Time Warp?

Time is fleeting…


Where does it go? Only yesterday I was still at school, young, innocent and full of excitement (or was it drugs?) over what the future held for me. Now I am a 45 year old father and grandfather, jaded and made cynical by the blade that shaves the hours, minutes and seconds off of the thread that is my life.

But on a happier note…

Just over a year ago my daughter and son-in-law presented myself and Mrs Giant68 with a granddaughter. Last weekend we had the parties for the children and then the adults. I am ashamed to say I did get a little drunk. But in my defence I will say that I am not used to alcohol anymore so all I had was a sniff of the cork. (ok, I did sniff so hard that all the wine came out and drenched my liver but…) I have changed with time, I feel as though I have gone from that childhood innocence thru married bliss, divorced depression, single fun, married bliss, big softy as the kids were born and grew, jaded middle age and now back to old softy. I find that my granddaughters energy and inquisitiveness are fascinating. At her christening, while laying in the vicars arms, she noticed the water in the font. “Ooh, water! Lets play!” and proceeded to splash it all over the cleric. Maybe I look thru biased eyes ( “No!” I hear you cry) but she is the most amazing thing. Put her down and she is off to investigate. I have pulled some strange things out of the sub-woofer of my surround sound system! My dog hides before she can investigate how hard you have to pull fur before it comes out. And it’s a good job I have a carpet shampooer to clean up the soggy biscuit that has been ground into the carpet to see how long it takes granddad to clean it up.

All this probably means that the blade may be shaving time off my life a little quicker but what the hell?

I have several hundred photos of my granddaughter if anyone wants to see…
That is if there any people left on the face of this planet that I haven’t shown them
to…


I have also discovered that my chest hair is going grey, but that is a story for another day.


:o)

Sombrero anyone?

A stuffed donkey and a sombrero. That used to be the image that people had of Spanish holidays. Coachloads of sweaty, fat northerners heading to the airports on their package tours singing “E viva Espagne” at the top of their drunken lungs.

Not far off the mark really.

Mrs Giant68 and myself have just returned from 2 weeks at gas mark 8, liberally doused with booze in Torrevieja. As I have said before, I have been blessed with some really good friends. Now 2 of my friends have a house in Torrevieja, and they let us ruin their own holiday for a fortnight while we join them.

I will change all the names to protect the innocent so we will refer to them as Steve and Sarah (bugger! That is their name, oh well, never mind. They were never that innocent anyway!)

We have been to their house a few times and, therefore, know our way around and we know everyone in the area, all the expats and some of the Spaniards. So getting off the plane is almost like going home. This year, within a couple of hours we were sat in a Chinese restaurant eating and drinking and being remembered by Richard the waiter. Richard doesn't sound very Chinese but, to be perfectly honest, I can’t pronounce his real name let alone spell it. We were getting up in the morning and meeting people that we have known for some years.

This year Carlos had gone. For years we have gone to what we called Carlos Bar to drink and play cribbage. Carlos knew us, and even after a year away would remember that we liked to drink Guinness. His was generally the first place we would visit as it was the best pint of the holiday. A cold Guinness served in a glass that had been kept in the freezer. And when the temperature outside is in excess of 35°C, that is wonderful. But this year he has gone. The Meson Gallea is run by Jose and is not quite the same. So we went somewhere else.

Marys Bar is a little different. We had always walked past it thinking that it was a little run down and rough. It was. But the beer was good. The landlord, another Jose, was a surly bastard and we had the feeling that everyone stopped talking and stared at us as we sat down, and they did. But we persevered and by the second week of the holiday we were Joses best mates. We had free sardines, pork and sausages cooked by our hosts fair hands on his BBQ. The BBQ looked like it harboured all the e. coli and salmonella bugs in Spain, but the food was good and tasty and none of us were ill. We got into the habit of passing by after meals elsewhere for a coffee and brandy before went home.

As for the rest of the holiday, we had barbecues at the house, where we cooked our own sardines, meals out at Shellys bar, where we played pool. We went into town and ate ice cream at a shop that sells more flavours than there are flavours. My particular favourite was amaretto ice cream, I love marzipan and this was just marzipan ice cream, I had died and gone to heaven.

We sat round the pool, we swam, we went to the beach, we watched as Ann ranted about something or other while under the influence of a chilled Rose’. Steve, a notoriously fussy eater, ate the sardines, olives and battered prawns. I ate raw onion and garlic mayo ( I can’t face cold garlic usually, makes me want to puke!)

We listened to the sound of the Russian lap dancer being pleasured by her latest boyfriend, and cheered when she finally climaxed. We watched lightning and listened to the thunder. The rain was torrential for a couple of hours, a kid was actually surfing in the road! We trimmed trees and cut our fingers. We slept outside under the stars ( apart from the night it rained!) But mostly we had fun.And we were disappointed when it was over.

I will raise a glass of cerveza to Steve, Sarah, Harry, Ann, Sian, Amy, Jeremy, Roger, Pat, Christine, Mark and Steven. To the memory of Shelly, whose bar we drank and ate in. To Jose, the surly Spaniard, and the Spanish mafia for interrupting their card games with questions. Cheers! Here’s to next year, if we are invited back.

Ridin' along on my pushbike , Honey...

In the name of appearing fit, instead of fat as I used to be, I signed myself and Mrs Giant68 up for a bike ride. I’m not sure that she was that impressed but I told her that it would be a good day out in the sun, I’m not sure that believed me.
Sky, of the tv fame, and the British Cycling Association had got together and with the aid of Southampton City council had shut most of the roads around the town centre for the day so that us cyclists, who pay no road tax, insurance or any contribution at all to the upkeep of the roads (I am a driver as well and I hate those damned cyclists!!), could take over the city streets.
It was a 10km circuit up through the town centre and round the common. I didn’t factor into the equation the ride into the town centre itself. That added another 12km, at least.
We got a free hi-vis vest and there were free bottles of water and energy drinks, “whoopee!” I hear you cry. Some lotion for my sore arse afterwards would’ve been nice!
Bearing in mind that for the last 20+ years I have had knackered knees, this is the first serious cycle ride I have done in that time so I was quite impressed that I managed 2 laps plus the ride home, a total of 32km (20 miles for those of you still thinking pre-decimalisation). All the time riding with our heads on swivels as the little kids that were taking part had no concept of the straight line, and the more sporty types trying to do it at warp speed would, invariably, try and overtake as you were trying to avoid a small person!
We could have just done the ride but we decided that we would try and raise some money for charity. So far, with money promised but not collected yet, we should have somewhere in the region of £150, all to go to Naomi House, a childrens Hospice in Hampshire.
So a big thank you to Ted and Karen, Nicky and Neil, Louise, Gadget, mum and Geoff, the Wilson family (jnr.), The Boy, No.1 daughter, Brett (who actually rode with us), Bob S, Jackie W, Karen F, AC, promised cash from the Fishwicks, Teddy Mac, and Sharon. And to the one person who said "Charities? F**k 'em" I sincerely hope that you when you need a charity they give you the same answer.

More expensive than Gold

I have discovered the most expensive substance on the face of the planet. More valuable than gold, platinum or even saffron. I read a report a while ago that said printer ink was the most expensive commodity on the planet, but it was wrong. I can understand that the manufacturers of printers and the ink that goes in them spend fortunes on developing ink that flows without drying out in the cartridge. Has the correct consistency, colour, durability, and staying power so that when you print a picture it will not fade over time. They obviously want a return on their R & D investment. But they have it wrong. They have the wrong substance.

Yesterday I went to the opticians. I had my eyes tested after 2 years, as advised. To be honest, I knew that they were a little worse and last time I was told that I would probably need reading glasses this time. I sat in the chair and read the test card, you know, the one that says

I

Am

Making

A mint out

Out of you, mug!

Then comes the fun. The funny, adjustable lenses go on and various magnitudes are put in front of your eyes and I emerge knowing that I need varifocals so that I can read and see things that are further away than the end of my nose.

Fine, they have deals on the frames and lenses so this shouldn’t cost much. £317 later and I am in shock, but at least I will be able to see.

Now here comes the expensive substance. It is whatever they use to make the frames of spectacles. I have bought rimless specs. They are nothing more than 2 arms and the bridge to join the lenses. Must only weigh in at few ounces, but they have cost me £120. I can understand the varifocal lenses costing over a hundred quid, as they have to be cut and ground and polished. But three bits of, what is effectively, wire? Someone is having a laugh at the expense of all of us speccy four-eyes!!

Think I’ll go online next and buy some that are manufactured in a sweat shop in India. They may make me look a bit stupid but they will be cheap. The lenses may be so poorly polished that I wouldn’t be able to see myself in the mirror, anyway. But I will still have money in my pocket!

A Tale of Two Tents...

Ok, so I went camping again. I must be some sort of masochist. I really don’t know what has got into me lately. I have started eating salads, exercising, living healthily, and now I enjoy camping. Will somebody please shoot me now! Before long I may turn all new age, and start getting in touch with my feminine side!

So, we loaded the entire contents of our house (and the neighbour’s house, I think) into the car and drove off down the road with a shower of sparks coming from the exhaust as it dragged along the ground. This time we were off to pastures new. Dorset, and Corfe Castle to be precise. We had plans for riding the steam train into Swanage on Saturday, barbeque in the evening, plenty of booze, bit of music and a good laugh.

It didn’t start well, with only four of us showing up out of the many that were invited, but that was their loss. The four of us decided that we could survive without the miserable buggers. Set the tents up and unpack the cars. Then off to find a chippy. Sated with a good portion of cod and chips, we set about demolishing a pile of bottled alcohol while we watched the sunset over the sheep and cows in the next field. Mooing and baaing was going to be least of our problems overnight as a group of Duke of Edinburgh students moved in at 10:30pm and made enough noise to wake the dead all night. And, yes, I do mean all night. In the end they were thrown off the site. But, by God, were we tired!

Never mind. We still managed the steam train into Swanage. Our daughter and granddaughter turned up for the train ride as well. Now the newest member of the Giant68 family is still not a year old so this was a big adventure for her, and she loved it. As she has me wrapped around her little finger I spent a fortune on her, but that’s what a granddad is for.

Barbeque was lit, as was the camping stove and we all set about demolishing a pile of food and the obligatory lake full of alcohol. Fuelled by the aforementioned alcohol we decided it would be a brilliant idea to climb the hill behind the camp and watch the sunset. We lost our team of Sherpa’s along the way and as we climbed through the cloud layer we could see the curvature of the Earth! It certainly felt like it! We all slept like the dead that night!

The sun came up and illuminated the interior of my tent. Why, in God’s name, do tent manufacturers not make the tent out of something that block the light from the Earths star? So I was awake pretty early, as always. One day I will get a lay in, that’s the problem with being a shift worker for the last 25 years, no lay ins.

Good job that I was awake, really, as we had to pack up reasonably early so that we could rush back home for the granddaughters christening. So with the help of a large shoehorn it was all squeezed back into the car and off we went.

Another camping trip over. I am becoming a veteran camper. Should I be proud of this, or should I be hanging my head in shame. When people ask how I spent my weekend should I say “Oh, I went camping” or should I just tell people that spent the entire weekend downloading gay porn?

Guilty Pleasures...

Guilty pleasures. What’s yours? Nothing kinky or perverse (OK, then, just this once), just simple guilty pleasures that you would be ashamed to admit to even though they are really nothing to be ashamed of.
I am sat in the office looking out of the window, as I do, sun is shining down out of a clear blue sky and on the radio is “Me and you and a dog named Boo” by a band called Lobo (I think). And at this particular moment, as I sing along, all is well with the world, I am at peace. President Obama and the BP saga, the “Bloody Sunday” report etc may as well belong to another universe.
I have many of these “pleasures”, all the sort of thing that you wouldn't want to admit in public. I'm far too old to worry about what people think of me now. And they will all transport me to a different place. Sometimes they may transport me, mentally at least, to another place, sometimes to another time. On our way to a pub quiz a few weeks back, one of our friends had a perfume on that took me back years. I couldn’t quite grasp the memory that it evoked, every time I tried to grab it it would flutter just out of reach. Lincoln biscuits and malted milk biscuits take me to my childhood when I would stay with my grandmother in Nottingham
Sometimes these pleasures transport me nowhere, but are just pleasures. Tinned hotdog sausages, Big Macs, the smell of hawthorn blossom. To be honest, I should have probably kept quiet about the tinned hotdog sausages, people will now think that I’m weird.

My name’s Giant68 and I’m odd…

Under canvas...

Well, the next episode in the camping saga is over and went quite well. But there are a few things that concern me, apart from the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed it (oh the shame!). Camping, in principle, seems to be a cheap way of having a holiday. And easy. Just load your tent into the car and off you go.

No. In reality you will load the entire contents of your house into the back of your car, drive for however many miles it is to your destination and then take the entire contents of your house ot of the car and put them in a field. I didn’t realise that my car could carry so much. It must have been designed by the same alien race that built the TARDIS. I am sure that the exhaust must have been dragging along the road leaving a trail of sparks behind.

Then you have to pitch your tent which takes a while. But not as long as those who take the trailer tent. Trailer tents are a completely different kettle of fish altogether. Unhitch, unfold and off you go. A fully fitted tent with all the luxuries of home. But, again, it’s never that easy, is it? Once you have ben allocated a pitch you have to get it aligned properly, then level it. Spirit level out and wedges to put under the wheels and a team of hunky blokes to drag one side up on the wedge. Fine if these hunky blokes are available but if it is you and the wife it can get very frustrating.

No Ted this time, so no purple shorts. Just nine good friends, lots of food for the bbq, lots of beer/wine. Bacon sandwiches for breakfast and plenty of coffee.

Interestingly, though, was discovering that Mrs Giant68 turned the inflatable mattress end for end when I decided I wanted my head uphill instead of down. I would have just moved the pillows to the other end. Female logic for you…

I may, now, go and buy my own tent instead of borrowing one. I may never be able to face the world again! :o)