This Monday I like. I'm not often a fan of Mondays, but when Tuesday will be your last working day before the holidays, it puts a whole different slant on things. It also means that the Wednesday I normally dislike becomes the first day of the holidays and so my new best friend.
A piece of friendly advice, when you have a sachet of hot sauce and you dispense the contents into your meal. Don't be tempted to take that little bit left on the sachet raw. It's best mixed in, trust me. I may not be able to taste anything between now and Easter... in fact maybe never again.
I'm typing with one and a half hands - on Saturday I dislocated my thumb and so most of my right hand is encased in a bright pink plastercast. I think these colored casts are meant for kids, but the doctor obviously fancied me and I think the pink cast was her coded way of telling me so. Course, my gaydar could be completely screwed, but I think the fact she gave my mate Max her number incase I should want to call her when the painkillers wore off, kind of makes my case.
Why did she give it to Max, I hear you ask. Well I had already said a polite 'no thanks' - following the earring episode the last thing I needed was a piece of paper in my pocket with a telephone number on it! And besides, I'm married and so, painkillers or not, the answer is always gonna be 'no'.
I'm also in trouble for the dislocated thumb. No sympathy from the beautiful ray of sunshine that is my wife. She finds my college friends somewhat of a chore and I always get the disapproving look when I say it's that time again when the guys and I go ice skating. It only happens once a year, and in the last 10 years this is the first time I've come home with more than the obligatory bruises.
My mate Fergus couldn't join us this year as he is still in New York. Without him, we number a mere 6 - me, Max, Rick, Rob, Toby and Mulgrew. We cut a dashing set on the rink, well maybe not Mulgrew. His skating abilities are sorely non-existent. The rest of us can skate. Well, okay we don't sit down too many times, all things considered. This dislocated thumb is our worst injury since Mulgrew broke his wrist 5 years ago, so I reckon we're doing pretty good - and if he had been concentrating on where he was putting his feet instead of on the blonde, even that might not have happened. My wife usually describes our little get togethers as if we are the harbingers of mass destruction and I was waiting for the full on assault on the old eardrums when I, complete with pink cast, arrived home.
It didn't happen. I feel like someone who knew they were about to step off the top of a tall building only to discover that, instead of taking a long drop, somebody had erected a staircase and now you're standing on the top step not quite sure of your next move. Or the lawyer who has assembled a whole host of convincing defense arguments only to discover the prosecutor hasn't bothered to turn up.
Did I say I was looking forward to Wednesday? Maybe I want to rethink my options...
Monday 15 December 2008
Friday 12 December 2008
It's too easy to get in trouble
There are things in this life that you should know, like just how easy it is to get in trouble with your partner. Even when you are innocent.
Yesterday evening I was doing a little Christmas shopping - I'd managed to buy one tee-shirt short from Gap, they were doing a buy two get one half price, so I bought 4. I have 5 nephews so I had to return to Gap (I'm sure that should be the title of a story...) I had completed the sale, bought some chocolates for my wife and was heading for the train when I saw something on the ground. It had moved so I thought the woman ahead of me had dropped it. I picked up what I discovered to be an earring and called the woman back. She smiled, assured me it wasn't hers but thanked me for checking anyway. So there I was, in the middle of Princes Street weighed down with bags and an earring in my hand. There wasn't any point in trying to track down its owner and there was nowhere to put it except back on the ground. That didn't feel right, so I put it in my pocket. Yes, I did.
At the station I bought some flowers for the wife - it's just one of the things I do because I've been away from home all day and I miss her. So, I get home and deposit shopping and my coat in the den. I give herself the flowers, laugh at the "why are you feeling guilty" remark she always makes when I give her flowers, and sit down on the bottom stair to take my shoes off. That was mistake one. I got the "couldn't you have taken those off in the lobby" look - she hates outdoor shoes to make it over the threshold. She plonked the flowers in a vase, still giving me the look as she passed by on her way to the den. I heard the sigh as she dumped my rucksack on the floor and picked my coat up off the chair. I have no secrets from my wife, that's how I believe couples should be - except of course for birthday and Christmas presents - so when she clears my pockets, I see it only as her way of making sure my keys and rail pass are recovered and put back safe in my bag. On the odd occasion, I have been known to get on the train only to realise that my ticket is safe at home in the jacket I wore yesterday.
So she cleared out my pockets as she often does. You're way ahead of me, right. I'd forgotten about the earring. As she pulled my keys out, it tumbled gracefully to the ground. I watched it fall, thinking "oh, there's that earring". My wife was obviously thinking other thoughts which she shared with me at great length. I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say the "I picked it up off the street" defence, failed miserably to sway the jury's opinion in my favour.
Now, I don't know about you, but when I'm accused of something I didn't do I tend to towards the realm of stubborn indignation. I admit it isn't a good tactic, but it's in my genes and I'm very good at it. My wife though is the terrier type, once she has a hold of something she's not letting go until it's been chewed over in every conceivable way possible and left for dead.
I decided that once I'd made my case I was saying nothing more. I have, after all, the right to remain silent. It is not an omission of guilt. In the end I couldn't take it. I yelled. Not something I do very often, but there are only so many times you can push the wrong buttons. Did she, I asked, think I was so stupid that if I was having an affair I would put an earring belonging to my mistress in my jacket pocket? Apparently the answer to that was yes. OK, I should have seen that coming too. It rendered me speechless and I could feel I was frowning. I think my mouth also opened and closed a couple of times with no words coming out, but I can't be absolutely sure.
And then she laughed. I still don't quite understand why, or how I was suddenly in the clear - and no way am I going to seek clarification on either of those points - but I got to sleep in my own bed which I seriously thought wasn't going to be an option.
This morning there are barbed comments, but I'm ignoring them - for now. Whoever dropped that earring, I hope you got as much grief for losing it as I did for finding it. Next time I see something on the pavement, it's staying there, period.
(I fixed my picture, and I did it myself. Thank you photoshop...)
Yesterday evening I was doing a little Christmas shopping - I'd managed to buy one tee-shirt short from Gap, they were doing a buy two get one half price, so I bought 4. I have 5 nephews so I had to return to Gap (I'm sure that should be the title of a story...) I had completed the sale, bought some chocolates for my wife and was heading for the train when I saw something on the ground. It had moved so I thought the woman ahead of me had dropped it. I picked up what I discovered to be an earring and called the woman back. She smiled, assured me it wasn't hers but thanked me for checking anyway. So there I was, in the middle of Princes Street weighed down with bags and an earring in my hand. There wasn't any point in trying to track down its owner and there was nowhere to put it except back on the ground. That didn't feel right, so I put it in my pocket. Yes, I did.
At the station I bought some flowers for the wife - it's just one of the things I do because I've been away from home all day and I miss her. So, I get home and deposit shopping and my coat in the den. I give herself the flowers, laugh at the "why are you feeling guilty" remark she always makes when I give her flowers, and sit down on the bottom stair to take my shoes off. That was mistake one. I got the "couldn't you have taken those off in the lobby" look - she hates outdoor shoes to make it over the threshold. She plonked the flowers in a vase, still giving me the look as she passed by on her way to the den. I heard the sigh as she dumped my rucksack on the floor and picked my coat up off the chair. I have no secrets from my wife, that's how I believe couples should be - except of course for birthday and Christmas presents - so when she clears my pockets, I see it only as her way of making sure my keys and rail pass are recovered and put back safe in my bag. On the odd occasion, I have been known to get on the train only to realise that my ticket is safe at home in the jacket I wore yesterday.
So she cleared out my pockets as she often does. You're way ahead of me, right. I'd forgotten about the earring. As she pulled my keys out, it tumbled gracefully to the ground. I watched it fall, thinking "oh, there's that earring". My wife was obviously thinking other thoughts which she shared with me at great length. I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say the "I picked it up off the street" defence, failed miserably to sway the jury's opinion in my favour.
Now, I don't know about you, but when I'm accused of something I didn't do I tend to towards the realm of stubborn indignation. I admit it isn't a good tactic, but it's in my genes and I'm very good at it. My wife though is the terrier type, once she has a hold of something she's not letting go until it's been chewed over in every conceivable way possible and left for dead.
I decided that once I'd made my case I was saying nothing more. I have, after all, the right to remain silent. It is not an omission of guilt. In the end I couldn't take it. I yelled. Not something I do very often, but there are only so many times you can push the wrong buttons. Did she, I asked, think I was so stupid that if I was having an affair I would put an earring belonging to my mistress in my jacket pocket? Apparently the answer to that was yes. OK, I should have seen that coming too. It rendered me speechless and I could feel I was frowning. I think my mouth also opened and closed a couple of times with no words coming out, but I can't be absolutely sure.
And then she laughed. I still don't quite understand why, or how I was suddenly in the clear - and no way am I going to seek clarification on either of those points - but I got to sleep in my own bed which I seriously thought wasn't going to be an option.
This morning there are barbed comments, but I'm ignoring them - for now. Whoever dropped that earring, I hope you got as much grief for losing it as I did for finding it. Next time I see something on the pavement, it's staying there, period.
(I fixed my picture, and I did it myself. Thank you photoshop...)
Wednesday 10 December 2008
Disorganised intrigue
If a tidy desk is the sign of a tidy mind, then my mind is way beyond untidy. My workspace looks like an experimental site for chaos theory. My printer is covered with post-it notes from my secretary in an interesting array of colors. I think the violent pink ones mean she's mentioned this before and I haven't yet responded. My PDA keeps flashing at me. It would like to sync with my email and diary, but since IT decided that Exchange was no longer the way to go, that is now nothing more than a vain hope. So much for functionality and making us all more efficient. I now spend more time transferring my meetings manually to my devices than I spend in the meetings themselves. Well, OK that's an exaggeration, but only just. I'm thinking of transferring everything to google. Actually, maybe I'll just buy a paper diary.
Which would be good. Afterall, I can write. It's what I do. Only, I was never very good at keeping a diary; it's the routine thing. As a kid I'd get a diary for Christmas - who didn't? - and I'd write down everything that happened for the first few days. All the presents Santa brought; the things I liked and didn't. Then it pretty much dried up. You know, months of blank pages then "nothing happened today". Which kinda of makes you wonder about the other days when not even 'nothing' was worth recording...
So, back to my desk - see it's those little diversions that make life more interesting - it's one of those curved affairs. Lots of space to work - or in my case to fill. There are a half dozen briefing papers I've yet to read; 3 CDs (Aaron Copland, Charles Ives and Faure) one of which I'm currently listening to - Ives, Central Park in the Dark; three bottles of sparkling mineral water in various stages of emptiness; two coffee cups; one glass tumbler and 3 plastic versions thereof; 14 papers I'm working on; the Harvard Business Review; The Times Higher Ed; Thomas Paine's Rights of Man; 3 notebooks; my ipod (with a low battery, I forgot to recharge it last night); my ID card; and somewhere under all this paperwork must be my keys. Did I mention the safety pin? There's also a safety pin. From last week's graduations. It should be in my suit pocket so that when I need it again to pin the hood to my robe I know where it is. My suit, having survived 3 graduation ceremonies, is at the dry-cleaners. I just hope that when the time comes they can be reunited.
The finance paper that I need for my meeting this afternoon is not on my desk. My finance manager called in sick for the third morning in a row, and so the paper she should have prepared is still a pipe dream. Not that this is a problem. I work much better without the facts, it saves me tripping over myself. Actually, I'm very good talking off the cuff or, if you prefer, flying by the seat of my pants. Just give me a couple of key words and the floor is mine.
That's probably why when I write I'm very good at dialogue. I'm crap at the bits in between mind. My editor thinks this is not insurmountable. In fact she challenged me to write this blogg because it would be words without dialogue. I'm not quite sure how she figures my blogging monologues to be any closer to the bits that go in between the dialogue but I'm sure she has a plan.
My electronic diary has just reminded me that I'm participating in a webcast today "Authentic Leadership". It's title intrigued me, more from a writer's perspective. I mean authentic leadership what does that mean? I looked authentic up in the dictionary and the definition I liked was:
"entitled to acceptance or belief because of agreement with known facts or experience"
Which would be good. Afterall, I can write. It's what I do. Only, I was never very good at keeping a diary; it's the routine thing. As a kid I'd get a diary for Christmas - who didn't? - and I'd write down everything that happened for the first few days. All the presents Santa brought; the things I liked and didn't. Then it pretty much dried up. You know, months of blank pages then "nothing happened today". Which kinda of makes you wonder about the other days when not even 'nothing' was worth recording...
So, back to my desk - see it's those little diversions that make life more interesting - it's one of those curved affairs. Lots of space to work - or in my case to fill. There are a half dozen briefing papers I've yet to read; 3 CDs (Aaron Copland, Charles Ives and Faure) one of which I'm currently listening to - Ives, Central Park in the Dark; three bottles of sparkling mineral water in various stages of emptiness; two coffee cups; one glass tumbler and 3 plastic versions thereof; 14 papers I'm working on; the Harvard Business Review; The Times Higher Ed; Thomas Paine's Rights of Man; 3 notebooks; my ipod (with a low battery, I forgot to recharge it last night); my ID card; and somewhere under all this paperwork must be my keys. Did I mention the safety pin? There's also a safety pin. From last week's graduations. It should be in my suit pocket so that when I need it again to pin the hood to my robe I know where it is. My suit, having survived 3 graduation ceremonies, is at the dry-cleaners. I just hope that when the time comes they can be reunited.
The finance paper that I need for my meeting this afternoon is not on my desk. My finance manager called in sick for the third morning in a row, and so the paper she should have prepared is still a pipe dream. Not that this is a problem. I work much better without the facts, it saves me tripping over myself. Actually, I'm very good talking off the cuff or, if you prefer, flying by the seat of my pants. Just give me a couple of key words and the floor is mine.
That's probably why when I write I'm very good at dialogue. I'm crap at the bits in between mind. My editor thinks this is not insurmountable. In fact she challenged me to write this blogg because it would be words without dialogue. I'm not quite sure how she figures my blogging monologues to be any closer to the bits that go in between the dialogue but I'm sure she has a plan.
My electronic diary has just reminded me that I'm participating in a webcast today "Authentic Leadership". It's title intrigued me, more from a writer's perspective. I mean authentic leadership what does that mean? I looked authentic up in the dictionary and the definition I liked was:
"entitled to acceptance or belief because of agreement with known facts or experience"
How close is that to any one's definition of leadership? This took me into "I think, therefore I am" kind of territory, so you can see why I'm intrigued. Or maybe not. This is my disorganised brain, afterall, not yours.
I'm off to read 'Aligning American Higher Education', I'm sure it will be a scintillating experience...
Tuesday 9 December 2008
I think maybe I need a smaller picture...
Ok, so there are times when technology just seems to win out. Too big, too small - actually this is beginning to sound a bit like Goldilocks' experiences.. or was that Alice in Wonderland? Whatever, I'm still working on the picture size - although I like this one, you can see the colors of my kite.
I'm supposed to be writing the first draft of a report, but I'm having trouble and it's too early in the day to resort to Oreos. What I actually want to do is finish off the short story I'm writing because that's where my brain is right now. I had to leave my notebooks at home to stop myself from doing that instead of this. Well, not this per se obviously, the this that is the report. This is just a minor detour in the scheme of things.
I blame the newsagent for my current state of flux. He asked me if I wanted to buy the double issue of the Radio Times. I stared blankly at him as my brain reconfigured the information into something I could understand at 7am in the morning. 'Oh, the Christmas issue' I said, the fact that I was telling him what he already knew, temporarily passed me by. He nodded. 'When's it out?' I asked, thinking he was trying his usual ploy of getting me to order something I really didn't want in advance just so as I would forget and he could charge me for it anyway, even though it would be months out of date by the time I got it. We have an interesting relationship. He pointed past my left ear. I turned and sure enough, there they were, on four of his six shelves. 'You bought a number then' I observed. 'They run out quick' he replied. I swear I bit my tongue to avoid the obvious, corny riposte. 'You should buy it now if you want one'. And there it was, the stand off. The queue was building up behind me, and I had a train to catch. 'Maybe next time' I said, smiling what I though was a reassuring smile. 'They'll be gone then, and you'll only gripe at me'. The woman behind me poked me sharply in the ribs 'buy the damn thing now' she hissed, I know it's hard to hiss words without s's, but she did an amazing job.
So I am now the proud owner of the Christmas, double issue of the Radio Times. The funny thing is though, I don't watch much TV and when I do, it tends to be satellite channels not covered by the Radio Times in any great depth. But hey, it wouldn't be Christmas without the Radio Times.
Which brings me to my original thought. How did Christmas get here so quick? It seems to me that 2008 was an awful lot shorter than its predecessors. I thought I had bags of time, now I discover that if I want to get those parcels off to the nephews in Sweden I should have done it last week. Now I'm going to have to pay a fortune to guarantee arrival by Christmas Eve. I've instructed Amazon to deal with the postage of presents to Ireland, a gal can only take so much. It's also my youngest nephew's birthday next week and my mother's on Christmas Eve. Why me? It's not like Christmas isn't stressed enough but I have to have family birthdays thrown into the mix as well!
So, here's what we're gonna do. I'm going shopping this afternoon. By the time I'm finished we'll have Christmas all sewn up. Trust me. My wife gave me a list of what she wants. I have a list too, of what she's gonna get. Her's is the 'nice' list, mine is the 'naughty' list.
Wish me luck.
I'm supposed to be writing the first draft of a report, but I'm having trouble and it's too early in the day to resort to Oreos. What I actually want to do is finish off the short story I'm writing because that's where my brain is right now. I had to leave my notebooks at home to stop myself from doing that instead of this. Well, not this per se obviously, the this that is the report. This is just a minor detour in the scheme of things.
I blame the newsagent for my current state of flux. He asked me if I wanted to buy the double issue of the Radio Times. I stared blankly at him as my brain reconfigured the information into something I could understand at 7am in the morning. 'Oh, the Christmas issue' I said, the fact that I was telling him what he already knew, temporarily passed me by. He nodded. 'When's it out?' I asked, thinking he was trying his usual ploy of getting me to order something I really didn't want in advance just so as I would forget and he could charge me for it anyway, even though it would be months out of date by the time I got it. We have an interesting relationship. He pointed past my left ear. I turned and sure enough, there they were, on four of his six shelves. 'You bought a number then' I observed. 'They run out quick' he replied. I swear I bit my tongue to avoid the obvious, corny riposte. 'You should buy it now if you want one'. And there it was, the stand off. The queue was building up behind me, and I had a train to catch. 'Maybe next time' I said, smiling what I though was a reassuring smile. 'They'll be gone then, and you'll only gripe at me'. The woman behind me poked me sharply in the ribs 'buy the damn thing now' she hissed, I know it's hard to hiss words without s's, but she did an amazing job.
So I am now the proud owner of the Christmas, double issue of the Radio Times. The funny thing is though, I don't watch much TV and when I do, it tends to be satellite channels not covered by the Radio Times in any great depth. But hey, it wouldn't be Christmas without the Radio Times.
Which brings me to my original thought. How did Christmas get here so quick? It seems to me that 2008 was an awful lot shorter than its predecessors. I thought I had bags of time, now I discover that if I want to get those parcels off to the nephews in Sweden I should have done it last week. Now I'm going to have to pay a fortune to guarantee arrival by Christmas Eve. I've instructed Amazon to deal with the postage of presents to Ireland, a gal can only take so much. It's also my youngest nephew's birthday next week and my mother's on Christmas Eve. Why me? It's not like Christmas isn't stressed enough but I have to have family birthdays thrown into the mix as well!
So, here's what we're gonna do. I'm going shopping this afternoon. By the time I'm finished we'll have Christmas all sewn up. Trust me. My wife gave me a list of what she wants. I have a list too, of what she's gonna get. Her's is the 'nice' list, mine is the 'naughty' list.
Wish me luck.
Monday 8 December 2008
So I need a bigger picture
It occurred to me when my editor said "start a blog" that she wasn't altogether kidding. What I'm beginning to understand however, is that writing is much easier than blogging.
Don't believe me? Well, when I write I just have to worry about whether or not my notebook has any pages left, or my pencil any leads. When I set up this blog, I had to figure out a few things technical. The most obvious one I have yet to sort - how to make my picture bigger than the heading. Or maybe how to make the words smaller than my picture. I'm sure my editor will have a few pithy comments.
So, I'm writing this as a break from the 50,000 word target I have for the end of this week. Well, it's only Monday. I like to give myself a challenge. That's why I'm juggling a novel, a set of short stories and a stand alone short story. I don't think the stand alone is going to stand alone. It's just the way I am. I like things to have company. Stories should know they're part of the bigger picture, that they form part of a rich narrative tapestry. They'll be disappointed enough when they discover they drew me to write them.
I'll keep you posted on how they're shaping up.
The one I'm concentrating on just now is called "The sky is blue". Snappy title, right? Actually, it works pretty well. As it's a short story I'm not going to explain it, because then you wouldn't have to read it, which would defeat the purpose of me writing it. And I have bills to pay, just like the next guy.
I'm off to find a new picture, or someone who can stretch the one I got.
Don't believe me? Well, when I write I just have to worry about whether or not my notebook has any pages left, or my pencil any leads. When I set up this blog, I had to figure out a few things technical. The most obvious one I have yet to sort - how to make my picture bigger than the heading. Or maybe how to make the words smaller than my picture. I'm sure my editor will have a few pithy comments.
So, I'm writing this as a break from the 50,000 word target I have for the end of this week. Well, it's only Monday. I like to give myself a challenge. That's why I'm juggling a novel, a set of short stories and a stand alone short story. I don't think the stand alone is going to stand alone. It's just the way I am. I like things to have company. Stories should know they're part of the bigger picture, that they form part of a rich narrative tapestry. They'll be disappointed enough when they discover they drew me to write them.
I'll keep you posted on how they're shaping up.
The one I'm concentrating on just now is called "The sky is blue". Snappy title, right? Actually, it works pretty well. As it's a short story I'm not going to explain it, because then you wouldn't have to read it, which would defeat the purpose of me writing it. And I have bills to pay, just like the next guy.
I'm off to find a new picture, or someone who can stretch the one I got.
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