I’ve just got back from a holiday in Dorset (Lyme Regis to be specific). I feel pretty rested which is good becuase I’m starting a new job on monday.
On holiday I have, (In no particular order):
Walked along ‘The Jurrasic Coast’ (Britains best region for fossils)
Drank tea, otter ale, wine (red and white)
Got stuck in traffic on the M6
Eaten curry, pasties and lasagne
Walked up an ancient hill fort
Bought ‘Cronicles of Narnia’ top trumps
I’m very tired now so I might write more clearly about things later.
…Is the rather catchy name of the beer festival that takes place in the crypt of Liverpools catholic cathedral, which I attended on wednesday night. From my hazy recollections of the evening I would *STRONGLY* recommend Lindisfarne Mead if you ever get the chance (14.5%, ouch). It’s brewed by monks in Lindisfarne/Northumberland I think. They had a disappointing amount of Yorkshire beers but they did have some good local beers from liverpool, for example Cains raisin beer.
Well feb the 14th (otherwise known as valentines day) has crawled around again. Even if you’re in a functional relationship, the level of tat, stuffed toys and overly sentimental cards is enough to put you in an existential funk for several days.
Last year I managed to avoid most of this karmic fallout by working a bar populated almost entirely by miserable old men (with a few couples thrown in too), whilst Katie was in Oz 10,000 miles and 12hrs away.
I guess it’s the politics of the situation that I find most distressing. How much money do you spend (not a lot in my case as I recently lost my last temping job)? There is also a level of one-up-manship inherent in those massive outsized cards and toy bears, which is…. disturbing to say the least. It’s like an emotional cold war arms race, which can only end in disaster and synthetic fur. What exactly does one do with said bear afterward anyway? Don’t go down that route kids. If Hallmark have to tell you how to say "I love you" then your obviously some kind of emotional jellyfish caught in one of lifes rip-tides.
[REDACTED obviously apologies profusely to any of his readers who like soft toys and wishes them all the best]
My last blog entry got lost in cyberspace due to a library computer crash. Here it is again:
"Excuse me sir, is this a nunnery?"
Well, I made it to the party in the convent/nunnery (Apparently nunnery is the ye olde word for a convent, but to my mind it has conjured up images of a shrubbery with nuns planted in it at regular intervals).
The party was a bonding session for a charity that deals with supporting Asylum Seekers which Katie is/was involved with. I think this must make us eligble to wear the "Hated By The Daily Mail T Shirts" I head about recently in the Guardian.
Whilst I was there I took the opportunity to nose around a bit. To be honest I was expecting some surreal "Father Ted" scenario. For people who have taken a vow of poverty, the nuns seemed to have a pretty good stock of wine, crime fiction (and bizzarely) pirate CDs. However I was mildly disappointed to discover that the nuns no longer wear habits. I decided to do a little digging and find out what really makes nuns tick. Sister Kathleen told me that she had no peace until she made the decison to enter the order as did the other nun I spoke to (who's name I unfortunately forgot). Neither of them seemed to have any regrets about their choices and carried on with that steely eyed determination and warm hospitality that only older women are capable of. That and the apparent belief that to change the world all you really have to do is provide free cups of tea (or alcohol) to any stranger that crosses your threshold. I like old people. I like tea and alcohol too.