France.

On Sunday I will be leaving to go to Caen, not for asome booze crooze, or otherwise palatable endeavor, but rather to do somebody else's stock take for them because they can't count.

Really.

Why be allowed to look after any warehouse (even if it consists of your own garage) if you can't count?

So Sunday, 23:15 I will be on the ferry to Caen (as opposed to the train to Calais which I booked first because I'm stupid), and I will return on Monday sometime around 22:00 ish.

Oh well, at least I've got the weekend beforehand to try my hand at Geographing

Monday.

Pfft. Close enough. Oh, and Andy was right, as always, so I'll stop that.

Pink.

Right... how do you go about enjoying pink?

In my case at least the first thing I did when I arrived at work was change my desktop to the aforementioned colour, and sat back, just taking it all in. I wasn't entirely sure that it was enjoyable at this point, to be honest. It was, well, just pink.

Something else was needed. At lunch time I ran to the shops as fast as my little legs would carry me, straight to Burtons, the menswear* shop. The shop was a fine example of a young male persons ideal store, with plenty of shirts, shoes, trousers, pants, socks and a couple of ties stuffed into the corner somewhere toward the back. Fortunately for me, they were stocking a rather fetching pink number, and I purchased one for immediate usage. Once outside, I replaced my rather dull grey tie for the much more vibrant pink one, preparing my answers for the inevitable "that's not the tie you came in with" comments.

Suddenly I felt a little more cheerful than I had previously - perhaps this pink thing does work afterall.

Being Ween's birthday tomorrow, I decided to share the joy of pink with her. The next shop down the street being Clinton Cards, I entered and hunted out the pinkest birthday card I could find. Sadly, it was titled "to the greatest nan ever" so I had to make do with second best, but even that was pretty pink.

I'm a lazy arse, and so I forewent purchasing pink wrapping paper for her presents, and just got a pink sparkly bag instead. The day isn't quite over yet, but I must say I am rather enjoying this pink lark. It's kinda fun.

Now... onto the important dice matters of the day. Since you've all been bleedin' useless and failed to come up with any suggestions whatsoever, I'll have to make one up meself. I'm expecting some stirling ideas for tomorrow from you lot to make up for this. Seeing as I've got a stinker of a migraine, I'm going to be even more lazy than usual, and just copy the one I did yesterday, since that was so much fun.

*rolls dice*

A 3! Currently the third favourite thing is The Picture of Dorian Gray which I've previously completed. Sadly, I didn't stipulate this in my challenge doctrine, so I guess I'll have to enjoy it all over again. I'll try and prevent this outcome again in the future.

Oh, and nobody noticed the change of tie. Useless, the lot of them.

The Dice Man will return on Monday

* And we do, especially if you kick us right.

The Dice Man Returneth.

Some time ago, a wise and very, um, wise, young man embarked upon a Grand Experiment to live a portion of his life by the die. Or dice. *

He failed.

I intend ** to pick up where he left off, trusting one decision a day to the will of the dice. It gives me something at least marginally interesting to blog about, y'see.

I'm also going to let the dice pick challenges for me. The first of which will be through the Favourite Things. I threw an 11, and at the time of writing this, the eleventh thing is Pink. An intriguing choice the dice have made, but made it they have, and so tomorrow I will follow up on that decision, and report back promptly.

I'm open to suggestions for challenges to be laid down before the dice - suggest away in the comments. Somewhat not-at-all-equally, I might consider suggestions for which decisions to let the dice take for me. Emphasis on might.

Dilemma One: Enjoy "Pink".


* OK, it was me all along.

** I know I'll fail again, but it's just a laff, innit.

Murder.

Last night was spent in the very fine company of my fiancee, her uncle (Lord Hogg), a fine an upstanding American, his companion (a Nun who had joined him on several Safaris) and a French maid. And a jolly good time would have been had by all, except for one rather pertinent factor.

Lord Hogg's butler was murdered.

We were rather fortunate I suppose, as the most eminent of private detectives, Shylock McClue, was also present. We discussed and debated this, the most shocking of crimes, over a rather luvverly slapup Chinese takeaway.

Throughout the course of the evening it transpired that I had not only some fairly serious gambling debts, but had also been doing a bit of pocket picking as well. The Nun was not what she seemed either, as she had been, um, faking it all along (much to the American's surprise) and the French maid had been having an affair with the deceased (prior to his death, of course). The most shocking of all was the revelation that Lord Hogg had a an absolute hatred for all of his servants, and had so far topped four of them over the years.

Needless to say, it was my dear fiancee who shot the poor butler (at my behest) although it was the goodly non-nun that put him out of his misery. The American had forged a suicide note hoping to claim his insubstantial worldly belongings. The French maid had attempted to kill her former lover with arsenic, while her uncle had attempted to knock him off his lifely pedestal using Rasputin's Revenge - usually a most potent poison, but in the right situation can also act as a rather effective antidote to arsenic.

Shortly after, Shylock escorted us all to Scotland Yard where we were undoubtedly locked up by a careless guard who immediately threw away the key.

And it's all true.

Fool.

Some years ago I had a problem. To me, this was quite a serious problem, but really in the grand scheme of things it was trivial issue, and most definately not life threatening. It involved public spaces, other people, and the consumption of foodstuffs.

More often than not, and with people I didn't know, or knew very well, there was nothing to worry about. I could eat as much as I felt I needed to with no problem whatsoever. But in uncontrollable or new situations I felt pangs of anxiety. In short, I usually had to run to the loo to be sick, and after which I could continue quite happily.

Obviously things could not continue along the same channel, and I set out to purchase a self help book. I came across Dale Carnegie's How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. I recommend it to anyone - I really do. It's sensible, straight forward and doesn't offer any quick fixes.

And it worked. Today I am mostly anxiety free. Of course, I still have the odd pangs, but nowere near as bad as I used to.

But at the same time as buying this book, I also bought How to win friends and influence people by the same author. You've all heard of it. You've all derided it as well.

Buy it. It's great.

But admission time - I've ignored most of the advice, and largely to my peril. Over recent days I've noticed myself being far too self reverential, not caring for others interests beyond the impact that they might have upon my own. Of course, this is human nature - we are all interested in ourselves. Perhaps that's why we each get drawn back to writing these blogs.

How do I counter this failing? I don't know - even as I commit the offence, I know that I'm doing it. I don't leave messages on blogs that I've enjoyed. I don't ask with genuine interest how the colleagues previous evening went. I don't care.

I try to compensate by doing random acts of kindness occasionally, but I guess I don't really make the pot of tea as often as I could. I don't smile as often as I could. I don't laugh as often as I could at others' jokes (even when they're shite).

So as I embark on my next trip to Norwich, and unable to blog for a short while, I take this opportunity to consider my lot in life. I'm not as unlucky as I sometimes think I am. I am not as poor, not as ill, not as stupid. But even though I can feel pretty good about myself, how do those around me feel?

His name is Robert Paulsen.

The reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

As you will all no doubt now be aware (if you hadn't been advised beforehand) the previous blog was fiction. I'm not called Ed, my partner hasn't left, and I'm most certainly not about to finish myself off. However, to those of you who left those heartfelt messages when I had so maliciously deceived my loyal readers, bless you.

Just to quickly cover a few of the more important questions raised:-

If it wasn't fiction the author would now be dead (or would possibly have just taken the last of a particularly effective headache cure).

The loo scene is set mid-wipe.

Parts of the story are true, I'll let you figure out what.

"She" did have a name. It was Carla.

And that just about covers that, I think. Now go out and make somebody happy.

Coming Home

Being away from each other for so long (and so often) would put pressure on any relationship, not to mention ours. That said, we had managed to stay together for almost six years and not had any real problems. Not until now, anyway.

She had been threatening to leave for a few months, though I never believed that she would. By the next time that I had to go to Norwich we hadn't held a conversation with each other for almost a week. It seemed as though we were coexisting in within the house, nothing more.

I told her she was welcome to join me. I wanted her to join me, I truly did, but she wouldn't have any of it. Even though she hated being alone, I knew she hated pulling up her roots even more, even if it were only temporarily.

When I came home, I hadn't seen her for nearly a month. The front door was locked, although that didn't really surprise me, as I was early. She wasn't expecting me for at least a few more days. I fumbled through my collection of keys for the right one, unlocked the door and stepped inside the house. I was still expecting forgiveness - she had told me on the phone that she wasn't ready to leave just yet either.

But she wasn't there. All that waited for me was the letter she had written on the kitchen table.

Of all the places to meet my true love, I had met her in a bathroom. We were both at a mutual friend's party, when she barged in unannounced - the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Of course, there was I, with my trousers round my ankles and a wad of toilet paper in my left hand.

I'm fairly confident that she had seen more pleasant things in her time, but the encounter must have worked its magic and within a few days we began to see each other. A few short weeks later, I moved in with her.

Times were not easy though, for either of us. Almost immediately after I settled into our home, she became ill. I knew that I wouldn't care for her as much as I liked, and sometimes it seemed as if she wanted a little more space from me. I took as many breaks from work as I could, but whenever I came home it wasn't long before she insisted that she wanted me to go back to work again. I felt as though I was pulling her down, pushing her further into her depression, and in retrospect I think I was. With time, however, and plenty of attention, she seemed to get better.

The wedding was a quiet affair, and a surprise just as she had always wanted. I stole her away in the middle of the night to a small church village in Derbyshire. There were few witnesses and not even our parents were present. I knew that hers in particular didn't approve of me. It's strange how these things move so quickly - I had barely known her a year, and yet there we were, the happy couple getting hitched.

Life ran smoothly for some time after that. I traveled the country with my job, but never really managed to meet anyone. I suppose that's why I always missed her so much when I was away.

I was away for longer and longer periods, sometimes over several months, but for me that made seeing her even more special. This last time though, was to be one of my shorter trips.

The argument that we had, the one that stopped us from talking seems so silly now - she had locked me out of the house after upgrading the door locks while I had been away.

Half an hour after returning home, I was still standing, staring at the letter on the kitchen table. The name and address had been printed rather than hand written. My full name had been used, rather than Ed, as most people knew me. It all seemed to formal. The only thing missing was a stamp.

She had never called me Ed.

This was her letter.

The realisation that she had left beat around inside my head, the words drilling like a woodpecker's beak on tree bark, while I stood silently reading the page over, and over, and over.

I reached into the cupboard above the tins of tea and sugar, and took out a small plastic pot. My shaking hands found it difficult to open it, but eventually I managed. I washed the entire contents down with a glass of remarkably clear tap water.

I had made my decision. Now it was my turn to leave, just as she had left me.

Whoops

I've broken blogger.

Green.

I really must stop doing these now . If the burden of blame must fall at anyone's feet, they say we should each take responsibility. In this case, however, I blame Paul.

Though mighty pleased I am with this.



:: how jedi are you? ::

In other news I have been in a rotten mood all day, so apologies to each and anyone I may have offended. If I haven't offended you today, don't worry, there'll be time.