So I’m writing this on a train bound for Lodon in a textbox one character wide. Thank you MS Mobile IE. I’ll keep it short then. I needed more tea so I bought a cup of overpriced but still Twinings and added my milk. Except I didn’t. I added Millac. I hadn’t realised untI’ll afterwards so I cannot really comment on their rather weird claim that it “tastes like fresh milk”. So does milk. So why can’t I have some of that? I felt like Bart Simpson when he realised school cutbacks had resulted in his unwittingly drinking bone-dissolving Malk.

Oh well. It was still tea.

Enough of this one-pixel-wide-ness. See you later.

Oooooooh check the verbiage. I quite like the word hubris in a perverse sort of way. It’s short and, like life, nasty and brutish. And maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But anyway.

So my mate JJ is currently on station in Canadialand which he loves because it has skiing and mountains and Canadians in it, innit. When in Londinium, however, he am an resident of Da Bush. Da Bush am near de Hammersmeeth, which is where I shall be lodging this saturday night after attending a wedding in Barnes. With me so far? Good. So anyway, I was picking his brains for a place to go for lunch on sunday with my excellent friend Claire and he was, as ever, a mine of information. Much better than wikipedia. Over the past couple of days I’ve asked him, my mate from london/oxford who currently lives in calgary, about pubs in hammersmith and hotels in jaipur. A mine I tells ya. And so very global. Marvellous.

August took on a slightly less shiny aspect this afternoon when my munter agency people phoned me (which they almost never do) to tell me that as of 11 August the lovely bank that I work for are going to chop rates by 10%, just like that. Like, thanks. August is the month when things were meant to start getting easier, with the mortgage gone, just saving up my travel pot again. And yet, here I am on the horns of a dilemma. Do I tell them to stick it, which is tempting all things considered, the way work’s been lately, and hope to pick up something else sooner rather than later? Or do I suck it up, take it till the end of this contract (not that I know what the proposition is on that score yet, but anyway) and get some money put aside while I can, and then look for something else, hoping that the market hasn’t got even worse by then? I don’t know what to do really. I guess not making decisions in the heat of the moment is a good start. So I’m going to have a beer and not think about it too hard.

Oh, and speaking of problems, if anyone has a bright idea for my dad’s birthday present this year, speak up. I’m usually quite good but this year I’m drawing a total blank. Thanks.