A lost memory, recalled...

It’s funny how childhood memories are remembered, when as a grown-up you look back to a time in your distant past: trying to recall specific instances and vague nuances, the mind can and does form stringed-together sequences that sometimes need an adult’s perspective to bridge the missing gaps. These ‘mental gymnastics’ can lead to a falsified recall and contribute to all kinds of health problems in later life if not analysed properly, from such extremes as being convinced you were molested as a child at the hands of a family member to believing you were abducted by Aliens and underwent medical examinations while you slept!

BT Infinity: promises, promises...

Just the other week, I bumped into a good mate of mine inside a local supermarket as we were perusing the fruit and veg’ aisles and he dropped a bombshell within the first couple of seconds of our meeting: he’d just signed a new 18 month contract with BT for their new “Infinity” broadband service. After my incredulity began to subside, he went on to explain that one of their technologically-lacking cretins had promised unlimited downloads instead of the ten gigabyte cap he was now limited by and a connection speed increase from an already healthy 6mbs to a pretty blistering 15mbs.

New MP3 player, new Top 10

My newly purchased 4GB MP3 player arrived this weekend to replace the old and knackered 512mb one I’ve been stuck with - yep, there are still some people who aren’t even up into the gigabyte arena in the year 2010 - and though my current player had a smashed LCD and had lost of its equaliser function, the poor neglected thing had served me well for the last two years. Through all weather, the miniature jukebox has played its little silicon heart out each day during my ten mile cycle to work and once I realised using rechargeable AAA batteries would save me a small fortune, its running costs have been virtually unnoticeable, much like its dangled weight around my neck.

Sirens, Buses and a wall of noise

Noise, I f**king hate it. Anything overtly loud really boils my blood and if there’s one thing that guarantees mental implosion, it’s a siren. Sirens - whether they are emitted from a Police car, ambulance or fire engine - are destroying my very existence in this farcical, reality facade we all have to dwell within, although my life is made immeasurably more depressing because I live in a first-floor flat ten yards adjacent to a main road. This means I’m continually bombarded by a cacophony of ear-splitting alarms at all hours, regardless of decorum or respect for the sleeping masses strung along the two mile stretch of Rochdale road that runs from my abode to the Royal Oldham hospital. Also, being placed just a couple of hundred yards away from a major four-way junction makes things even harder still, as all emergency vehicles blast out their warnings as they accelerate towards any potential blockage with their blue neon lights flashing and their electronic horns wailing, oblivious to all and sundry.

A slip of the tongue

Early one Sunday morning the other week, while out and about looking for some potential bargains on a car boot sale, I happened upon a three-way heated debate involving a husband and wife stallholder team and a prospective male buyer who’d somehow caused the growing vocal catalyst me and many others were now stood around listening to. The wife was short, fat and incensed, the husband was big, fat and incredulous and the poor bloke appeared humiliated, dazed and confused with all this unintended attention aimed at him and was defensively trying to calm the situation down.

Cycling vs Fate: in need of a new God?

Yet again, I’ve experienced the brunt of God, the Gods or whatever universal energy force may exist out in the nether regions of the ether, pissing on me from up on high and having a good old time laughing its/their balls off at my expense whilst the last drips land. This disruption usually occurs two or three times a year at specific months and after many years of scrutiny and realisation, I try to prepare as best I can for the coming onslaught of Fate’s dice-throw. As I’m still limited to travelling to work using the age-old transport method of the bicycle, this is usually the weakest link in my so-called life and it is most likely to be one of the contributing factors towards my tri-yearly stresses. So it comes as no surprise that this month’s boiling rage has arrived with a plumb and has been ushered in with yet another cycle-related extravaganza of pain and suffering for myself.

40 as a milestone? I'm lucky to have reached it!

On the 23rd of July 2010, I finally entered middle age as I turned 40 years old with the passing of the midnight hour; quite literally, as I entered this world on the clock’s ninth chime, an early morning start to an eventful, if unfulfilled, life. It has taken me a few weeks of coming to terms with this monumental arrival - as shown with the lack of blog input during this period of time - but now I’m back with an amalgamation of my wastrel life’s highs and lows. I have tried to recall some of the key yearly events for possible future dissection of my psychologically damaged brain-box, although limiting my choices was hard work: some years were packed with eventful examples, yet others standout with their lack of instances and there’s a couple I truly cannot recall anything memorable happening at all. So, here’s a single example for each year spread across the last 40 years.

Sky News creates new word: "Capains"

On Tuesday just before noon, as I watched Sky News with Colin Brazier, I noticed that one of their usually meticulous copy writers for the text input on the rotating "Breaking News" banner at the bottom of the screen had made a spelling Faux Pas. The mistake took the form of a misspelt word pertaining to the Ryder Cup vice-captain choices of Golfer Colin Montgomerie and I watched as its luminous yellow background blazed the shameful error onto my retinas every few seconds. So with a spring in my step, I rushed off for my camera to try to capture this unusual occurrence on my digital sensor before the powers that be discovered their blunder and removed it from the fluctuating short-term memories of a half-bored public.

Parcel Force? P*ssing Farce more like!

As I use differing ways of delivering parcels within my job as an eBay manager, I’m acutely aware of which are the best and the worse in the realm of consignment and postage. For the majority of my work-related items, I use a dependable, private courier service that is competitive, always collect on time and offers fair rates; prices do shoot up if any stretch of sea-water has to be crossed and a weekend delivery is non-existent, but all in all I'm happy.

Dreams of what lie beneath

Like most people, I occasionally have vivid and extraordinary dreams that once I’ve awakened from stay with me for days afterwards, dwelling in my consciousness for repeated dissection and scrutiny. Now whether Freud and Jung would be so interested in my ‘mind-doodles’ is debatable as neither religious iconography nor sexual deviancy is really prevalent within my skull at the best of times! So, in the hope of resolving the many psychoanalytical elements which have broke on through from my dreamscape world, I’ve decided to input my latest example into this blog: perhaps someone will feel an affinity with me due to being as obviously confused as I or maybe I’m opening up too much for experts to discover a deep-seated Oedipus complex I was never aware of. Either way, allow me now to take you on a journey into the latest delusional thought process of your author...