No Competition

There are many possible reasons why the piece that I posted in yesterday’s blog did not win the competition I entered it for.

The judge may have been the Devil, and felt that I was slagging him. Or he may have believed that I am actually the Devil, and was not therefore writing as somebody else as instructed. Or the judge may have been God (in a way I suppose he was) and might be fed up hearing about the Devil.

I may have used the wrong type of font (the wrong type of type, in other words), the wrong amount of grovelling in my accompanying email, or the wrong amount of money in the bribe I sent in the post. Or they might just have thought that what I wrote was crap.

And then there is one other possible reason.

The third part of the opening sentence, for those of you not from around here, refers to a recent match between Chelsea and Swansea City. The game was nearly over and Chelsea (the away team) were losing, and when the ball went out of play one of their players decided that the ball-boy (from Swansea, who were winning) wasn’t returning it quickly enough, so he tried to toe-poke the ball away from the ball-boy and accidentally kicked him. This created something of a fuss in the world of football.

And it happened on an evening when I had my entry just finished, and I decided that I would use the incident, as it would give the piece a sense of freshness and immediacy. So at the very last minute I put that bit into the opening sentence and sent my entry off.

Last night, after the bitter pill of defeat had been swallowed (that’s not actually true, I entered knowing that I had no chance, they gave very specific guidelines about what they were expecting and I ignored almost all of them) I opened the Word Document on my computer so that I could copy the story to here.

And in that document, the one that I submitted to a Serious Competition run by the flagship Arts Programme of our National Radio Station, the very first sentence reads “I have never hit anyone, never stolen anything, never licked a ball-boy during a football match”.

Sometimes Spellcheck isn’t worth a duck.

Gone, Gone, Gone

I’ve just come back from the Gym (it’s been raining heavily here for 39 hours now so I wanted to practice on the rowing-boat, it may soon be our only way to the shops).

As I got to our house I saw that our car wasn’t in our driveway. “Ah,” I thought, “Mrs Tin has gone out.”

I put the kettle on, emptied my gym-bag and then loudly marched into our room to change out of my tracksuit top. I got a real shock when I got in there.

Mrs Tin was asleep in bed.

Those of you who fear that this story will end in a sad tale of car-theft can relax. Those of you who fear for the sanity of your friend Tinman can start to be very afraid.

The car wasn’t in the driveway when I got home because I was driving it.

I wonder do they have a gym for brains.

Wet Wet Wet

Since my inaugural swim in the sea a couple of weeks ago I have gone each weekend morning, braving chilly winds and crashing waves to use my swimming style which is so reminiscent of the Olympians seen over recent days, in that my arms flail like a boxer’s and my legs move in that jerky fashion used in the Walking.

Today is the first day of my two-week holidays (I’m not counting Saturday or yesterday, I’d have been off anyway) and I have decided that I will swim on each of the next fourteen mornings too.

I woke at 7.30 this morning, thought “oh, time to go swimming” and then realised that what had woken me that early was the sound of the rain on the roof. I lay there disappointed for a few seconds and then thought of a plan.

To get to the sea I park in the South Beach Car Park and walk through a short tunnel under the railway line to get to the beach. I could leave my clothes in the car, dash back for them after the swim, and dry and dress myself  in the tunnel.

I drove down, undressed in the car and ran down the beach in driving rain. I plunged into the sea, briefly made its choppiness even choppier, and came back out. The rain had stopped.

There were now hailstones instead.

I trudged back up the beach feeling as if I was being whipped (or at least what I imagine that feels like, I’m not into that sort of thing), took my clothes and dried myself, as I had planned, in the tunnel.

There is a footpath beside the tunnel and what I had forgotten is that this is Monday. Commuter after commuter on their way to the station passed the tunnel and stared at me from under their umbrellas. I am well used to being looked at as if I’m a lunatic, it happens a lot when you have teenage kids, but I have rarely received the look so often from so many people in so short a space of time.

There are thunderstorms forecast for tomorrow. I might just skip a day.

Beware: Computer Genius At Work

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Do not ask me how I have just managed to do this to Tilly‘s blog:

But if you would ever like your blog translated accidently into Klingon, then I’m your man.

I Can See For Miles

I mentioned recently that I have acquired two pairs of glasses, one for short-range vision, one for seeing things farther away. It’s kind of an Amish version of bi-focals.

Anyway, things have gone fairly well up to now. I can read comfortably with the short-range pair, and, should I feel the sudden urge to do so, I could probably thread a needle, count the spots on the back of a ladybird, or, if not actually being able to count the angels dancing on the head of a pin, at least be able to see that they are there.

With the other pair I can see the surface of Saturn.

The two pairs came in identical cases, so I’m sure I don’t have to paint pictures of what happened this morning (you’ve seen my attempts at pictures, just imagine them with the wrong glasses).

I got onto the bus, fired up my netbook and started to type. What appeared on the screen appeared to be gibberish, which was probably actually the case, but blurred gibberish. On the other hand I could see traffic lights two miles away turning red, cyclists with no Hi-viz jackets were hi viz to me, and I could tell, not only how many passengers were at the next stop, but whether they were carrying the correct change or not, all of which would all have been more useful if I’d actually been driving the bus.

It’s a long and slow day when you struggle to read a computer screen, can’t tell 8s from 6s and generally manage to achieve nothing.

Though on the bright side, at least you can see the boss when he’s coming to see just how much nothing you are achieving.

Mindfulness Course – Week 1

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On Thursday I mindfully ate a raisin.

As I report on my Mindfulness Course over the coming weeks it may appear that I am making fun of it. This is not what I will be doing, I think already that the course is fascinating and I have real hopes that it will make a difference to my life, especially my mental one.

I will, however, be making fun of my attempts to fulfil its demands.

So anyway, on Thursday we were each given a raisin and told that we were going to eat it mindfully. We were to look at it, be mindful of its shape and colour, then smell it, then very slowly eat it, being aware of all of the tastes, sensations, memories that this might provoke.

Unfortunately back at step one I looked at the shape and colour of the raisin and found that it reminded me of a dried snot. This was then what my mind was full of during the rest of the exercise.

I have a long way to go.

Back Again

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how overwork was getting to me, and about how the long days and lack of sleep were causing me to slip back towards depression. I wrote that I was going to fight the problem head on, was going to take the following week off and all would be well. You all wrote words of comfort and encouragement and agreed that a break was just what I needed.

Things got better, I got better and once again I wrote posts of shining wit, or at least a Spoonerised version of that.

The problem, which I was embarrassed to admit here at the time, was that I never took that week off. Because I had too much work to do I felt I couldn’t take the break that I needed because I had too much work to do.

From all over the world I can hear all of you you saying “Jesus, Tinman, you big gobshite” (though in a far more lady-like way, of course). And you are all correct, because of course the problem is back.

I got home at a quarter to eight on Friday evening (a time at which I get home far too often these days) and was in bed at half-past, not the way in which anybody should spend a Friday night. I slept until half-past eleven yesterday morning, got up for four hours (just long enough to see my team get knocked out of the FA Cup) and was back in bed by half-past three. I slept again until about 2.30 this morning and lay there until six (on a Sunday, a time that I previously thought existed only for people who are employed to shout “six o’clock and all’s well” (a profession which I believe is dying out, like thatching, building giant rock-catapults and walking in front of cars carrying a red flag) and for mad people like my dad and brother, who think that it’s the ideal time to get up for golf.

So I got up and started writing this, since I have given myself jet-lag.

There are four people arriving at the office at 8am tomorrow to get answers to a list of questions which they sent on Friday, and which already prove to me that (a) they are totally up themselves and (b) haven’t a clue what they are doing. I will not offer these opinions in their presence because we need to keep them happy (I must stress that the company is not in any trouble, we need their report for various expansion plans that we have for the coming year). They will be here for a week.

Adding this information to the fact that I already face my busiest week of the month has had the same effect as the kid at the other end of your see-saw suddenly deciding to get off.

The blindingly obvious answer, of course, is to get another job, to accept finally that the one I have is no longer fun, it’s hell on earth. But I don’t know if there are other jobs out there, and leaving would mean leaving the girl who is the other half of my work-team, and also frankly my best friend, at a time when she herself is suffering. The neck-and-shoulder pains which kept her out for the month of December have turned out to be Degenerative Disc Disorder and arthritis of the neck. She is thirty-three years old.

And it’s a job and a company that I’ve liked for a long time and would like to like again, for all its flaws, its petty unfairnesses, its constant pressure and its debasing Performance Management regime (I got the highest score that it is possible to get for the last quarter and still believe that the system is intrinsically evil). So I’ll stick it out for a while longer, hope that things improve (we are supposed to be getting a third person, that’s all we ever needed, the acceptance that we needed help) and just come here when I need to blow off steam (I’ve found this quite therapeutic, though I doubt it’s been much fun to read).

My attempt at Sidey’s Weekend Challenge will follow later in the week, as will my Weekly Drawing Challenge (I’ve just looked up WorkPress’s suggestion, ironically it’s “Hope”) and I’m making you all a solemn promise.

The next time I book time off I’m going to take it.

Tangled Web

If your company makes you wear a swipe-card on one of those lanyard-things around your neck, then here is something that you can do if you ever feel that not enough people are staring at you on the bus.

Scarf like this (hat optional)

Keeping the lanyard on as you leave work (you need it to get out the door), wrap your long scarf around your neck in the Tom-Baker-as-Doctor-Who fashion. On route to the bus stop realise that one end of the scarf is trailing longer than the other, protruding from the bottom of your coat with, as the saying goes, hilarious results. Stick that end of your scarf into your trousers pocket to avoid embarrassment. Upon boarding the bus take out your iPod, put the ear-buds into your ears and the iPod itself into your coat pocket.

Then, and only then, decide that it would be a good idea to take off the lanyard.

As an impression of an octopus in a tumble-dryer it’s pretty hard to beat.

Without a Leg to Stand On

Tingirl has been a pupil of the Gaiety School of Acting for many years now. She genuinely is a terrific actress, and mentioned recently that she would love to study drama at university, and even dreams, though she knows it’s unlikely, of going to RADA.

I mention this now purely because of a conversation Mrs Tin and I have just had. The topic came up and I said “if she got accepted into RADA I’d sell a leg to help pay her fees”.

I meant to say “kidney”. I even had a picture of a kidney in my head. I have no idea why I said “leg”.

I think Mrs Tin is a bit worried now about my exam on Friday. It’s not encouraging when an Occupational First-Aid candidate seems to believe that you can sell a leg.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Comfort

I took photos for this challenge earlier in the week, and yesterday I wrote the libretto, if you like, that was to go with them. The whole thing was quite convoluted, the pictures included one of a building, one of a Guinness bar-tap and one of a bottle of Lucozade, and on the whole I had decided to re-write the whole thing before I posted it.

Then I had one of the worst days of derealisation that I’ve had since the whole thing began. I got really down about it, so when I got home I just scrapped the load of rubbish I’d written and went to bed early.

So I had reckoned that I wouldn’t have a “Comfort” entry in my portfolio when I go for Photographer of the Year, but fate and my own stupidity have provided me with one.

I woke this morning with a pain down the right-hand side of my neck. It got more and more sore as the morning went on, we had run out of the gel that you can rub in, the nearest pharmacy is just slightly too far away to walk to when you’ve a pain in your neck and are feeling sorry for yourself, and Mrs Tin had gone out with the car.

I had to find a way to provide some comfort. So I got a dry, clean facecloth, folded it in four, put it into a cereal bowl (I really have no idea why I did that part) and, as I’m sure you all would have done in similar circumstances, I microwaved it.

This was the result:

I hid the evidence of the burnt smell by opening the kitchen window and hid the evidence of the toasted facecloth by sticking it in the pocket of my hoodie, where it remains as I type.

The good news is that its heat did a wonderful job of giving me comfort from the pain in my neck.

The bad news is that at some stage I will have to tell Mrs Tin what her Pain in the Neck has done this time.