"Gonna have to face it you're a dick-head..."

After a weekend in which I almost made my young nephew throw up by proudly showing him evidence that “my rolls of tummy fat are bigger than your dads”, and having been offered the use of my wife’s bra to hold my man-wahoolies, I figured it was time for a concerted effort at the gym.

Apart from burning a few calories, I often find it a good place to think about things. This morning I was thinking about whether to go to a school reunion later this year to meet up with a bunch of people I haven’t seen since 1985. In a bizarre twist of fate, I found myself mulling this over when I noticed that the CD playing in the gym was an 80s collection. A few seconds of The Housemartins’ ‘Happy Hour’ and I was transported back to the sweaty school hall disco – oh those heady days when we took real coke (none of this diet stuff), and only danced with members of the same sex. Lets’ face it, there was little point in trying to tap off with a girl after 3 packets of pickled onion Monster Munch.

Then came Tears For Fears – “Everybody wants to..” be as fit as the good looking one, but most of us turned out like the ugly one. Thing is, if I do go, I won’t have a clue what people have turned out like. If they politely say “oh, you’ve hardly changed” I’ll know they’re lying but won’t really be able to get away with returning the compliment. “You’ve lost a lot of facial features” probably wouldn’t go down very well.

Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” brought me back to reality. I’ve never been working out when that record has been playing before and I have to say it made me feel a bit of a wahooly. I don’t know about Rocky, but I did feel a bit unsteady when I got off the exercise bike.

It was a relief when this was followed by Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love”. For a moment, as I pounded the treadmill, I have to admit to indulging in a little fantasy whereby all the sweaty porkers in the gym turned out to be 6ft stunners and stopped exercising, picked up guitars, and in a Dennis Potteresque moment, danced around me.

Feeling my breathing getting a little stronger than it should have been, I didn’t follow this fantasy through to its rightful conclusion and was glad when Big Country’s “In a Big Country” came on. One of my favourite bands at school, but it also reminded me that this is a big country and I now live at the opposite end of it from where the reunion is taking place. 350 miles is a long way to go to satisfy your curiosity.

Get Your Tickets for Dogs Dinner 2

I notice from reading other blogs that some of them are nothing more than glorified advertisements, selling all sorts of products and services under the guise of a blog.

Personally, I find this quite outrageous. I mean, let's say, for example, I was organising a charity fundraising ball on 14 November 2008 at the Holiday Inn, Seaton Burn, there's no way I'd use my blog as a cheap way of advertising this fantastic event. Even if it is for Guide Dogs, and even if it does promise to be a brilliant night out, with a 3-course dinner, live band and disco until 1am. I just wouldn't stoop so low. Other, less worthy sites will even blatantly try to sell their wares by saying things like "Tickets are £35, tables seat 8 and you can get your tickets by emailing bogsey@talktalk.net" I don't know how they have the front.

Are You Talking To Me?

If someone approaches you and says “hello” then my guess is, like me, you instinctively say “hello” back to them, even if you don’t know them. “And what’s wrong with that?” I hear you ask. Well, nothing, except that the increased use of mobile phones means that I now regularly say “hello” to people who, quite sensibly, have no intention of speaking to me at all. Maybe in the ‘80s, when mobiles were the size of house bricks, I might have stood a chance. Now, someone walks past me with a friendly “Hi mate” and, so as not to be rude, I quickly reply “Hi”, by which time they’ve walked past and I hear them continue their conversation, which probably goes something like, “Hang on, mate, some nutter is trying to talk to me.” Rather like when you trip on a loose paving stone and do a little jog, as if it’s going to hide the fact, I find myself needing to do the same thing, creating a little song like – “Hiyaa..ya..ya..la..la..la”.

Another thing I’ve noticed more recently that can catch me out if I’m not careful are those little notices that shops put outside – I think they’re called ‘A-boards’ – presumably the A stands for accident. Worse, a new supermarket on my local High Street, put out huge great signs. They’re certainly more visible than the usual ones, but they take a bit of getting around. I wonder why they don’t go the whole hog and just build a brick wall across the pavement, with a big arrow painted on it directing people into the shop.

While I’m being a grumpy old git, there’s one more thing I noticed the other day that is a potential disaster zone. I was happily walking through the main pedestrian street in my local city centre, when I realised the way was almost entirely blocked by one of these pavement cafes that seem to be springing up everywhere. God knows why people want to sit out in near arctic conditions – mainly smokers I guess – but they are at serious risk of ending up being splatted with latte or finding their cappuccino in their lappuccino. If I’m not concentrating, I could just plough into one of these cafes and really run a mocha.

I just hope that next time I go that way, I don’t inadvertently head into it having tripped on an A-board when I was distracted by someone on a mobile saying hello to me.

"I am the muffin man, and I come fromround your way"

From my experience, there are two main risks for the visually-impaired shopper – risks that can turn retail therapy into retail trauma. I have to preface this by admitting that, in common with many blokes, it’s not exactly my favourite pastime in any case. Being lured into a trip into town normally requires a large carrot, or more precisely, piece of carrot cake and large cappuccino. Once you can’t see what it is you’re trying to buy, the coffee shop becomes even more important.

Supermarkets are particularly dangerous places. The sheer size of them and range of goods on offer makes it just about impossible to find what I need quickly and without a fuss. I’m now resigned to the fact that I need to ask for assistance which, although invaluable, is by no means free of danger. Usually, I am assigned some poor shop assistant who spends most of their waking time sat at the tills. So the opportunity to help me around the shop is not one to be wasted. “Are you sure that’s all you need?” “Yes, thanks.” “Do you not need any milk?” “No.” “What about bread, do you need bread?” “No.” and so on. That’s after I’ve done their induction training for them, explaining the general direction of where things are in the store. That’s after I’ve explained why I want guacamole and chillis. That’s after I’ve explained what guacamole is. That’s after I’ve explained what I can or cannot see. That’s after I’ve explained where the dog has gone. That’s after I’ve explained that no, I don’t need a trolley and that a basket will do. That’s after I’ve explained why I’ve not been in for a while. That’s all before I decide that I won’t be in again for a while.

Experiences like this make internet shopping an attractive option, but this too can be problematic. I remember the time when I earned the name “Muffin Man” after a slip of the finger on my supermarket order went un-noticed. Having thought I had ordered two packets of 4 chocolate chip muffins (in place of the coffee shop stop, you see) it was with some disbelief that I set about unpacking the 22 packets I had ordered. It was at this point that a new local event was created. The Great North Bun-Run involved sending the kids running to friends and neighbours with offerings of muffins. Next door even got theirs posted through the letterbox. Funnily enough, I’ve not ordered any since.

Watch Your Back, Washy!

Learning Braille has been both a fascinating and frustrating experience. It has been a test of my memory, sensitivity and patience, made worse by the adventures of ‘Washy’. Washy is a cute wee doggy, around which all my Braille reading exercises are based. Unfortunately, he has become the focus for my frustration and one day, when I feel confident in writing it in perfect grade 2 Braille; I will write a fitting story about the little mongrel that will bring his chirpy tail-wagging to an end once and for all.

I decided to take the plunge into this weird and somewhat archaic language as I think it will give me another option in terms of communication. As anyone with a sensory impairment will tell you, communication is everything – I think the equation goes something like

Communication = information = knowledge + understanding = power + independence = self-esteem.

But, hey, I’m no psychologist. I do know that I’m getting increasingly fed up of squinting at screens trying to read ever bigger, brighter, higher-contrast letters. The words ‘dead horse’ and ‘flogging’ could be appropriately used, so I decided to invest in learning to use some nerve endings that aren’t, to use a technical term, knackered.

I’ve already fallen into the trap of referring to Braille as a ‘language’. Of course, it is not. Using Braille, I’m still reading and writing in English (or as near to it as I have ever managed). Braille is simply – no, not simply - a different way of representing that language – a different font if you like. Grade 1 Braille is pretty much a straightforward codification of our alphabet, so one letter of text is represented by one Braille character. A Braille character is a combination of one or more dots in a Braille cell of 6 dots, arranged like the 6 on a die.

Grade 2 Braille is where it gets really clever. Different Braille characters, or the same characters in different positions, are used to represent groups of letters, or even whole words. So, it’s not so different to the modern-day texting, if u knw wht I mean. But actually it’s much better, because it has very strict rules which leave no room for doubt as to what has been written, and some of the abbreviations can really shorten what needs to be written or read. Take the following sentence in normal text:

People have little knowledge and questionable understanding.

By my count, this has 53 text characters. In grade 2 Braille, it can be written in 15 characters. Not bad, eh? Admittedly, there aren’t many sentences that can be shortened this much, but it demonstrates how efficient Braille can be, which is just as well, because hard copy Braille is very bulky.

Having taken ownership this week of a new electronic Braille notepad, I felt very smug demonstrating my newly-acquired skills. Until, that was, my 12-year old daughter picked it up and showed that, just from helping me with my homework, she has almost learned grade 1 Braille without even trying. How annoying is that?

Beware, Penguin Crossing!

I’ve had enough of revealing parts of my somewhat chequered past. My retro has been well and truly spected and I have something important to tell you about an event that is yet to happen. No, I am no more insane than usual, and I have not started reading palms or tarot cards – I have trouble seeing the present, let alone the future! However, I can be fairly sure that this will happen one day, I’m just not sure when.

I will be making my way to work, or maybe home from work. My mind will be busy contemplating the usual fundamental questions of life, like why women like cushions so much. I will wait dutifully at the ‘penguin’ crossing – apparently that’s what they call the new low-level ones that are obviously much better for wheelchair users. I might amuse myself while I am waiting by wondering if my regular stooping to press the button at ‘penguin crossings’ will aggravate my lower back problem and eventually put me in a wheelchair.

Then, the sound of bleeping will tell my brain that it’s safe to cross. My brain, which I have been training for years to be wary of such claims, will be lazy and trusting. It may have been reassured by the sound of slowing car engines. I may even have managed a cursory glance at the traffic before stepping out into the road.

Of course, I will not have seen the cyclist, approaching fast towards the crossing. I won’t have heard the quiet fizz of the bike’s tyres against the road. Of course, he, and I’m pretty sure it will be a he, won’t use a bell, even if he has one. People don’t nowadays, and anyway, he won’t have time.

Then, just before our worlds collide, we’ll become conscious of each other. It will be too late to do anything about it. I might start to shout, but no sound will come out. Then, we will briefly become one mass of tangled limbs, steel and rubber. I’m not sure exactly where I’ll take the brunt of the impact, but I’m glad I’ve had all the children I want.

It will take several weeks, possibly months to recover physically. He will be saved from serious damage by his crash helmet and the cushioning effect of my spleen. Once my nerve damage has settled down and scars are healed, I’ll be back to normal, almost. I’ll joke about it with my friends. I might even write about it on my blog.

Rich Pickings

Apparently, it has been noted by a reader of this blog that dog poop seems to make a regular occurrence. At least, I think that was the comment and not “it’s a load of dog poop”.

Should I worry about this? Is canine crap cause for concern? Hopefully not – after all, it’s only one person’s view. Having said that, he may represent 100% of my readership, so perhaps I should come clean about the dirt, and explain why doggy-do-do’s may have seeped deep into the recesses of my psyche, if that’s not too disgusting a metaphor.

The more plausible explanation relates to living with a dog with a dicky tummy for several years. Glen, my first guide dog, found his job quite exciting and this set his juices flowing. So, ten minutes into any walk we’d have to stop to ‘spend’ – a delightful euphemism you learn during guide dog training. So, I suppose Glen was a big spender, and boy, could he spend a few pounds in one go. That wasn’t too bad when he’d spend a nice lump sum – something to keep my hands warm on a cold winter’s morning. But if his tummy wasn’t quite right, he had a tendency to spend a lot of loose change.

A more traumatic reason for being apparently so full of the sticky stuff, happened when I was still at University, many years ago now, but the memory is still painfully clear to me. I was on my way to a special family meal at my girlfriend’s house. Keen to make a good impression with her parents, as I approached their house I remembered that, just the previous day, another visitor had unwittingly trodden dog dirt through the house. So, striding past the front garden, I take the precautionary step of checking the soles of my shoes. Precautionary or not, it was the last step I took, as a ring on my finger became attached to a buckle on my boot. With my girlfriend and her father looking out from the lounge window, I disappeared in an instant as I crashed to the ground behind the garden wall. Helped to my feet, I then entered the house dripping blood, but hey, at least no dog muck!

Surprisingly, they eventually allowed me to marry their daughter. So, at least I have someone special to share all this crap with.