In which I write a sonnet to my happy life.
Life in Casa G is a little strange at the moment. The Feliciraptor is away and life all of a sudden seems very different, as though this is what it would be like if she wasn’t around all the time. Added to this I work in the centre of Birmingham so get to think about when I lived there as a bachelor. It is strange to think that my life could have quite easily have been very different.
After having a few painful failures at trying to make changes to my life I finally found the right combination of people and time to make a big difference. In my old life I would have been looking forward to a weekend playing Rock Band 4 by myself, instead I am going with my wife to London and looking forward to my daughter returning from holiday.
That’s a pretty good life to be thinking about.
Continue reading “Sonnet of life”
In which I start to turn the heat up
The weather in the UK is starting to turn and it is beginning to feel autumnal. Leaves are changing colour and back at the Castle Sum we are having that most awkward and divisive of conversations.
When are we going to start having the heating on.
It’s October so the date criteria has been met (it cannot go on any earlier) but is it just chilly or is it properly cold. Once the thermostat is set then that’s it until spring, so judging the right time is vital. For Mrs G that time is now.
Continue reading “It’s not getting hot in here”
In which I get poetical about my childhood snacks.
I became really excited about a packet of crisps (aka chips) in a local garage. They were stocking for a limited time Walkers Beef & Onion. These were my favourite flavour as a child until they were replaced by the more fashionable Steak & Onion. Like when Heinz added carrots to oxtail soup, it was too slight a change to be good.
Take all the reboots of children’s TV, the new versions are different enough that they don’t make you pine for the old version. If they had made one change it would have stirred the feelings for the old.
I guess in the end it is a question of taste. Some of the food I had as a child has either gone it is hard to find. Now there is so much choice that any flavour has a lifespan until it becomes unfashionable (looking at you Sweet Chilli).
Continue reading “Childhood : Um Bongo”
In which I sing about my home.
I have a notion that your neighbourhood is not where you live physically but where you live emotionally. I have moved around the UK but I still consider where I grew up and my family live to be home. Mrs G who has crossed the Atlantic seems to have the same feeling. She has now spent over 10% of her life in the UK but she is still resolutely a New Yorker.
The buildings and roads outside your door are just that, they are static objects with which we can imprint our feelings and memories and this is what creates that neighbourly feeling. But they are still buildings, it is the people who really make it.
Continue reading “The Ballad of being where”
In which I try to get up.
Mornings are hard, I have so much to do it can be a stretch to get out of bed. In my bachelor days all in had to achieve pre-work was getting dressed. Now I have a list of tasks to get done.
Despite having to get up earlier than ever I have the best reasons to do so. When I was single I was wondering what the purpose of working and making money was. Now I have those who I wake up to in my life it is clear why.
I do the morning because it is hard, but the rewards are great. It is the smile on their face that what I do gives us a good life, and a life worth that early morning alarm call.
Continue reading “Morning faces”
In which the humble train elicits an ode to it’s awfulness.
I start this standing on a cold platform just outside Coventry waiting with my fellow passengers for an already crowded train. In the proverbial choice I’m in the hard place.
For the past few days I’ve been able to work from the kitchen table while in keep an eye on a poorly Mrs G, the commute downstairs was stress bare but now I’m back to joining the hordes. I know this isn’t fun because I look up and can see ten faces and none of them are smiling.
Yet we all throw ourselves onto the 0714, and it is not devoid of moments of beauty.
Continue reading “Ode to British trains”
In which an old blogger called Geek…
One of my largest challenges with writing poetry is trying to make them sound good. My natural style is to just write and not review or edit. This means that normally my prose is not perfect and contravenes grammatical norms.
However this is because I live in a world where I beleive it better to have something rather than nothing. Nobody published the greatest novel by not writing a word, if you keep editing away at something until it is perfect but never release it to the wild it is no better than any random piece of nonsense.
Nature is not perfect, so neither should anything creative be. Some of the most valuable stamps in the world are those that have errors on, so a piece of work that is flawed also has value.
Continue reading “Perfectly bad limericks”
In which I try to get under my skin.
We all have our own personal identity, the way we wish to be perceived by the world. The way others react to this branding is up to them but we reach have some control over the message.
Just like big advertisers we can sit and build a fantastic campaign as to how we want to present ourselves but as soon as it printed on paper or placed on screen we are at the mercy of others. All you can do is be happy with the original concept.
For people that billboard is our skin, the barrier between inside and out, it is the first impression we give and our first line of defence against those reactions. We wear it every day for both smart and casual events. It should be something we can be comfortable in. Continue reading “Comfort of a good skin”
In which I have to go an buy presents.
I’m a gift giving Grinch. I don’t find present buying easy. I also don’t find gift receiving that great either. I have no idea what I want so how can I answer when people ask what I want for birthdays or Christmas?
I have decided on many occasions that it is much easier to give me money, and then I can take the stress of present buying off my relatives and buy whatever I want when I want it. For many years my Mum would provide me with her credit card details and I would go and order my gifts from Amazon. In return I would ask “what do you want” when it came round to the reciprocal moment, feeling this was a key part of the social contract of gift-giving I had entered.
Now I have two people in my life who have decided they want a surprise. So as it is The Feliciraptor’s birthday soon I have to decide what we are going to get her…after that it is only one month till Christmas.
Continue reading “The joy of giving”
In which I five, seven, five.
Of all the forms of writing I struggle most with poetry. I can be handed a book onnpoetry and be told “hey this stuff is amazing” and I’d have to take your word for it. I have the same problem with art, I have no concept of good or bad just what I like. And how do I know if my own taste is right?
As I cannot determine the merits of a piece of poetry I find it tricky to write it as well. The only rule I have is that it should rhyme because all the poems I read as a kid did. My poetry preference is rooted in the artistic sensibilities of an eight year old.
So for the next two weeks I am going to follow in the footsteps of Keats, Tennyson and Ayres. I’m going to write poetry, and I cannot promise it will be good. In fact I guarantee it won’t, I have a set of rules to write to and will be following them rather than doing it from the soul or gall bladder (wherever it is prose cones from). To begin…haiku’s.
Continue reading “Haiku in my hand”