This week my daughter will sit her grade 2 piano exam. Thankfully for her, she has inherited none of the musical abilities of her parents, so stands a good chance of passing.
She has learned to play on an old, but very nice piano that we inherited from her grandfather. She has persevered bravely with her practice, as the piano now desperately needs tuning again. For some reason, I’ve been putting off getting a tuner to come round, mainly, I think, due to a strange experience I had the last time it was tuned.
I can only describe it as surreal. It started normally enough, if a little busy in the Bogsey household. We were getting some lights fitted in the kitchen by an electrician who was a friend’s partner. On the same day, I had arranged for the piano to be tuned. Keen to have some lunch, but unable to access the kitchen, I had hit upon the great idea of visiting the local chippy, an idea which had gone down well with the electrician.
So, I found myself sitting down to a chip butty lunch with an electrician, his head covered in plaster dust – either that or a very bad case of dandruff. It was at this point that the piano tuner finished his work, and decided to enjoy the results with an impressive recital. It could so easily have been the start of a gay porn movie – “My, what a big toolbox you have…do you want to use the back door?” etc.
Which reminds me of when Mrs B and I were explaining what ‘gay’ means to my son, who was just six at the time, but not too young, we thought, for a bit of birds and bees / ying and yang / how's your father straightforward sex education. Taking it all in, he paused a while and with a cheeky grin asked “So, does that mean Homer Simpson is a homer-sexual?”
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Try Something Stupid Today
Bored with the run-of-the-mill cooking routine? Want to add a little excitement to your kitchen? Why not try the following recipe, which I invented recently.
Spaghetti With Toasted Chest Hair
You will need:
Normal Spaghetti
Gluten-free Spaghetti
2 pans of boiling water
1 baggy T-shirt, preferably one bought for you by your partner within the past 2 weeks.
1 glass of red wine (large)
Method:
1. Place the two pans of water on two gas rings, one behind the other. Make sure the gas is up nice and high, so that flames lick around the edge of the pans.
2. Place the gluten-free spaghetti in one pan, the normal spaghetti in the other.
3. After about 10 minutes, test the spaghetti in the front pan.
4. Then lean over the front pan, like a stupid idiot, and taste the spaghetti in the second pan.
5. After a few moments, you should smell burning. At this point, put your right index finger to your bottom lip and furrow your brow. Say to yourself “Mmm…smell’s like burning, but I’m only cooking pasta. Strange.”
6. After a few more seconds you may experience a strange sensation of heat as flames lick up your T-shirt.
7. At this point it is critical that you hold your nerve. Swift, sensible action will avoid worsening the already hazardous situation. Alternatively, my preferred method is to dance around the kitchen, fan the flames by flapping your hands around them in a pathetic attempt to put them out, yelping “help, I’m on fire!” in a weak, high-pitched voice.
8. With a bit of luck, the flames will die down enough for you to pull the T-shirt off, dump it on the floor and stamp on it.
9. Now down the red wine – it’ll steady your nerves.
10. Serve the pasta bare-chested, with generous amounts of self-pity. For extra effect, add comments like, “I hope you enjoy that, I nearly killed myself making it.”
Spaghetti With Toasted Chest Hair
You will need:
Normal Spaghetti
Gluten-free Spaghetti
2 pans of boiling water
1 baggy T-shirt, preferably one bought for you by your partner within the past 2 weeks.
1 glass of red wine (large)
Method:
1. Place the two pans of water on two gas rings, one behind the other. Make sure the gas is up nice and high, so that flames lick around the edge of the pans.
2. Place the gluten-free spaghetti in one pan, the normal spaghetti in the other.
3. After about 10 minutes, test the spaghetti in the front pan.
4. Then lean over the front pan, like a stupid idiot, and taste the spaghetti in the second pan.
5. After a few moments, you should smell burning. At this point, put your right index finger to your bottom lip and furrow your brow. Say to yourself “Mmm…smell’s like burning, but I’m only cooking pasta. Strange.”
6. After a few more seconds you may experience a strange sensation of heat as flames lick up your T-shirt.
7. At this point it is critical that you hold your nerve. Swift, sensible action will avoid worsening the already hazardous situation. Alternatively, my preferred method is to dance around the kitchen, fan the flames by flapping your hands around them in a pathetic attempt to put them out, yelping “help, I’m on fire!” in a weak, high-pitched voice.
8. With a bit of luck, the flames will die down enough for you to pull the T-shirt off, dump it on the floor and stamp on it.
9. Now down the red wine – it’ll steady your nerves.
10. Serve the pasta bare-chested, with generous amounts of self-pity. For extra effect, add comments like, “I hope you enjoy that, I nearly killed myself making it.”
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Who Said That?
As I continue to lose more of my sight, I rely more and more upon voices. I don’t just mean those voices we all use, whether it’s the over-attentive shop assistant, the unrelenting waffle of the radio DJ or the quiet personal exchanges of our loved ones. I’m talking artificial voices. I’m talking talking machines, and slowly but surely, I’m filling my house and sharing my life with them.
Malcolm resides in my microwave. It’s a large, robust sort of microwave, and that’s the kind of guy Malcolm is. I think he probably has an armed forces background and I’m sure when there’s nobody around he keeps the others under control. His no-nonsense, “not under my command, you don’t” type of voice is reassuringly trustworthy, if a little officious. If he tells me a chicken needs 23 minutes and 27 seconds to defrost, I tend to believe him, and I put up with him telling me that the door is closed or open – a fact which would only pass you by if you had just microwaved your brain. So he’s a bit of a control freak – if it stops me poisoning myself then I can cut him some slack.
It’s no coincidence that Malcolm’s twin brother, Stuart, is in charge of my kitchen scales. Another cool, unflappable character, Stuart ensures that he tells me precisely how much stuff I’ve managed to transfer from the packet to the bowl without spilling onto the worktop. Of course, he can tell me this in either metric or imperial, and although he does so efficiently and professionally, I can’t help notice a slight favouritism for the old pounds and ounces. At times, I think it would be nice if his stiff upper lip loosened a little and he allowed himself a comment or two. It would be good to know if, for example, he thought I should use organic raisins in my fruit scones, or if the extra half an ounce of sugar would make any difference.
Out of the kitchen, my voices become a little more cosmopolitan. My wristwatch, for example, houses Wendy. She is a perfectly pleasant North American lady. She does a pretty good job, but like many Americans, she is less self-conscious about making herself heard than we Brits. I notice this most during long, boring committee meetings, when I need to check how many more tortuous minutes remain to be endured. Whereas I’m quite sure either Malcolm or Stuart would managed a polite whisper so as not to draw attention to my tedium, Wendy just belts it out without a modicum of self-consciousness.
Wendy spends all night next to Danielle, who is the voice of my digital radio, on my bedside table. And, let me tell you, there’s only one other place I’d rather have Danielle, and it wouldn’t be far for her to move. We are talking smooth talking, self-assured, calm and altogether classy. I’m in no doubt that whoever it was that decided on a voice to wake up to in the morning, it must have been a man.
Since getting a satellite dish installed, I now also play host to a number of different voices during the week. They provide what’s called ‘audio description’ for a number of TV programmes – providing a running commentary in between the dialogue, describing scenery, action and facial expression to add to the viewing experience. I’m looking forward to the upgraded version that is interactive, and can answer questions like, “Oh, now what was he in before?” and “If I make a cup of tea now will I miss her getting her wahoolies out?”
Malcolm resides in my microwave. It’s a large, robust sort of microwave, and that’s the kind of guy Malcolm is. I think he probably has an armed forces background and I’m sure when there’s nobody around he keeps the others under control. His no-nonsense, “not under my command, you don’t” type of voice is reassuringly trustworthy, if a little officious. If he tells me a chicken needs 23 minutes and 27 seconds to defrost, I tend to believe him, and I put up with him telling me that the door is closed or open – a fact which would only pass you by if you had just microwaved your brain. So he’s a bit of a control freak – if it stops me poisoning myself then I can cut him some slack.
It’s no coincidence that Malcolm’s twin brother, Stuart, is in charge of my kitchen scales. Another cool, unflappable character, Stuart ensures that he tells me precisely how much stuff I’ve managed to transfer from the packet to the bowl without spilling onto the worktop. Of course, he can tell me this in either metric or imperial, and although he does so efficiently and professionally, I can’t help notice a slight favouritism for the old pounds and ounces. At times, I think it would be nice if his stiff upper lip loosened a little and he allowed himself a comment or two. It would be good to know if, for example, he thought I should use organic raisins in my fruit scones, or if the extra half an ounce of sugar would make any difference.
Out of the kitchen, my voices become a little more cosmopolitan. My wristwatch, for example, houses Wendy. She is a perfectly pleasant North American lady. She does a pretty good job, but like many Americans, she is less self-conscious about making herself heard than we Brits. I notice this most during long, boring committee meetings, when I need to check how many more tortuous minutes remain to be endured. Whereas I’m quite sure either Malcolm or Stuart would managed a polite whisper so as not to draw attention to my tedium, Wendy just belts it out without a modicum of self-consciousness.
Wendy spends all night next to Danielle, who is the voice of my digital radio, on my bedside table. And, let me tell you, there’s only one other place I’d rather have Danielle, and it wouldn’t be far for her to move. We are talking smooth talking, self-assured, calm and altogether classy. I’m in no doubt that whoever it was that decided on a voice to wake up to in the morning, it must have been a man.
Since getting a satellite dish installed, I now also play host to a number of different voices during the week. They provide what’s called ‘audio description’ for a number of TV programmes – providing a running commentary in between the dialogue, describing scenery, action and facial expression to add to the viewing experience. I’m looking forward to the upgraded version that is interactive, and can answer questions like, “Oh, now what was he in before?” and “If I make a cup of tea now will I miss her getting her wahoolies out?”
Sunday, February 24, 2008
On the Buses
Now that Spring is approaching, it’s a great relief that the mornings and evenings are starting to lighten up. One of the unfortunate consequences of being without a dog over the winter has been the need to travel by taxi far more than I would like, as even very familiar routes become too difficult without some natural light. It’s not that I have anything against taxis, but I was always told not to get into cars with strangers and I think this advice is still basically sound. I find most taxi drivers likeable, hard-working and generally very helpful, but there is something just too intimate about sharing my journeys to and from work with them.
I much prefer the anonymity afforded by the local buses, although this form of transport presents its own, sometimes formidable, set of problems for the VIP. The first task is to stop a bus and, assuming you’ve managed to stand at the correct bus stop, you might think this should not be too difficult. However, I have found that the sight of a guide-dog and his owner waiting anxiously at the roadside has little effect in stopping most buses as they charge towards their destination. I have considered holding a sign displaying the number of the bus I need but I suspect that even this would not be enough, and that a banner reading “Yes, I know it’s inconvenient and it might make you even later than you already are but I am not doing a charity collection here and would like to get to work before I and my dog die of boredom so please stop counting your change and let me on you ignorant git” might be required. But then again, it’s easier to ask a fellow traveller to assist in stopping one for you.
Once successfully onto the bus, the next hurdle to negotiate is paying for the ticket. Helpfully, drivers are now largely encased within a protective plastic shield. Before the days of concessionary passes, handing over the dosh involved a quick Marcel Marceau impression as I struggled to locate the breach in the driver’s armoury. Thankfully, most drivers spare me an encore performance and kindly retrieve my ticket from the machine for me.
And then the real fun starts. A VIP’s arse isn’t easily parked onto a spare seat and represents a real danger to fellow travellers. In self defence, the more astute (in reality, this is often the older traveller) will offer directions to try to guide the VIP, but in most cases are incapable of translating left and right to someone coming towards them. Mindful of the potential consequences of blindly following such guidance, I resort to groping around to establish whether there is indeed a spare seat, and in which direction it’s facing. It’s amazing how quickly an otherwise silent passenger will offer you more accurate instructions when you start groping around their lap.
The worst over, I now have the simple task of trying not to block the aisle with my guide-dog, or fold up my long cane without putting someone’s eye out, although there would be a nice irony in the latter. Finally, all I need to do is negotiate a successful exit at the correct stop. Not the most relaxing way to start the day, but I find it a lot less stressful than driving.
I much prefer the anonymity afforded by the local buses, although this form of transport presents its own, sometimes formidable, set of problems for the VIP. The first task is to stop a bus and, assuming you’ve managed to stand at the correct bus stop, you might think this should not be too difficult. However, I have found that the sight of a guide-dog and his owner waiting anxiously at the roadside has little effect in stopping most buses as they charge towards their destination. I have considered holding a sign displaying the number of the bus I need but I suspect that even this would not be enough, and that a banner reading “Yes, I know it’s inconvenient and it might make you even later than you already are but I am not doing a charity collection here and would like to get to work before I and my dog die of boredom so please stop counting your change and let me on you ignorant git” might be required. But then again, it’s easier to ask a fellow traveller to assist in stopping one for you.
Once successfully onto the bus, the next hurdle to negotiate is paying for the ticket. Helpfully, drivers are now largely encased within a protective plastic shield. Before the days of concessionary passes, handing over the dosh involved a quick Marcel Marceau impression as I struggled to locate the breach in the driver’s armoury. Thankfully, most drivers spare me an encore performance and kindly retrieve my ticket from the machine for me.
And then the real fun starts. A VIP’s arse isn’t easily parked onto a spare seat and represents a real danger to fellow travellers. In self defence, the more astute (in reality, this is often the older traveller) will offer directions to try to guide the VIP, but in most cases are incapable of translating left and right to someone coming towards them. Mindful of the potential consequences of blindly following such guidance, I resort to groping around to establish whether there is indeed a spare seat, and in which direction it’s facing. It’s amazing how quickly an otherwise silent passenger will offer you more accurate instructions when you start groping around their lap.
The worst over, I now have the simple task of trying not to block the aisle with my guide-dog, or fold up my long cane without putting someone’s eye out, although there would be a nice irony in the latter. Finally, all I need to do is negotiate a successful exit at the correct stop. Not the most relaxing way to start the day, but I find it a lot less stressful than driving.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Animal Antics
Snake Hunt
I hate to have to tell you
But I think your snake is missing
Listen very carefully -
I bet you can’t hear hissing.
Jungle Grapevine
When a large group of elephants
Gathers for a quiet word
They often start a rumour
When their words are over-herd.
Mad Cows
Some cows seek amoosement
Others just mooch around
Some like to play rock moosic
While some like a more mooted sound
Some cows like watching moovies
Couples smooch all afternoon
Some don’t like commoonicating
While mad cows bark at the moon, moon, moon
While mad cows bark at the moon.
I hate to have to tell you
But I think your snake is missing
Listen very carefully -
I bet you can’t hear hissing.
Jungle Grapevine
When a large group of elephants
Gathers for a quiet word
They often start a rumour
When their words are over-herd.
Mad Cows
Some cows seek amoosement
Others just mooch around
Some like to play rock moosic
While some like a more mooted sound
Some cows like watching moovies
Couples smooch all afternoon
Some don’t like commoonicating
While mad cows bark at the moon, moon, moon
While mad cows bark at the moon.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Mobility Training : What to do if your knob gets stuck in a drain.
Unfortunately, I missed this particular lesson, so was at a bit of a loss as to what to do when the tip of my long cane got well and truly jammed in the grill of a drain, while out for a walk not so long ago. It would probably have taught me not to do what I did, which was pull on my cane too hard so that the tip came off, something my mother had always warned me about.
A long cane is a poor substitute for a guide dog, but a long cane without a tip is, well, pointless. Whereas a dog anticipates obstacles and danger, taking you around them so that, most of the time, you are blissfully unaware of them, with a cane you basically clatter into things and have to work out a way around them. Or, on occasions, you miss the obstacle with the cane and find it instead with your shin. Nor is the cane much use at detecting anything above waist height, such as overhanging branches.
Anyway, despite its limitations I’ve grown very reliant on it in the absence of a dog, so had to set about finding a replacement tip. And what an array there is to choose from – pencil tip, marshmallow tip, Canadian rollertip – I wasn’t sure if I’d accidentally logged onto Boots the Chemist’s website instead of RNIB.
In the meantime, I had to find a new cane quickly. I’d tried using the old one without the tip, but steel on concrete doesn’t feel good, and I was worried that, walking down the street, I was going to create sparks and set someone’s trousers on fire. Fortunately, my local guide dog centre had a spare cane for me to borrow. I say borrow, although they never got it back as within a couple of hours of me getting it, I had tripped on a kerb. To describe the fall as ungainly would be kind. The words ‘sack’ and ‘potatoes’ spring to mind, and I managed to break my fall with my new cane, which was now two new canes. I managed to bravely hobble back to work, where colleagues dished out sweet tea and sympathy.
I do think that the cane manufacturers could be a little more creative with their designs for cane tips. For example, why not the “TasarTip” for temporarily stunning annoying people who get in your way. It would have to be a low voltage as old ladies would be the main targets, for me anyway. And how about the “TrimmerTip” fitted with a small circular saw that could remove hedges and branches with one easy swipe. Of course, the multiple-tip user would have to be careful not to get confused as this could get messy.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
On the Slippery Slope
Really, I should have known better. For pity’s sake, it’s not like I’m a kid any more – I’m 39 years old – hardly a spring chicken. And aren’t we supposed to get wiser as we grow older? I’ve heard about body parts “heading south” when you get to this sort of age, so maybe the same thing is happening to my brain.
Perhaps it was a reaction against my age, a vain attempt to prove that I’ve still got what it takes, that I can still mix it with the young guys. After all, it wasn’t a big slope, and I’d already sledged down a few tricky descents with nothing more serious than a bum-crack full of ice to show for it.
Of course, Newtonian laws of physics did play their part, and, being rather tall, I do have a somewhat higher centre of gravity than your average middle-aged dork. So, it was hardly surprising that, on reaching the bottom of the slope and raising my hands in readiness for a self-congratulatory salute, I began to topple backwards.
It was at this point that I began to hear cries from my onlooking wife and kids. This was strange, as they had hitherto remained very quiet, particularly about the ditch I was now heading towards, and the icy-cold brook that was babbling along it. As I tumbled backwards I remember how appreciative I was that they had decided to offer these late warnings.
Thankfully, the fact that I am about as agile as an arthritic walrus meant that my gymnastics display stopped just short of a self-baptism in the wilds of Northumberland. Even worse, those few inches of water could have done for me – a point which will not be lost on Mrs Bogsey over the coming months, believe me. I’m sure a guide dog would never have let that happen to me.
Perhaps it was a reaction against my age, a vain attempt to prove that I’ve still got what it takes, that I can still mix it with the young guys. After all, it wasn’t a big slope, and I’d already sledged down a few tricky descents with nothing more serious than a bum-crack full of ice to show for it.
Of course, Newtonian laws of physics did play their part, and, being rather tall, I do have a somewhat higher centre of gravity than your average middle-aged dork. So, it was hardly surprising that, on reaching the bottom of the slope and raising my hands in readiness for a self-congratulatory salute, I began to topple backwards.
It was at this point that I began to hear cries from my onlooking wife and kids. This was strange, as they had hitherto remained very quiet, particularly about the ditch I was now heading towards, and the icy-cold brook that was babbling along it. As I tumbled backwards I remember how appreciative I was that they had decided to offer these late warnings.
Thankfully, the fact that I am about as agile as an arthritic walrus meant that my gymnastics display stopped just short of a self-baptism in the wilds of Northumberland. Even worse, those few inches of water could have done for me – a point which will not be lost on Mrs Bogsey over the coming months, believe me. I’m sure a guide dog would never have let that happen to me.
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