Wednesday 11th December

I am five foot nine and consider myself average or slightly more than in other dimensions (every man likes to think they are slightly larger than average).  I have had some complimentary comments although where the desire to massage my ego and telling the truth meet is hard to determine.  Suffice it to say I am probably in a median range of acceptability.

Females whether they acknowledge it or not are undoubtedly driven when choosing a partner (and believe me, it is they who choose) by size.  A strong healthy man should produce strong healthy babies; it is as simple as that.  In the grand selection race that is courtship those lucky enough to bag the strongest and best-looking men walk off the field victorious.  Those left, who may be a bit overweight or plain or just not oozing sex appeal have to choose from the lesser specimens left behind or rejected by the super-fit in the evolutionary race – the short, the fat, the plain ugly.  And yet strangely enough most get by, get partners and lead a happy life.  It is really only in this initial teenage and beyond courtship that size, good looks, etc. really count.

Men do notice women’s tits, but also their faces, their eyes, their lips their legs and their hands.  But as I said it is really the women who do the choosing.  Rejected men simply shrug their shoulders and move on to the next possibly available one.  It is the same with internet dating, the new form of courtship.  Women actually read the profiles, measuring and contemplating which one to choose.  Men are just grateful to get a wink from anyone.

And in our first impressions of people we meet size really still is important.  No woman wants a man shorter than her; a nice pair of puppies to be unleashed is always a turn on; no-one except a very small group of unusual men chooses grossly overweight people.  Some chemistry has to be there, something has to click, even if it is just the imagined size of the specimen in front of them.  

Tuesday 10th December

The first thing to know is that I was an idiot, and even more of an idiot than I might be now.  Secondly I was blindly in love, with all the stupidity that involves and thirdly although I knew every Underground station and which line they were on by heart – I didn’t know how to put a condom on.

And so my son was born, forty four years ago today.  Me, only eighteen and Carol a mere sixteen herself.  It is a long and sorry saga of illicit first sex, swearing to be together forever, her getting pregnant, running away to Edinburgh rather than face the music, returning tail between legs because she missed her Mum.  The abortion they forced her to have, us forbidden to see each other, and then doing it anyway and her pregnant again in no time at all.

She had a long labour and the baby was being difficult.  I was told that she wouldn’t be having the baby for ages, go and get some breakfast.  I had been up all night and was happy for a break from the delivery room.  I returned to find Justin had been delivered by forceps and had two big bruises on his forehead.

So, a Dad myself at eighteen, and we moved in with her parents; mild mannered Jess and her drunkard husband Wally.  It didn’t take long before we were kicked out, and in a homeless families hostel, then in the ground floor of a condemned house.

The real tragedy is that despite all those protestations of undying love and the fact that she was pregnant again within nine months, she was off getting pissed and fucked every night with Seamus from Belfast down the Holloway Road and I was at home nursing the baby and waiting up for her to come home.  Still blindly in love.

Ah, life….isn’t it sweet to look back and remember the happy times.   

Monday 9th December

Logistics, logistics, logistics.  We cram so much into our lives that it is a logistical nightmare.   We will be away in France for Christmas, but because Christmas Day itself falls on Wenesday and shops in France are likely to be closed on the Tuesday we have to do any shopping there on the Monday, which means driving down on the Sunday, very early in the morning too.  Therefore we cannot really arrange anything for the Saturday either.  We are having a Christmas drinks and nibbles party on the Friday night, which will probably exhaust us anyway.  This means that the only weekend for the Annual Family Christmas Present Swap will be Sunday 15^th, a whole ten days before Christmas.

That’s fine, but because my sister who normally brings my Mum and Dad, because Dad, eighty-two now doesn’t like driving either in the dark or in London at all, will be away that week she and my Mum and Dad cannot come.   So far, so clear?  Well, we arranged to see them (Mum and Dad) this Saturday just gone in Walton which is only an hour from them.

As it turned out we had a lovely day, a walk along the beach to see the devastation caused to several beach-huts which had  been overwhelmed by the storm surge.  Like children’s toys they were scattered and broken, turned ninety degrees and generally in a bad way.  A quick run up to the Naze itself and then lunch at Titchmarsh Marina.

They used to be dead cheap and boring but have now gone up market, very nice décor, a wonderful menu, obviously a good chef and even a tinkling mechanical grand piano playing in the background.  We had a leisurely lunch and then another walk in the late afternoon sun.  A rare moment of Winter sunshine, and all the more splendid for it.

And then on Sunday we returned to the inevitable moving of furniture yet again, and laying a new rug, and re-siting and laying the old one, and putting up fairy lights in the garden, and making a few more chairs and on and on.  And looking outside it was still sunny at least.  

Sunday 8th December

He is the Hat and she is the Mouse.  He is the chef and she is his wife.  He runs the kitchen, she runs the small restaurant.  Frinton’s finest café is the Hat and Mouse on Connaught Avenue.  Very classily decored and with only a few tables and a cake counter full of the most gorgeous looking cakes in the world.  We sometimes go for breakfast and I have Eggs Benedict with bacon or Smoked Salmon.  The toast is baked on the premises, thick doorsteps luscious with butter, the eggs are perfectly poached, fresh almost daily from a local farm, the Hollandaise is to die for, made in house by the brilliant Hat.  I love it, a really classy and delicious breakfast.

In the cake display are Viennese Sacher Torten, really beautiful sponges and meringues.  There is wonderful homemade bread and best of all they are always smiling.

I have talked with the Hat.  He has worked for years in the West End in top restaurants but he and the Mouse always dreamed of having their own little restaurant.  And where better than Frinton on Sea, the psohest place in Essex, and right on my doorstep.  Wonderful

Saturday 7th December

I was going to Walton anyway but when I heard that there was a likely tidal storm surge on Thursday night it generated a sense of urgency into my journey.  I hurriedly left the office at four.  On tube at Baker Street I suddenly realised I had left my case in the office.  Back and picked it up and off to Liverpool Street by 5.15.   Bought ticket – there was a train leaving for Clacton at 5.35 but I caught the 5.18 for Colchester – just in case.   At Colchester we learnt there were no trains to Clacton or indeed anywhere North of Colchester that evening.

Out on the pavement along with hundreds of stranded passengers – apparently there were Rail Replacement buses coming soon.  Decided to try a taxi and joined huge queue but gave up as I realised it might be too far for any taxi to take me.  Walked over to bus queue, heard someone shout that a bus for Clacton was coming soon.  I literally ran over and just got on a bus which took three-quarters of an hour to do the ten minute journey to Thorpe Le Soken.  At least there would be a train from here.

But no, no trains tonight.  Called a cab and six of us piled in and got home four hours late.   The news was dreadful, the whole East Coast likely to be deluged, people had been evacuated from Jaywick and Yarmouth and we were somewhere in between, besides in 1953 the whole town was under water and this was predicted to be similar.  I started to move stuff upstairs starting with anything electrical or soft furnishings.  Stayed awake until after one a.m. the high tide time here.  No flood, thank goodness but it was apparently close.   And then spent Friday hovering never before exposed bits of carpet and bringing things down stairs again.

Friday 6th December

From the first moment I heard those early hits ‘Matthew and Son’ and ‘I’m Gonna Get Me A Gun’ I was in love with Cat Stevens.  I spent far too many (or too few – depends which way you look at it) hours inside the Mikado in Stowmarket, and if I had a spare shilling I would put Cat on the Jukebox.  I especially loved the B sides which were never so poppy.  But Cat tired of being a ‘Pop’ star and wanted to be something more important, deeper – he wanted his songs to touch people.  He startled the world in 1970 by releasing ‘Mona Bona Jakon’ which was definitely not a pop record.  A sublime album full of sumptuous melodies and great words.  He followed this with ‘Tea for the Tillerman’ and ‘Teaser and the Firecat’ and everywhere you went you would see his records in people’s flats, in lonely bedsits and of course my own home.  Everyone loved Cat with his vaguely hippy message in songs like ‘Peace Train’ and ‘I think I see the Light’.  Then came ‘Catch Bull at Four’ which I think is his Masterpiece; it was a bit rockier in places, but had the classic ‘Boy with the Moon and Stars on his head’ and ‘18^th Avenue’.

Then he went off the rails.  He still kept releasing albums but they were dull, flat and had only the occasional great song on them.  He was immersing himself deeper and deeper into religion, converting to Islam and changing his name to Yusuf Islam, then announcing his retreat from making music at all.

He has been controversial over the years, involving himself in Muslim politics, and just lately he has returned to the Music business, releasing a couple of albums; nice gentle songs, pretty tunes, but that’s all they are. There have been very few artists who have been consistent over the decades; it may well be too much to ask that that burst of youthful excitement can be extended into middle age and beyond.  Now we celebrate the elder statesmen of rock while the torch has passed on to the youngsters.

But I will never forget Cat, even if I can barely forgive him for ‘Morning Has Broken’ I will follow him into ‘The Lillywhite’ to discover exactly ‘Where do the children play’.

Thursday 5th December

I seem to be always running, not from anything but just to keep up.  I speak to my parents every week and apart from the occasional Hospital appointment or Bring and Buy Sale at the Village Hall  they lead a pretty uneventful life.  Dad has his garden, and he potters around almost every day out there for an hour or two.  A visit to Tesco is almost a treat, the highlight of their day; whereas I find myself rushing from aisle to aisle grabbing the few things I can remember on my way home from work.   Every day seems to be busy, work is unrelenting (if only they would close the Restaurants for a week or so) and e-mails bombard me like little peas shot from some malicious pea-shooter just out of sight.

And then because I am so hyper, so un-relaxed, if I get a quiet moment I grab a paper or have to read a book, or start tinkering on my own book.  I seem to set myself up for constant work.  This blog is a good example.  Would you really be so upset if I were to miss a day out?  Would anyone actually notice is more to the point.  And yet I feel a religious duty to write something every day.  Because I know if I let the routine slip just once I might never resume the task.   The same with my music; for years now I have had a double helix of rotating playlists;  I can almost predict the future by the unrelenting nature of the thing.   And yet I cannot let it go.  In the words of Magnus himself, “I started so I will finish”.  But when that finish will ever arrive I do not know.  I hate to think of a time when it may be over.  And so, as old age beckons with one welcoming finger and a pillow to rest my weary head on, I resist the temptation by continuing to live my life on the run.   At least I may never catch myself up this way. 

Wednesday 4th December

Well that is what Nick Clegg hopes.  He has single-handedly reduced the LibDems polling figures from almost twenty percent to half that number.  There is very little time for that to improve, and by his speech to his conference this didn’t seem to bother him.  He is counting on constituencies where there is a sitting LibDem to retain their seats or for enough of them anyway to still hold the balance of power.  He would rather be a junior partner in a coalition (preferably with the Tories of course) than try over the longer run to win outright.  He may be right, but I cannot help thinking more and more people will resent them for it and their share will shrink even further.

There has been quite a shift in voting.  What I think has happened is that the core Tory vote, those who will vote for them whatever is now less than 30%.  Labour’s figure is much the same, except they do tend to attract more young people so this may be a bit higher.   But a section of the right wing of the Tories are now voting UKIP; this may be as many as 6 or 7 %, which will make Cameron’s job far harder than it should have been.  Labour’s vote may well slip back as the General Election approaches.  George Osborne has two more budgets and two Autumn statements to drag more rabbits out of the hat.   Labour are still largely untrusted on the economy too, so they have to be careful what they can promise.

I think the polls will tighten as the election approaches, and it may largely depend on how well UKIP does, both in the European elections and in marginal Tory seats.  It could even transpire that UKIP wins no or just a couple of seats but takes enough votes to stop a Tory victory.

It will be hard for Labour to win outright, and they may well have to seek a coalition with either the LibDems or SNP and others.   We could be, at long last, moving more towards a European style of coalition and consensus politics.   Whatever happens I think Nick Clegg will not be leading the LibDems after 2015, as his head could be the price they have to pay to go into coalition with Labour.  It may well be a close run thing.

Tuesday 3rd December

People are lazy, simple as that.  I include myself in that, of course.  Unless forced to do something I tend to switch on the telly and watch Breakfast TV, almost regretting that at nine it ends.  A bit of news 24 until the same stories start rolling around and even the Breaking News sounds like yesterday’s repeats.  And that is the trouble with people; we almost always take the easy way out.  Politicians with one eye always on getting re-elected do not tackle the real problems but tinker around at the edges.  So-called reforms barely change a thing.  And so the problems just get worse, inequality soars even under Labour.  And one of the reasons for that is that people take the easy way out.  They would rather living in poverty and squalor than push themselves to get out of their own mess.  I know I might sound like a fascist but, like it or not, people always take the easy way out.  And what could be easier than doing nothing (and getting paid, even a pittance, for it).

Taking the dogs for a walk along the river and you can see into row upon row of lighted sitting rooms, and the bluey glow of the TV screen dominates.  House after house people are watching telly.  And I too rather than talk to my partner will automatically reach out for the controller.  Usually settling for the least shit programme, and too lazy to even surf when the ads come on.  What is wrong with us humans?  In many ways, especially physically our lives are so much easier than years gone by.  Machines to wash the clothes, machines to clean the carpet, even machines to clean your teeth, as if the up and down hand motion might actually tire us out.  And still we profess exhaustion, and prefer to be laying on a sofa and filling our brains with some Celebrity drivel

And maybe it will always be so.  The cleverest (so far) life-form to have emerged prefers to take the easy way out rather than actually do something with our lives.

Monday 2nd December

Rarity of rarities it looked as if we had a quiet weekend ahead; from the distant viewpoint of Friday that is.  I had spent most of the day moving furniture.  We are hosting a family get-together and present exchange day on Sunday 15^th, but as we are in Walton next weekend it was furniture moving day.  The front room which is quite large, now has three sofas and four armchairs, oh and not forgetting a huge artificial Christmas tree in it.  Anyway, that is quite beside the point.  We had a Saturday and Sunday with nothing really planned.   Saturday morning we lazed about, until a chance meeting with one of our neighbours resulted in them somehow being invited for a soiree that evening.  We went shopping in the afternoon and then it was preparing for the evening.  It all went off well, but a tad too much to drink and we were feeling grotty on Sunday morning.

Ten o’clock and the doorbell rings; a handyman friend who had promised to come and re-hang a kitchen cupboard door three weeks ago but hadn’t turned up was standing there tools in hand to do the job.  Today; without any warning or phone call.  It didn’t take too long as it happened, except he had to go to Wickes for new hinges.  In the meantime friends rang inviting us for breakfast at the Pavillion in Victoria Park, Hackney.  Seemingly unable to say no we joined them.  It was okay, if somewhat chaotic and rushed.  We returned to the house and had just made a cup of tea when the doorbell rang and more visitors popped in.  Fine, we weren’t really doing anything anyway.  But they stayed for ages, and then literally  ten minutes after they left the doorbell rang again and the friends we had had brunch with returned for tea and chat.  They left at ten, so for twelve hours solid we had been invaded or been entertaining people and our lovely quiet weekend had dissolved like the morning mist on a wintry morning.

Ah well, back to work and a nice rest soon.