I’m now in my local, having watched Liverpool beat Arsenal 4-3. There’s a band playing in the room next door. Roxy Musique. Which is a bit weird, since my uncle Ed went to school in Washington with Mr Ferry.
My uncle Ed was a great bloke; wish I’d taken time to get to know him better.
Today, while escorting my second in command’s father to his train, I noticed something in Central Station.
I’ve read about these, but hadn’t seen them before today. Just a few years ago, this would have been unimaginable in Newcastle. Hell, I remember being regarded as different in my early days of vegetarianism seriously think that vegetarians/vegans will one day dominate the world. Naturally, anyone who resists will be fed to cats. And, speaking of which, I need to purchase a chair, a white long haired cat and a pair of black (faux) leather gloves.
Also in Central Station, on the same theme, was a shop.
Finally, while having a pre-second-in-command’s-dad-train Erdinger, I found that the Station Hotel is likely to reopen soon.
While only the facia has been retained, I’m looking forward to the reopening.
As part of a major battery replacement exercise, my 1992 swamp monster has now been revived.
Note that the eyes are alight on the second picture.
After repairing my swamp monster, we went to Centurion to see the Happy Cats with my mother and sister, and Sooze’s dad. And my niece and her other half.
I’m now in my local for a nightcap. All is good.
My father’s funeral is being (or, most likely, has been) held today. One of three siblings has attended; while not a million miles from my current location, I couldn’t bring myself to go.
I don’t feel any loss; a little sadness perhaps, but that relates more to the concept of a father than reality. I do still feel an element of relief too.
I probably won’t feel the need to mention my father again. One final message for him though, if he’s listening, Dad, you were a bit of a bastard, you know.
It’s truly been an emotional week. But, despite learning that my father was worse than I’d experienced or imagined, my week has ended on a high. I’ve re-established contact with family long (and wrongly) abandoned because they were related to my father. Sadly, many relevant people from my childhood have passed away, but there are people i’ve not yet met.
My uncle Leslie, who helped more than he knew when i was a kid, is at the back. My two sisters are seated.
Resolutions were made and will be kept.
For almost all of my life, whenever anyone has asked whether I have family, I’ve responded with something along the lines of my mother, sister and a couple of cousins. Of course, that wasn’t correct. I have, or rather had, a father. And a half sister. Along with the former comes a largely forgotten group of uncles, aunts and cousins.
My early childhood was hugely affected by my father’s (he was never a dad) behaviour. The massive financial ups and downs, the stories, lies and frequent absences, followed by an eventual disappearance one Christmas, resulted in my never wanting to see him again. That would’ve been when I was around nine.
I was, though, forced to seek him out at the age of 17 because I needed his signature on a piece of paper. The meeting, at his house, lasted only an hour and a half or so. It was very uncomfortable and I had to endure a lengthy stream of fatherly advice before the signature was secured. I shan’t go into more detail, other than to say that his parting words were an offer of his shoulder should I ever need it.
Neither of us attempted to make contact after that evening.
While I was in his house, I met my half sister; a little girl in a school uniform. I think I resented her at the time; she appeared to have the dad I’d not really known. Well, not since my very early childhood. It was a conscious decision never to see my father, or anyone connected with him, again.
A few years ago, my sister told me that she and my half sister were in touch with each other. She explained that my half sister was in the UK and asked if I wanted to meet her. I declined.
My sister later told me that my half sister was very nice and her life with our father had also been pretty miserable. The lies and irrational behaviour hadn’t ended when he left our lives.
A few days ago, I received a text message from my sister. My half sister had told her that our father had died. I did feel a little sad, but (and I’m not sure I can explain why) a little relieved. I came to the conclusion that my avoidance of my two sisters’ meeting four years ago hadn’t been my best decision and found her on Facebook (perhaps social media is of value after all).
Anyway, the outcome was that all three siblings met last night. I have two sisters who, despite a difficult childhood (and father), are very nice people.
Thunderbird is very slowly retrieving email from my BT account; I’m now up to 2011. It’s a pain, but progress is being made. In only 27 days I won’t exist in BT’s world. Which is probably not a bad thing.
Today, an average kind of Tuesday, has been my Friday. I have the rest of the week off; originally, to see Augustines tomorrow (technically tonight) night, but we decided to make a week of it.
We aim to meet people in Big Hands around 18:45, but our day will most likely begin in the Temple Bar several hours earlier. And then there’s the Castle; we need to fit that in at some point.
Augustines. Not Rufus Wainwright. So there shall be no cigarettes or chocolate produce. Well, my second in command has nicotine pills so that just leaves the chocolate. And, since, I’m now a vegan of 18 months, the chocolate shall be of the non-milk variety. Preferably chocolate stout.
Yesterday evening, after a particularly heavy week at work, I really needed a beer. Or two.
Fortunately, my second in command had noticed that the Happy Cats were playing in the Tuns. They were as good as usual, but I was left with a painful hangover this morning. A small example …
My second in command had to miss the second half of their set (work at five this morning), so there were other videos which may end up on Youtube.
Said videos were shown to my mother today; she may accompany us next time we see the band. My mother likes Lindisfarne stuff and they generally do a couple of theirs.
Today, my killer hangover was eased by some Russian Imperial Stout. At 10%, it’d cure (or kill) anything. But it was lovely. Jakehead may also have been involved this afternoon. And a pretty nice Almasty IPA.
I have a real problem with beer right now. I do like beer, but I don’t do fake beer (Fosters, Carling, John Smiths etc). It was primarily a fish bits thing, but I’ve found that I can no longer abide such products. Fishless beer is now becoming more commonplace, which presents me with something of a problem. I have greater access to fishless beer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with a growing range of unfined beer, but I’m now faced with an impressive choice in most decent bars.
Anyway, the stout was gorgeous.
On our way home, we stopped off at the castle (the actual castle, not a pub) to watch rats while waiting for a bus.
Unusually, though, there were no (visible) rodents. We assumed that the recent forwarding of clocks meant that, with dusk delayed, rats would still be lurking in the undergrowth. They may be disgusting creatures, but I guess they have to do what they do.
The door of my eldest daughter’s washing machine recently parted company from the machine itself. On inspection, I could see that the door was attached with two screws, through the hinge, directly into corresponding holes in the front of the casing. The screws were short and probably self tapping, since there was nothing obvious to receive them. I effected a temporary repair, using silicone, knowing it would only last a day. It lasted two.
When the door once more rejoined the floor, I took it home to drill larger holes in the hinge to accommodate more substantial screws. The new metal drill bits, purchased when fitting stove pipes, worked a treat, drilling through 3mm of hinge in seconds. The replacement, slightly larger, screws fitted the hinge perfectly too. When finished, I removed the drill bit I’d used and inserted the original masonry bit.
On the morning of the day I’d arranged to return with the newly drilled door, I picked up the bag of new screws from the kitchen table (from among the other packs of screws I’d been considering) when leaving for work. At the last minute, I also decided to take the drill in case larger screws were needed.
That evening, after work, I attempted to re-fit the door. Unfortunately, it transpired that I’d pocketed the wrong packet of screws. They were too small and wouldn’t bite. So there was a trip home to collect the correct packet. Which were also slightly too small.
I returned this evening with larger screws. Which wouldn’t fit the holes in the bracket. Fortunately, I’d left my drill at my daughter’s, so I was able to drill larger holes. Or at least attempt to. Regrettably, the masonry bit proved to be wholly ineffective. So, once more, I needed to return home to collect the appropriate drill bits.
To conclude, my repair was successful. The door appears to be firmly reattached. Since my second in command had acted as taxi driver on both occasions, she may not have been entirely pleased with my errors. It’s possibly no coincidence that, as a reward for successfully repairing the washing machine, I was allowed to watch the Liverpool – Manchester United game this evening.
My second in command’s average daily headwear. All of them.
