You, dear reader, being the attentive and intelligent person you undoubtedly are, will have formed a mental image of me as you've read my musings and mutterings.
I have no way of knowing whether you find me boring or interesting; what I look like in your minds eye (you might have seen pictures of me from time to time on this blog of course); whether your mental image is anywhere near how I wish to be percieved, etc.
Let me add something to the jigsaw and say that I'm not a mechanically apt person. My middle name isn't "dexterity".
"Dexterity" by the way, derives from "Right Handed".
So in the strict sense of the word, I am far from Dextrous. I am in fact, Sinister.
Muhahahahahaha!
I am also cack handed. Both in the sense of being left handed, and in the sense of being clumsy.
Or so I've always been told.
"It was a Naccident" was a catchphrase my Dad invented for me. It kind of took the joy out of getting a junior toolkit for christmas.
No matter. I have other skills. I'm perfectly dextrous (with either hand) if you give me a steering wheel.
This week though, I've fixed a car.
You heard me right. I've taken a car that had a fault, and done what was required to make the fault go away. I can't take the credit for diagnosing the fault. That has to go to Bren. She reckoned that the HT leads were the problem. The HT leads take electrical energy from the battery, and feed it to the spark plugs, via something called a distributor - the sparks have to happen in a certain order to make the engine turn the crank)
First part of sorting out this problem was to get off my arse and buy the appropriate make and model HT leads from ebay. When we got around to trying to exchange them, we found that although the connections between the spark plugs and the distributor cap were sound, where the lead from the battery went into the distributer cap both male and female connections had completely corroded. Instead of shiny coppery metal, we had green copper oxide dust. It was remarkable that the car would run at all really, but it was only in damp conditions that it would fail to start.
So I then had to buy a distributor cap. And then I had to fit it. It was fitted over the distributor by two screws. The top screw came out relatively simply with a flathead screwdriver, but the awkwardly placed bottom screw resisted repeated attempts with a variety of flathead, and phillips screwdrivers. Then, looking at the screw I had got out, I noticed that the screwhead was not round but hexagonal. Bingo! I brought pliers, adjustable spanners, and a small mole grip to bear, but still, the screw refused to budge.
So I took the screw inside the house and asked Bren if we had a socket that would fit over it. She dug out the small sockets, and I found one that fitted snugly over the screwhead. Having found the right tool, the stubborn screw offered little resistance, and I was able to remove the old distributor head, replace it with the new one, and correctly put the leads back in the right order, having thoughtfully made a note of their positions prior to removing the old ones.
Now I'm sure that anyone reading this with any aptitude for fixing stuff reads this, they'll be saying, "huh? Big Deal. It's a piss easy job." But I'm pleased with both what I achieved, and how I went about achieving it.
Something else I set my mind to has also borne fruit.
As we were returning from one of the furniture runs I wrote about earlier, I got a text message. This was an enquiry from my website contact form. As it happens, I didn't have my diary with me, and it was getting late so rather than phone the enquirer, I emailed her when I got home.
She called today and I will be giving her son a driving lesson tomorrow. She's talking about doing an intensive course with me, which mean's he's potentially worth several hundred pounds of business to me, which makes the 10p the enquiry cost me, and even the £10 or so I invested overall seem like very small beer.
Good times within the greater gloom. Still smelling smoke. Tired out and bedbound. That's all for today.
driving lessons in Wallasey?
Showing posts with label about me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label about me. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Monday, 5 December 2011
Doing the business...
The daily deal format is pretty new. Here's how it works.
A merchant contacts the daily deal website, and offers a substantial discount to their subscribers.
Interested subscribers buy vouchers representing the deal. They give their money to the daily deal website.
The website then gives some of that money to the merchant.
So the subscriber gets a product or service at a knock down price. The website take a big chunk of the money given by the subscriber. The merchant gets business.
Today, my driving school has been the focus of Wirral deals on the Living Social website.
Instead of the usual £20 per hour, Living Social subscribers are being offered 3 hours for £19. Of that, Living Social take about £9+VAT, so I actually get about £8.50 per voucher. Less than £3 per hour, but of course, some of those subscribers will go on to take proper full price lessons.
So how well is it being taken up?
It's exceeded my expectations by quite a long way. Getting the deal up in the first week of December was a huge bonus of course. These vouchers are the perfect christmas gift to give a teenager, and about twenty quid is a pretty typical amount for people to want to spend on nephews or grandkids or whatever.
So far, 20 people have bought vouchers. If all of them went on to take a full course with me, and they were all absolute beginners, and they rook the average 43 hours to get through their tests, that would be 20 people x 40 hours (43 minus the 3 cheap ones) x 20 quid. That's £16,000!
That's not going to happen of course. And that £16,000 is income, not profit, but still, this looks like it's going to have been a really good way of getting business. Certainly better than giving some arrogant parasite £130 a week. So far, Living Social will have made somewhere around £200 from me, but it looks like I'm going to hit the ground running in the new year.
Some of those subscribers (21 of them now) will already have had lessons. Some will be just going from cheap deal to cheap deal, regardless of how well they've been taught. Some may not redeem their vouchers, or may not like me or my methods. We can't all be born with taste after all!
I will probably do this again sometime next year.
Optimistic for a change!
The deal page has also been driving traffic (excuse the pun) to my website.
driving lessons in Wallasey?
Update: With around five and a half hours to go, I'm now up to 30 vouchers. 90 hours work, for £262, and the potential to bring in as much as £24,000. I have access to a list of purchasers and a bit of demographic info. 78% of purchasers have been female. Over three quarters of payments were made via computer. 10% was by Iphone. Quite a lot of them have been bought as gifts. One person has bought three vouchers, each gifted to a different person. Merry Christmas to them!
Might even be able to get the roof mended some time in the spring.
Further update: 7 dec 2011...
Living social are extending my promotion by another 72 hours - a second chance thing. not as the headline promotion, but further down the page.
So, it won't be generating customers at the same high frequency. Apart from it being less high profile, those interested in driving lessons will presumably have already seem this offer and acted on it. Still, 3 more days of it, and all the stuff about ideal gifts still being true, I could potentially double the 32 vouchers sold.
I hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew.
A merchant contacts the daily deal website, and offers a substantial discount to their subscribers.
Interested subscribers buy vouchers representing the deal. They give their money to the daily deal website.
The website then gives some of that money to the merchant.
So the subscriber gets a product or service at a knock down price. The website take a big chunk of the money given by the subscriber. The merchant gets business.
Today, my driving school has been the focus of Wirral deals on the Living Social website.
Instead of the usual £20 per hour, Living Social subscribers are being offered 3 hours for £19. Of that, Living Social take about £9+VAT, so I actually get about £8.50 per voucher. Less than £3 per hour, but of course, some of those subscribers will go on to take proper full price lessons.
So how well is it being taken up?
It's exceeded my expectations by quite a long way. Getting the deal up in the first week of December was a huge bonus of course. These vouchers are the perfect christmas gift to give a teenager, and about twenty quid is a pretty typical amount for people to want to spend on nephews or grandkids or whatever.
So far, 20 people have bought vouchers. If all of them went on to take a full course with me, and they were all absolute beginners, and they rook the average 43 hours to get through their tests, that would be 20 people x 40 hours (43 minus the 3 cheap ones) x 20 quid. That's £16,000!
That's not going to happen of course. And that £16,000 is income, not profit, but still, this looks like it's going to have been a really good way of getting business. Certainly better than giving some arrogant parasite £130 a week. So far, Living Social will have made somewhere around £200 from me, but it looks like I'm going to hit the ground running in the new year.
Some of those subscribers (21 of them now) will already have had lessons. Some will be just going from cheap deal to cheap deal, regardless of how well they've been taught. Some may not redeem their vouchers, or may not like me or my methods. We can't all be born with taste after all!
I will probably do this again sometime next year.
Optimistic for a change!
The deal page has also been driving traffic (excuse the pun) to my website.
driving lessons in Wallasey?
Update: With around five and a half hours to go, I'm now up to 30 vouchers. 90 hours work, for £262, and the potential to bring in as much as £24,000. I have access to a list of purchasers and a bit of demographic info. 78% of purchasers have been female. Over three quarters of payments were made via computer. 10% was by Iphone. Quite a lot of them have been bought as gifts. One person has bought three vouchers, each gifted to a different person. Merry Christmas to them!
Might even be able to get the roof mended some time in the spring.
Further update: 7 dec 2011...
Living social are extending my promotion by another 72 hours - a second chance thing. not as the headline promotion, but further down the page.
So, it won't be generating customers at the same high frequency. Apart from it being less high profile, those interested in driving lessons will presumably have already seem this offer and acted on it. Still, 3 more days of it, and all the stuff about ideal gifts still being true, I could potentially double the 32 vouchers sold.
I hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Incinerator!
I was in a band when I was in my mid teens.
When I say "band", I mean me and a couple of mates in someone's garage, making a bloody racket and pretending to be rockstars.
We were called Incinerator, and we got the name, not because of some nihilistic graagghhh-metal doomslayery fuck-the-world-ness, but because Peter, who's garage we practiced in, had one in his back garden for burning garden waste.
We were truly awful. Cringingly bad. We somehow didn't realise this at the time, and harboured secret hopes of playing Knebworth.
I used to have a couple of fragments of us on an old TDK D90, but alas! It is no more. It would have been an exercise in self-flagellation to post any of it here.
driving lessons in Wallasey?
When I say "band", I mean me and a couple of mates in someone's garage, making a bloody racket and pretending to be rockstars.
We were called Incinerator, and we got the name, not because of some nihilistic graagghhh-metal doomslayery fuck-the-world-ness, but because Peter, who's garage we practiced in, had one in his back garden for burning garden waste.
We were truly awful. Cringingly bad. We somehow didn't realise this at the time, and harboured secret hopes of playing Knebworth.
I used to have a couple of fragments of us on an old TDK D90, but alas! It is no more. It would have been an exercise in self-flagellation to post any of it here.
driving lessons in Wallasey?
Monday, 29 August 2011
Ah, you're drunk, you're drunk, you silly old fool...
I'm not drunk, but I am drinking. I have 3 bottles of lager with a total volume of about 2 litres, and an alcohol content of about 5%. A total of 10 units. I'm just finishing the first bottle now.
As to why I'm doing this, I'm not sure I can say.
Please note, "I'm not sure I can say" is not the same as "I don't know".
This isn't about dishonesty or being deliberately obtuse. It's something more complicated.
Take the recent post I did about story arcs on television. It contains the following statement:
I'd spent some time prior to my ride watching the telly - A film called The Runaway Bride, starring Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. It was a perfectly watchable tale, and it was obvious right from the start that Gere was the hero, Roberts was the heroine, and the climax of the film would be that they finally got together and lived happily ever after. Plotting a graph for it on Vonnegut's G-I axis would be simple enough. It's actually the emotional side of things that I'm not comfortable with.
Stories manipulate emotions. They make you laugh and cry and love and hate. The good ones do anyway.
So when I say, "I don't do television" what I'm really saying is "I don't do emotion".
The most insightful of the counsellors and mental health experts I've encountered have been aware of this. Only once, and then only briefly, one of them broke throught the walls I've built and made me cry. I love and respect her for doing it. Another explained to me that "You've lost touch with your emotions".
Why the walls exist, I can't say (see earlier statement)
It was hard to write what I wrote above. Part of the reason I'm drinking tonight is because I wanted to be able to write it.
As to why I'm doing this, I'm not sure I can say.
Please note, "I'm not sure I can say" is not the same as "I don't know".
This isn't about dishonesty or being deliberately obtuse. It's something more complicated.
Take the recent post I did about story arcs on television. It contains the following statement:
I really struggle with stories on the telly, from soaps to sitcoms. I can't switch off the analysing part of me and simply enjoy it for what it is.Presumably you took this at face value. I certainly wrote it at face value. Yet it begs the question, "Why?" And while I was pedalling away earlier, I did some thinking about this question.
I'd spent some time prior to my ride watching the telly - A film called The Runaway Bride, starring Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. It was a perfectly watchable tale, and it was obvious right from the start that Gere was the hero, Roberts was the heroine, and the climax of the film would be that they finally got together and lived happily ever after. Plotting a graph for it on Vonnegut's G-I axis would be simple enough. It's actually the emotional side of things that I'm not comfortable with.
Stories manipulate emotions. They make you laugh and cry and love and hate. The good ones do anyway.
So when I say, "I don't do television" what I'm really saying is "I don't do emotion".
The most insightful of the counsellors and mental health experts I've encountered have been aware of this. Only once, and then only briefly, one of them broke throught the walls I've built and made me cry. I love and respect her for doing it. Another explained to me that "You've lost touch with your emotions".
Why the walls exist, I can't say (see earlier statement)
It was hard to write what I wrote above. Part of the reason I'm drinking tonight is because I wanted to be able to write it.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Woke up... Fell out of bed...
This is my pupil, Laura's friend's house.
As we drove past Laura's friend's house yesterday, Laura pointed it out to me. In doing so, she veered over towards the wrong side of the road, straight into the path of an oncoming Vauxhall Astra. I had to instantly grab the wheel. Holy fuck. That was a close one. In my previous accidents, I've always been hit from behind. A head on collision is not something I want to happen any time soon. Combined closing speeds would have been somewhere around 60-70 miles per hour and it would have been a bad 'un, airbags or not. Honestly, you can't switch off for a second in this job.
Anyway, day two of the rest of my life, and all that. Yesterday's alcohol intake = 0.
Woke up at 6.30 with a mouth like... well something other than a budgie cage. Didn't get up and turn on PC. Hit snooze twice and grabbed an extra 16 minutes in bed instead.
Got up, got dressed. Had coffee. Opened mail - We're going to be getting a lot more tax credits, due to my earnings being so much less than predicted.
Went to pick up Scott, who had an early test.
He failed, on the same roundabout that he failed on last time, for pretty much the same reasons - nerves causing him to approach too quickly.
Took him home dejected and disgruntled. Got in about 9.30 and phoned parent of potential pupil that I didn't get the chance to call back yesterday due to my phone being a bit buggered.
New pupils starting monday. Hooray!
Made coffee.
Turned on PC so that I could blog this and catch the responses to a couple of things I posted yesterday. Not going on facebook or anything. Will be switching off computer and going to allottment when I finish this post.
Next lesson is at 12. Another test. Then straight to Bromborough for a lesson from 3 to 5.
Then done for the day. I want to take some photos of my little hideyhole so I'm not going to clean it up today although I plan to soon, despite intending to spend less time in here.
It's actually quite hard all this. Where I'd normally and automatically head to my room and the familiarity it represents, I have to do something jarringly other, whatever it may be.
Well, I picked a big bouquet of sweet peas, and filled a polystyrene container with raspberries, then took them home and left for my next appointment.
Another fail. Great driver, but one mistake cost him a pass. On another day, the lights would have stayed green, and he'd now be a fully qualified driver. Possibly just as well, since his dad had promised me a bottle of whiskey if he'd passed today.
The 3-5 lesson turned into 3-4. Got home about 4.20. Went online to order a load of business cards, and had a very brief surf, then spent more time down at the allottment, via the chippy.
It's now 7 O clock. I'm writing up the test fails for the bloggy part of my website, and will be trying to put a load of links to my website from other places.
So I'm not knocking the internet completely on the head. Just trying to make it more normal. So the sticky game sites that require daily participation are gone.
Bren is due back this evening. Don't know what time. Quite late I think. I hope she likes the flowers.
When I have finished doing the blog stuff, I shall go do some tidying up.
Then what? Telly? A good book? Maybe I should let the dice decide.
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As we drove past Laura's friend's house yesterday, Laura pointed it out to me. In doing so, she veered over towards the wrong side of the road, straight into the path of an oncoming Vauxhall Astra. I had to instantly grab the wheel. Holy fuck. That was a close one. In my previous accidents, I've always been hit from behind. A head on collision is not something I want to happen any time soon. Combined closing speeds would have been somewhere around 60-70 miles per hour and it would have been a bad 'un, airbags or not. Honestly, you can't switch off for a second in this job.
Anyway, day two of the rest of my life, and all that. Yesterday's alcohol intake = 0.
Woke up at 6.30 with a mouth like... well something other than a budgie cage. Didn't get up and turn on PC. Hit snooze twice and grabbed an extra 16 minutes in bed instead.
Got up, got dressed. Had coffee. Opened mail - We're going to be getting a lot more tax credits, due to my earnings being so much less than predicted.
Went to pick up Scott, who had an early test.
He failed, on the same roundabout that he failed on last time, for pretty much the same reasons - nerves causing him to approach too quickly.
Took him home dejected and disgruntled. Got in about 9.30 and phoned parent of potential pupil that I didn't get the chance to call back yesterday due to my phone being a bit buggered.
New pupils starting monday. Hooray!
Made coffee.
Turned on PC so that I could blog this and catch the responses to a couple of things I posted yesterday. Not going on facebook or anything. Will be switching off computer and going to allottment when I finish this post.
Next lesson is at 12. Another test. Then straight to Bromborough for a lesson from 3 to 5.
Then done for the day. I want to take some photos of my little hideyhole so I'm not going to clean it up today although I plan to soon, despite intending to spend less time in here.
It's actually quite hard all this. Where I'd normally and automatically head to my room and the familiarity it represents, I have to do something jarringly other, whatever it may be.
Well, I picked a big bouquet of sweet peas, and filled a polystyrene container with raspberries, then took them home and left for my next appointment.
Another fail. Great driver, but one mistake cost him a pass. On another day, the lights would have stayed green, and he'd now be a fully qualified driver. Possibly just as well, since his dad had promised me a bottle of whiskey if he'd passed today.
The 3-5 lesson turned into 3-4. Got home about 4.20. Went online to order a load of business cards, and had a very brief surf, then spent more time down at the allottment, via the chippy.
It's now 7 O clock. I'm writing up the test fails for the bloggy part of my website, and will be trying to put a load of links to my website from other places.
So I'm not knocking the internet completely on the head. Just trying to make it more normal. So the sticky game sites that require daily participation are gone.
Bren is due back this evening. Don't know what time. Quite late I think. I hope she likes the flowers.
When I have finished doing the blog stuff, I shall go do some tidying up.
Then what? Telly? A good book? Maybe I should let the dice decide.
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The mouse will...
Get rat-arsed.
Big time.
On purpose.
I didn't particularly want to, and I didn't really enjoy doing so, but I did.
I screwed myself right into the fucking ground.
Things have not been good for a while now. Regular readers and old friends will already be aware that most of my adult life has been a struggle against substance misuse, and I've slid quite a long way down the slippery slope over the last few weeks and months.
Yesterday (tuesday) I referred myself to Wirral Alcohol Service. It's a step in a better direction.
Saying "No more drinking" is not in itself going to work. My whole damn life needs to change.
Here is my day today, 17th August 2011 (now yesterday) for example.
Go to bed at maybe 1.00 am. Drunk.
Wake up at perhaps 6.00 with a mouth like the bottom of a budgie cage.
Get up and go downstairs and drink about a pint of orange drink. (That's what we call it in England. Just ask Bill Hicks)
Go back to bed and try to get to sleep for a bit but fail.
Read in bed for half an hour and try to sleep again. And fail.
Get up. Go to my tiny boxy computer room and switch PC on. It's now maybe 7.30.
Surf the net for about 2 and a half hours until just turned 10.
Get dressed. Go out and wash car because I have new pupil today. Teach her from 11 until 1.
Get home at about 1.15. Switch on PC and surf until 1.45 then leave house for next lesson.
This lasts until about 3.50, and dovetails with another lesson that runs from 4 until 5.
Get home about 5.20.
Switch on PC and surf until about 6.40. Leave house for lesson at 7.
Back home at about 7.15.
Switch computer on. Surf until 1 in the morning, with a brief and unusual gap of about half an hour where I wash the dishes.
So what's that? 5 hours sleeping. 6 hours working. Perhaps an hour travelling between clients.
And 12 hours surfing the net.
OK. Bren's away, and things are a bit out of the ordinary, but it's not that out of the ordinary. It's pretty typical. Day in, day out. 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. All spent in a tiny, cluttered, chaotic and messy box room. Convicted criminals get more space and exercise.
No wonder I'm hitting the bottle. I'm bored shitless. That's part of it anyway. But only part.
Bren, by the way, sits downstairs watching telly. She's so lonely. I feel deeply ashamed of the way I've been treating her.
I also feel ashamed of drinking. This doesn't stop me doing it. It makes me sneaky about it. I try to kid myself that I'm getting away with it. I don't want to get shouted at. I don't want Bren to know how much or how often I do it. I try to kid myself that I'm pulling the wool over her eyes.
Yeah right.
Self respect is an important part of being mentally healthy. Without it, things go horribly out of key.
Shame, guilt. Deception. Self deception. Self loathing.
I've posted this because I want the furtive, underhand shit to stop. Now.
Tonight, I have not had a drink. I have an assessment appointment with the alcohol service on 30th August. This blog will serve as a drinks diary for the next few weeks, and I shall take my laptop along to the assessment. Apart from blogging, I want to drastically reduce the amount of time I spend online.
Life is too short.
driving lessons wallasey driving lessons wirral driving lessons birkenhead driving instructor driving school
Big time.
On purpose.
I didn't particularly want to, and I didn't really enjoy doing so, but I did.
I screwed myself right into the fucking ground.
Things have not been good for a while now. Regular readers and old friends will already be aware that most of my adult life has been a struggle against substance misuse, and I've slid quite a long way down the slippery slope over the last few weeks and months.
Yesterday (tuesday) I referred myself to Wirral Alcohol Service. It's a step in a better direction.
Saying "No more drinking" is not in itself going to work. My whole damn life needs to change.
Here is my day today, 17th August 2011 (now yesterday) for example.
Go to bed at maybe 1.00 am. Drunk.
Wake up at perhaps 6.00 with a mouth like the bottom of a budgie cage.
Get up and go downstairs and drink about a pint of orange drink. (That's what we call it in England. Just ask Bill Hicks)
Go back to bed and try to get to sleep for a bit but fail.
Read in bed for half an hour and try to sleep again. And fail.
Get up. Go to my tiny boxy computer room and switch PC on. It's now maybe 7.30.
Surf the net for about 2 and a half hours until just turned 10.
Get dressed. Go out and wash car because I have new pupil today. Teach her from 11 until 1.
Get home at about 1.15. Switch on PC and surf until 1.45 then leave house for next lesson.
This lasts until about 3.50, and dovetails with another lesson that runs from 4 until 5.
Get home about 5.20.
Switch on PC and surf until about 6.40. Leave house for lesson at 7.
Back home at about 7.15.
Switch computer on. Surf until 1 in the morning, with a brief and unusual gap of about half an hour where I wash the dishes.
So what's that? 5 hours sleeping. 6 hours working. Perhaps an hour travelling between clients.
And 12 hours surfing the net.
OK. Bren's away, and things are a bit out of the ordinary, but it's not that out of the ordinary. It's pretty typical. Day in, day out. 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. All spent in a tiny, cluttered, chaotic and messy box room. Convicted criminals get more space and exercise.
No wonder I'm hitting the bottle. I'm bored shitless. That's part of it anyway. But only part.
Bren, by the way, sits downstairs watching telly. She's so lonely. I feel deeply ashamed of the way I've been treating her.
I also feel ashamed of drinking. This doesn't stop me doing it. It makes me sneaky about it. I try to kid myself that I'm getting away with it. I don't want to get shouted at. I don't want Bren to know how much or how often I do it. I try to kid myself that I'm pulling the wool over her eyes.
Yeah right.
Self respect is an important part of being mentally healthy. Without it, things go horribly out of key.
Shame, guilt. Deception. Self deception. Self loathing.
I've posted this because I want the furtive, underhand shit to stop. Now.
Tonight, I have not had a drink. I have an assessment appointment with the alcohol service on 30th August. This blog will serve as a drinks diary for the next few weeks, and I shall take my laptop along to the assessment. Apart from blogging, I want to drastically reduce the amount of time I spend online.
Life is too short.
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Thursday, 28 July 2011
Hairway to Stephen
I get attached to inanimate objects.
My first existential crisis occurred when I was about 7 years old. I was in the bathroom with a die cast toy vehicle. A yellow truck if I remember correctly. I'd managed to pry the spare tyre from it's rim, and with no conscious intention beyond wondering if it would fit, I pushed it into the overflow slit/hole of the bathroom sink. I was unable to get it back out, and the realisation that the tyre was lost for ever, and that the truck would never be quite as whole again was deeply upsetting.
I also still have a teddy bear. He sits in the wardrobe. Tattered and bald and never ever cuddled or even thought of, but I can't throw him away. I refer to it as him. I anthropomorhised ted from the age of one, and he will be with me until something happens to stop him being with me. A totem or talisman of childhood that I find myself unable to relinquish.
So also my lovely red comfy chair, that sits awaiting the time and funds and effort to be fixed. I feel sadness somehow for it rather than just about it. It feels no pain, but I feel its pain anyway. If only a little bit. I've grown up a bit since I lost the truck tyre down the overflow.
My first existential crisis occurred when I was about 7 years old. I was in the bathroom with a die cast toy vehicle. A yellow truck if I remember correctly. I'd managed to pry the spare tyre from it's rim, and with no conscious intention beyond wondering if it would fit, I pushed it into the overflow slit/hole of the bathroom sink. I was unable to get it back out, and the realisation that the tyre was lost for ever, and that the truck would never be quite as whole again was deeply upsetting.
I also still have a teddy bear. He sits in the wardrobe. Tattered and bald and never ever cuddled or even thought of, but I can't throw him away. I refer to it as him. I anthropomorhised ted from the age of one, and he will be with me until something happens to stop him being with me. A totem or talisman of childhood that I find myself unable to relinquish.
So also my lovely red comfy chair, that sits awaiting the time and funds and effort to be fixed. I feel sadness somehow for it rather than just about it. It feels no pain, but I feel its pain anyway. If only a little bit. I've grown up a bit since I lost the truck tyre down the overflow.
Dice Living
Once I tried dice-living!
Sort of anyway, in a half arsed kind of way that didn't really challenge anything fundamental. Still, I got up to some interesting stuff from time to time. One of these interesting things was to place an ad in the NME asking if there were any real dice people out there.
Appropriately, I got 6 replies. One was a girl from Sunderland called Lesley. One was a girl from Broadstairs in Kent, who would always send me a picture of her self that made her face impossible to see clearly. One was a guy who sent me a hugely long letter detailing his life and asking me for help and advice. One was an arty musician/performer called Stewart, who lived in Bristol. One was a guy called Neil, from Elgin in Scotland, who was young, precocious and into all sorts of new age weirdness. And there was one other of whom I remember nothing.
Neil from Elgin sent me something called BREAK YOUR FUCKING CHAINS amongst other things. I intend to do one of the things from the list but I'm not going to tell you which one, at least not yet.
I actually read The Dice Man in one go. A flatmate lent it to me, and I got half way through it at about 2 in the morning. I flipped a coin to decide whether to go to bed, or whether to finish it. Chance dictated that I read it that night, and I gave it back to my flatmate the next day. He didn't believe I had read it but I was able to answer questions like "What happened to Frank Osterflood" and "What was Jake and Arlene Ecstein's baby girl to be called?"
The book arrived in my life at a point where I thought I was desperate for change. Really it turned out that I wanted to stay the same for as long as I could. While I did some interesting things, I'd never put anything really challenging down as an option, and if I did, and the option came up, I'd disobay it without a qualm.
Sort of anyway, in a half arsed kind of way that didn't really challenge anything fundamental. Still, I got up to some interesting stuff from time to time. One of these interesting things was to place an ad in the NME asking if there were any real dice people out there.
Appropriately, I got 6 replies. One was a girl from Sunderland called Lesley. One was a girl from Broadstairs in Kent, who would always send me a picture of her self that made her face impossible to see clearly. One was a guy who sent me a hugely long letter detailing his life and asking me for help and advice. One was an arty musician/performer called Stewart, who lived in Bristol. One was a guy called Neil, from Elgin in Scotland, who was young, precocious and into all sorts of new age weirdness. And there was one other of whom I remember nothing.
Neil from Elgin sent me something called BREAK YOUR FUCKING CHAINS amongst other things. I intend to do one of the things from the list but I'm not going to tell you which one, at least not yet.
I actually read The Dice Man in one go. A flatmate lent it to me, and I got half way through it at about 2 in the morning. I flipped a coin to decide whether to go to bed, or whether to finish it. Chance dictated that I read it that night, and I gave it back to my flatmate the next day. He didn't believe I had read it but I was able to answer questions like "What happened to Frank Osterflood" and "What was Jake and Arlene Ecstein's baby girl to be called?"
The book arrived in my life at a point where I thought I was desperate for change. Really it turned out that I wanted to stay the same for as long as I could. While I did some interesting things, I'd never put anything really challenging down as an option, and if I did, and the option came up, I'd disobay it without a qualm.
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Try Try Try
My mis-spent youth is catching up with me. All those times where I filled my lungs to the max with whatever shit I could lay my hands on may have left their mark.
Certainly, there are times these days when I'm breathless, even if I'm not doing anything more strenuous than breathing.
Particularly when I'm tired, it sometimes feels like I just can't get enough air into my lungs, no matter how deeply I try to breathe.
This is both unpleasant and frightening. Time, I reckon, to attempt to give up again. I only smoked about 5 rollies today, before running out. I've not had one for quite a few hours, and there is none to be had without visiting a 24 hour garage. It's 2.35 in the morning, and I'm up at 10.00. So the sensible thing to do is go to bed.
That means I have a headstart.When I wake up I shall endeavour not to buy tobacco.
Update: 11.30pm
Well so far so good. Stuffed full of junk food, but didn't succumb to the desire.
Update: 6.30pm
Really really fucking angsty. Just everything. Money. Cowardly pupils. Boredom. Ennui. Fucking Life in Fucking General. I really want to get drunk, but then I'll smoke.
Fucking fuck the fucking fuckers sideways.
Certainly, there are times these days when I'm breathless, even if I'm not doing anything more strenuous than breathing.
Particularly when I'm tired, it sometimes feels like I just can't get enough air into my lungs, no matter how deeply I try to breathe.
This is both unpleasant and frightening. Time, I reckon, to attempt to give up again. I only smoked about 5 rollies today, before running out. I've not had one for quite a few hours, and there is none to be had without visiting a 24 hour garage. It's 2.35 in the morning, and I'm up at 10.00. So the sensible thing to do is go to bed.
That means I have a headstart.When I wake up I shall endeavour not to buy tobacco.
Update: 11.30pm
Well so far so good. Stuffed full of junk food, but didn't succumb to the desire.
Update: 6.30pm
Really really fucking angsty. Just everything. Money. Cowardly pupils. Boredom. Ennui. Fucking Life in Fucking General. I really want to get drunk, but then I'll smoke.
Fucking fuck the fucking fuckers sideways.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Blogger Vs Wordpress
I keep trying with Wordpress. I really do. I can see that it has real potential. Yet doing simple things like removing or adding page elements, or getting it to put line breaks between paragraphs seem only possible through an esoteric and convoluted process. I'm sure there are ways of doing what I want to do, but it's a whole lot of work.
Also, worpress wants to charge me for using my own domain name. It seems that blogger allows me to do this for free. I'm not making any firm commitment to any platform yet, but I've made a lot more progress using the blogger site than I have with the wordpress one.
In case anyone's interested, here are the two sites.
Blogger
Wordpress
Blogger loads up faster than wordpress, at least on my computer at this moment.
Still trying stuff. What you see there at the moment is probably not what it will end up looking like.
And I will continue to try with wordpress. Even if I can't do things conventionally, I might find workarounds using more creative methods.
Also, worpress wants to charge me for using my own domain name. It seems that blogger allows me to do this for free. I'm not making any firm commitment to any platform yet, but I've made a lot more progress using the blogger site than I have with the wordpress one.
In case anyone's interested, here are the two sites.
Blogger
Wordpress
Blogger loads up faster than wordpress, at least on my computer at this moment.
Still trying stuff. What you see there at the moment is probably not what it will end up looking like.
And I will continue to try with wordpress. Even if I can't do things conventionally, I might find workarounds using more creative methods.
Monday, 27 June 2011
master of my own domain.
I'm now the proud owner of two shiny new domain names.
paulsharpdriving.com and paulsharpdriving.co.uk
I've also started a blog using wordpress, and a blog using blogger.
They're not intended to be blogs. Just free webspace. Somewhere to point the advertising to. The intention is that I use the stuff I've picked up over the last few years, as this blog has developed to make a website that's easy to navigate, and pleasing to the eye. They will link to and from the how to fail blog I've been doing, and to each other. I could make one the .com one and the other the .co.uk one. Maybe.
I get the sense that wordpress is more powerful and versatile than blogger, but I find blogger much easier to use.
Anyway, if I cross link them all, It will help in the search placings, or so I understand. Also, using metatags -invisible words embedded in the code that show up when google sends it's spiders out looking - is supposed to help with this. It used to anyway.
I can insert html either into blog posts, or into the structure of the entire blog, and I can use my web design software to generate that code, using the wysiwyg side of things to make up for my shortcomings on the coding side of things.
This bit was done using dreamweaver.
I don't know how to go past a certain point. Beyond these simple design things, coding baffles me.
I get by well enough though.
paulsharpdriving.com and paulsharpdriving.co.uk
I've also started a blog using wordpress, and a blog using blogger.
They're not intended to be blogs. Just free webspace. Somewhere to point the advertising to. The intention is that I use the stuff I've picked up over the last few years, as this blog has developed to make a website that's easy to navigate, and pleasing to the eye. They will link to and from the how to fail blog I've been doing, and to each other. I could make one the .com one and the other the .co.uk one. Maybe.
I get the sense that wordpress is more powerful and versatile than blogger, but I find blogger much easier to use.
Anyway, if I cross link them all, It will help in the search placings, or so I understand. Also, using metatags -invisible words embedded in the code that show up when google sends it's spiders out looking - is supposed to help with this. It used to anyway.
I can insert html either into blog posts, or into the structure of the entire blog, and I can use my web design software to generate that code, using the wysiwyg side of things to make up for my shortcomings on the coding side of things.
This bit was done using dreamweaver.
I don't know how to go past a certain point. Beyond these simple design things, coding baffles me.
I get by well enough though.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
paulmakesmusic rides again!
This is what I do. Repetitive loops. Musical navel gazing. I enjoy doing it. I don't expect anyone else to like it. I'm not doing it for you.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Up and away... soon... maybe....
Shhh! Do you hear that?
It's the sound of loins being girded. Of palms being spat upon. Of sleeves being rolled up.
You see, I'm going to go on my own again, only, not just yet. I'm preparing the ground first. Getting things in place, so that when I tell my current booking agent I am not going to pay him any more, I have some other means of getting work.
So, I have been informing my current crop of pupils that if I do leave, their arrangement is with me, not with the driving school as a whole, and that they don't have to go with a different instructor, no matter what they are told.
I've got a load of free business cards printed, and I use them as appointment cards for my pupils, letting them know that should that card come back to me from someone else, they get a free lesson, or £20 if they've passed their test.
I've found our old dreamweaver disk, and installed all sorts of macromedia gubbins on my computer with a view to creating a simple website.
Currently I'm giving £130 a week to my booking agent. I'm gambling that if I give my money to google/facebook/the local ad rag/etc, I will be able to fill my diary better than I'm doing right now. I'm gambling that since it's me that get's the credit for a good job done, and not someone elses school, eventually I will have to pay out far less to find work.
But for now, I'm going to carry on as I was.
I feel much better, although I'm finding the website creation thing a bit daunting. Not so much the stylistic elements. Generally that's straightforward, if occasionally a chore. But the actual nuts and bolts stuff about root folders and ftp transfer.
Might just spend a few quid on one of those website in a box packages where you get a "free" domain name and what have you.
It's the sound of loins being girded. Of palms being spat upon. Of sleeves being rolled up.
You see, I'm going to go on my own again, only, not just yet. I'm preparing the ground first. Getting things in place, so that when I tell my current booking agent I am not going to pay him any more, I have some other means of getting work.
So, I have been informing my current crop of pupils that if I do leave, their arrangement is with me, not with the driving school as a whole, and that they don't have to go with a different instructor, no matter what they are told.
I've got a load of free business cards printed, and I use them as appointment cards for my pupils, letting them know that should that card come back to me from someone else, they get a free lesson, or £20 if they've passed their test.
I've found our old dreamweaver disk, and installed all sorts of macromedia gubbins on my computer with a view to creating a simple website.
Currently I'm giving £130 a week to my booking agent. I'm gambling that if I give my money to google/facebook/the local ad rag/etc, I will be able to fill my diary better than I'm doing right now. I'm gambling that since it's me that get's the credit for a good job done, and not someone elses school, eventually I will have to pay out far less to find work.
But for now, I'm going to carry on as I was.
I feel much better, although I'm finding the website creation thing a bit daunting. Not so much the stylistic elements. Generally that's straightforward, if occasionally a chore. But the actual nuts and bolts stuff about root folders and ftp transfer.
Might just spend a few quid on one of those website in a box packages where you get a "free" domain name and what have you.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
A good walk spoiled again...
Well, I did it. I played a round of golf with my dad, and it was fun.
I actually did a bit better than I expected, although I was pretty crap if you measure me against an experienced player. I've been using it as an analogy for learning to drive. What I visualised as I stood there with the club in my hands was a sweetly struck ball sailing straight up the middle of the fairway for hundreds if not thousands of yards. What generally happened in practice was that the ball would bobble along the ground for a few yards, or slice off at a tangent and into the nearest undergrowth. Still, I did manage to hit a few decent balls along the way.
Here's how it looks in statistics:
Overall, I enjoyed it. Got suntanned, spent some quality time with my Dad, and got a bit better at something I'd not done much of before. Must do it again soon.
I actually did a bit better than I expected, although I was pretty crap if you measure me against an experienced player. I've been using it as an analogy for learning to drive. What I visualised as I stood there with the club in my hands was a sweetly struck ball sailing straight up the middle of the fairway for hundreds if not thousands of yards. What generally happened in practice was that the ball would bobble along the ground for a few yards, or slice off at a tangent and into the nearest undergrowth. Still, I did manage to hit a few decent balls along the way.
Here's how it looks in statistics:
- Number of airshots: - 1. Right at the beginning, my first shot. After that I never missed a single ball, although I frequently didn't connect the way I hoped.
- Number of lost balls: - about 5. Golf is more than just hitting the ball. You also have to try to keep an eye on it after it has gone or you won't be able to find it again.
- Number of shots to get around according to the scoresheet:: - 120. I'd hoped for 100 or less, but hey nevermind.
- Number of shots to get around really: - Probably a few more than 120. We weren't treating it as an ultra-serious competition.
- Number of holes in one: - None. Although I did get two pars.
- Number of cars damaged: - 1. Mine. I reversed into a wooden post in the car park and cracked the reflector in my rear bumper.
- Time taken to get around the course: - About 5 hours. We were following a couple of 4 balls, some of who were almost as bad as me, so we had to wait at every tee.
- Number of times my Dad swore at the four ball in front of us: - 439,027,803,928,409. He's a bit like that with traffic lights too.
Overall, I enjoyed it. Got suntanned, spent some quality time with my Dad, and got a bit better at something I'd not done much of before. Must do it again soon.
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Use and abuse
It's 3.31 in the morning. For the last few nights, I've had very little sleep. 3 or 4 hours a night. I'm pretty shattered, but it's just the way things are right now. I'm wide awake at the moment. This afternoon I could hardly keep my eyes open. Should have had a nap I suppose, but wild eyed rawker that I am, I rode it out.
Anyway, the reason I'm hardly sleeping is because I'm not drinking. Over the last couple of months, I've been drinking increasingly often, and increasingly heavily. And it was getting to the point where it was probably doing me physical harm.
Weirdly, I think a lot of it was because I'd given up smoking. I've now started smoking again, and stopped drinking altogether, at least for now. I know it's [tobacco] just cack that doesn't even give you a hit, but I seem to need it on some very deep level, and without it, I go slowly but steadily off the rails. It's not even about the nicotine. I think I'd be climbing the walls even if I had some kind of NRT. I just seem to need to have some shit in my lungs, and the lack causes unremitting cognitive dissonance. Right now smoking the lesser of two evils in many different and important ways.
Almost made 4 months off the fags this time. Not bad. I'll no doubt give up again in a few months.
Anyway, a thought struck me.
I abuse alcohol. No bones about it, I found it very hard to tell myself, "No", and if I managed to, it was generally by promising myself the reward of some the next day. I've also abused cannabis. And in the past I couldn't walk past a fruit machine without spending evey penny I had.
Yet I've never heard of anyone abusing nicotine.
So what is abuse? Nicotine is an addictive drug. Why does nobody ever talk about nicotine abuse?
What makes my use of alcohol abusive? Here's what I think.
There have been times where all five of the above have also applied to cannabis. And three of the five also apply to gambling. The health problems from gambling would be indirect, such as getting beaten up by someone I owed money to, or dietary deficiencies from not having enough money to buy food; and I wouldn't ge the shakes or lie awake at night without my fix of flashing lights and spinning reels; but certainly the other three apply.
So how does nicotine fit into this?
Anyway, the reason I'm hardly sleeping is because I'm not drinking. Over the last couple of months, I've been drinking increasingly often, and increasingly heavily. And it was getting to the point where it was probably doing me physical harm.
Weirdly, I think a lot of it was because I'd given up smoking. I've now started smoking again, and stopped drinking altogether, at least for now. I know it's [tobacco] just cack that doesn't even give you a hit, but I seem to need it on some very deep level, and without it, I go slowly but steadily off the rails. It's not even about the nicotine. I think I'd be climbing the walls even if I had some kind of NRT. I just seem to need to have some shit in my lungs, and the lack causes unremitting cognitive dissonance. Right now smoking the lesser of two evils in many different and important ways.
Almost made 4 months off the fags this time. Not bad. I'll no doubt give up again in a few months.
Anyway, a thought struck me.
I abuse alcohol. No bones about it, I found it very hard to tell myself, "No", and if I managed to, it was generally by promising myself the reward of some the next day. I've also abused cannabis. And in the past I couldn't walk past a fruit machine without spending evey penny I had.
Yet I've never heard of anyone abusing nicotine.
So what is abuse? Nicotine is an addictive drug. Why does nobody ever talk about nicotine abuse?
What makes my use of alcohol abusive? Here's what I think.
- I'm not totally in conscious control of the decision whether to use it or not.
- I use it to achieve an aim - oblivion basically - that lies outside it's normal social function.
- I use it to an extent where it is causing or could potentially cause serious health problems
- I spend money on it, despite our needing that money for many other essential things
- When it is not used, some natural biological functions are affected. Specifically my sleep pattern..
There have been times where all five of the above have also applied to cannabis. And three of the five also apply to gambling. The health problems from gambling would be indirect, such as getting beaten up by someone I owed money to, or dietary deficiencies from not having enough money to buy food; and I wouldn't ge the shakes or lie awake at night without my fix of flashing lights and spinning reels; but certainly the other three apply.
So how does nicotine fit into this?
- Smokers cannot easily stop smoking. So this certainly applies.
- The social funcion of smoking? What's that then? This is a hard one to define, and without defining it's boundaries, it's difficult to say what kind of use would lie beyond those boundaries. Sticking them up your arse perhaps. Smoking them to deliberately harm yourself would perhaps be a better analogy.
- Smoking is bad for you. There are no good things about it healthwise as far as I'm aware. In a sense any use at all is abuse by this measure.
- It isn't free. It's far cheaper to smoke 10 hand rolled cigarettes a day than it is to get drunk 3 or 4 times a week, but that money would still be better spent elsewhere. It's less abusive than alcohol but still abuse.
- I don't need nicotine to function and I don't really find any of my physical systems altered by it's lack, so it can't really be abused by this standard.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
paulmakesmusic
At that point, I was living in a council flat in Moreton. I'd spent a long time on my own, either on the dole or on the sick, and spent a lot of time countering the loneliness and boredom by getting as drunk or as stoned as I could.
And what I did while I was drunk or stoned or both was either to play long winded computer games, like Civilisation, or The Settlers, or I would make music.
The music was something I did for myself. It was a means of internal expression, rather than a way of sharing something inside myself with the world. I never really thought of myself as someone who could perform in public or anything. The music tended to be repetitive. Simple loops that gradually developed without ever departing from a basic chord structure. Thw words I was writing to go with the tunes were self pitying, self absorbed, introverted. I'd be mortified if most of the stuff I did ever got heard by anyone else to be honest.
Still, when I first got online, I used the nickname "paulmakesmusic" extensively on a variety of sites. Later, when I started to get out of the rut I'd trapped myself in, I found I had less of a desire to make music. Partly because it didn't sound so good when I was no longer getting stoned all the time, and partly because I had better things to do than gaze at my own navel and wallow in self pity.
Many of the people reading this blog will know me better as "PMM". Or as Paul of course. As the music became abbreviated, so did the username.
Apparently a lot of people (the majority?) find hearing their own voices played back at them embarrassing, and this is certainly true of me. I've been told by others that I have a lovely voice, but that doesn't change how I feel about it.
But is wasn't all bad. There are some pretty tunes in there. Tonight I found an old CD with a load of stuff on it. The CD isn't in very good nick, so I'm trying to transfer what I can over to my hard drive before I do anything else with it. The CD is causing havoc with my system. Crashing and hanging and what have you. Still I shall perservere.
Some of the files are linked to programs that I don't have installed on my PC. Programs like cakewalk and rebirth and acid loops.
A lot of the files wouldn't really mean anything on their own. I'd generally multitrack stuff, creating individual bits of sound that would then be fitted together, like the pieces of a jigsaw.
What? Like this one you mean?
Yes. Precisely. This one started with a drum machine, and had two layers of acoustic guitar and 4 layers of vocal overlaid onto it. There's a slightly corrupted bit in the middle for some reason. It's OK really. It only catches a middle eight bit, and the best guitar work occurs at the end I think. I suppose the overlaying of a spinning globe was a bit corny, but this is The whole Damn world afterall.
And this one is essentially a midi tune, hence the metronomic drumbeat. I like it. It soars, hence the video.
Friday, 4 March 2011
Out and about... (slight reprise)
OK. You know the format. I tell you about my bikeride. I show the route on Google Earth, then I set the bit I videoed to music.
This time, instead of heading north, I went the other way. I had no clear objective in mind apart from just following the river southwards. I'd seen a bit of cycleway that ran along the dockside and wanted to give that a go, but in the end I went much further, to Tranmere Oil Terminal. Going south, it wasn't as traffic free as my previous ride had been. There were points where I had to travel along, or next to, some busy roads.
At Tranmere Oil Terminal, it was no longer possible to follow the banks of the river. I'd have had to ride along a 50 mph dual carriageway, or through New Ferry and Rock Ferry (Yes, it's what singer Duffy's album title comes from) Noisy, polluted and more dangerous, (the road, not the duffy album) which ever way I chose, so at that point, I turned around and retraced my steps.
My route took me around the back of Wallasey Town Hall, an impressive enough edifice, especially from the banks of the river, more so than from the road. I suppose they were trying to impress the people across the river, It took me past the ventilation shafts for both Mersey Road Tunnels. The newer, Kingsway tunnel's shafts are a modernist concrete. The older tunnel's brick built shafts are more art deco, as is a lot of it's associated architecture. You can read and see a whole load of stuff about the Queensway tunnel at the excellent CBRD site. This includes a video trip through the tunnel, (not set to music) and a written and photographic history. The Birkenhead shaft kind of reminds me of the Empire State Building.
(image from here)
My trip also took in Birkenhead Priory, a 12th century monestary, and I think Wirral's oldest surviving structure, the two ferry terminals in Seacombe and Woodside, and the enormous shibuilding hall of Cammel Laird shipyard
I suppose Elvis Costello's "Shipbuilding" would have been an appropriate tune to put the video to, but sadly it's too short.
However, Elvis Costello's excellent "Tokyo Storm Warning" is exactly the required 6 minutes and 24 seconds.
Sadly, as I climbed the hill up from the river back to my street, one of my pedals broke. I won't be doing any more cycling until I've got that sorted.
Once again, this ride took me about 10 or 11 miles. In this case, I gained/lost about 580 feet in altitude along the length of the ride, from a high point of 89 feet above (mean) sea level to 0 feet above sea level. Because I went somewhere and came back by more or less the same route, the elevation profile is almost symmetrical.
Now, here's that nice Mr MacManus with some lovely images of the Liverpool skyline, and Egremont Promenade.
We're only living this instant.
This time, instead of heading north, I went the other way. I had no clear objective in mind apart from just following the river southwards. I'd seen a bit of cycleway that ran along the dockside and wanted to give that a go, but in the end I went much further, to Tranmere Oil Terminal. Going south, it wasn't as traffic free as my previous ride had been. There were points where I had to travel along, or next to, some busy roads.
At Tranmere Oil Terminal, it was no longer possible to follow the banks of the river. I'd have had to ride along a 50 mph dual carriageway, or through New Ferry and Rock Ferry (Yes, it's what singer Duffy's album title comes from) Noisy, polluted and more dangerous, (the road, not the duffy album) which ever way I chose, so at that point, I turned around and retraced my steps.
My route took me around the back of Wallasey Town Hall, an impressive enough edifice, especially from the banks of the river, more so than from the road. I suppose they were trying to impress the people across the river, It took me past the ventilation shafts for both Mersey Road Tunnels. The newer, Kingsway tunnel's shafts are a modernist concrete. The older tunnel's brick built shafts are more art deco, as is a lot of it's associated architecture. You can read and see a whole load of stuff about the Queensway tunnel at the excellent CBRD site. This includes a video trip through the tunnel, (not set to music) and a written and photographic history. The Birkenhead shaft kind of reminds me of the Empire State Building.
My trip also took in Birkenhead Priory, a 12th century monestary, and I think Wirral's oldest surviving structure, the two ferry terminals in Seacombe and Woodside, and the enormous shibuilding hall of Cammel Laird shipyard
I suppose Elvis Costello's "Shipbuilding" would have been an appropriate tune to put the video to, but sadly it's too short.
However, Elvis Costello's excellent "Tokyo Storm Warning" is exactly the required 6 minutes and 24 seconds.
Sadly, as I climbed the hill up from the river back to my street, one of my pedals broke. I won't be doing any more cycling until I've got that sorted.
Once again, this ride took me about 10 or 11 miles. In this case, I gained/lost about 580 feet in altitude along the length of the ride, from a high point of 89 feet above (mean) sea level to 0 feet above sea level. Because I went somewhere and came back by more or less the same route, the elevation profile is almost symmetrical.
Now, here's that nice Mr MacManus with some lovely images of the Liverpool skyline, and Egremont Promenade.
We're only living this instant.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Check Test...
First thing in the morning, I have a check test.
Every few years, us instructors have to give a driving lesson with an examiner sat in the back, to make sure we're still up to the job.
Instructors are graded from 1 to 6. Grade 6 is the highest. Grades 1,2 or 3 are not good enough, and if you fail to make at least grade 4 three times, they take your name off the register.
My first one was about 4 years ago, just a few months after I'd become fully qualified. I got a grade 5. Lots of 6's on the checklist, but just short of an overall 6 grade.
I know I'll do OK tomorrow. A grade 6 would be nice. A 5 is fine. I'll be disappointed with a 4, and unless something very strange happens, I'm not going to get less than that.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Update:
I got a disappointing grade 4. It's a pass, and I can carry on doing my job for the next few years, but I didn't really do myself justice today. Not good at tests, me. I crap myself every time.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Further update:
My first check test occurred a few scant months after becoming fully qualified.
Being unsure of myself, I sought advice from the person that trained me to be an instructor. I was nervouse going into it, and put a lot of work into what I wanted to do. Then, at the last moment, all my carefully prepared lesson plans were scuppered because I got a phone call informing me that I would have to do the check test from a different test centre.
So I had to extemporise, and things were very natural, because that's generally what I do in a typical lesson anyway.
This time around things were different. I was pretty certain that I wasn't going to fail, and a top grade is mainly a selling point - since I'm paying some guy to give me the work, the grade is as much a matter of pride as anything.
So I was surprised to find that last night, my head was full of it all. When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed I had to do the test by teaching someone I know who I find difficult to deal with. (There was a pun of sorts in there too. This particular pain in the bum person was busy doing anything but what I needed her to be doing with a former pupil that shares the same first name as the girl I actually did the lesson with.)
And today, I was indeed nervous.
Sometimes I get a pupil that can deal with (for example) roundabouts, but one particular roundabout causes them no end of grief. The roundabout is just a series of hazards to be negotiated, just like any other bit of road, but my pupil, for whatever reason, associates that particular situation with fear.
So when confronted with it, they are less comfortable with it than they would be with an identical situation without the same associations.
There's a sort of interactive triangle going on. The labels in the boxes on each corner reading, PHYSICAL, INTELLECTUAL, and EMOTIONAL. Weaken one, and the entire triangle totters. Strengthen one and the entire triangle becomes sturdier.
In my case, the guy sitting in the back was the same person that I had to face for my final qualifying exam. I was far more conscious of his presence than I was a different examiner on my first check test. It's not his fault in any way, and the points he made during the debrief at the end of the test were absolutely correct.
Every few years, us instructors have to give a driving lesson with an examiner sat in the back, to make sure we're still up to the job.
Instructors are graded from 1 to 6. Grade 6 is the highest. Grades 1,2 or 3 are not good enough, and if you fail to make at least grade 4 three times, they take your name off the register.
My first one was about 4 years ago, just a few months after I'd become fully qualified. I got a grade 5. Lots of 6's on the checklist, but just short of an overall 6 grade.
I know I'll do OK tomorrow. A grade 6 would be nice. A 5 is fine. I'll be disappointed with a 4, and unless something very strange happens, I'm not going to get less than that.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Update:
I got a disappointing grade 4. It's a pass, and I can carry on doing my job for the next few years, but I didn't really do myself justice today. Not good at tests, me. I crap myself every time.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Further update:
My first check test occurred a few scant months after becoming fully qualified.
Being unsure of myself, I sought advice from the person that trained me to be an instructor. I was nervouse going into it, and put a lot of work into what I wanted to do. Then, at the last moment, all my carefully prepared lesson plans were scuppered because I got a phone call informing me that I would have to do the check test from a different test centre.
So I had to extemporise, and things were very natural, because that's generally what I do in a typical lesson anyway.
This time around things were different. I was pretty certain that I wasn't going to fail, and a top grade is mainly a selling point - since I'm paying some guy to give me the work, the grade is as much a matter of pride as anything.
So I was surprised to find that last night, my head was full of it all. When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed I had to do the test by teaching someone I know who I find difficult to deal with. (There was a pun of sorts in there too. This particular pain in the bum person was busy doing anything but what I needed her to be doing with a former pupil that shares the same first name as the girl I actually did the lesson with.)
And today, I was indeed nervous.
Sometimes I get a pupil that can deal with (for example) roundabouts, but one particular roundabout causes them no end of grief. The roundabout is just a series of hazards to be negotiated, just like any other bit of road, but my pupil, for whatever reason, associates that particular situation with fear.
So when confronted with it, they are less comfortable with it than they would be with an identical situation without the same associations.
There's a sort of interactive triangle going on. The labels in the boxes on each corner reading, PHYSICAL, INTELLECTUAL, and EMOTIONAL. Weaken one, and the entire triangle totters. Strengthen one and the entire triangle becomes sturdier.
In my case, the guy sitting in the back was the same person that I had to face for my final qualifying exam. I was far more conscious of his presence than I was a different examiner on my first check test. It's not his fault in any way, and the points he made during the debrief at the end of the test were absolutely correct.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Every place I've ever lived
I was born in a crossfire hurricane.
OK. I wasn't really. I was born in Clatterbridge Hospital, in/on Wirral.
My Mum was 20 years old, and my dad was 28. They'd just got married a couple of weeks earlier and were just starting out, living in various private rented places.
So for the first six months of my life, I lived on the top floors of a building in a rundown part of Birkenhead called Rock Ferry.
Here's what my Mum has to say about it:
It's hard to make out exactlu where the building is situated. There are some newish houses on the even numbered side, so it may not exist any more. Here is my best guess.
From there we went to Neston, about ten miles away, and close to my maternal grandparents. We lodged in a house that was owned by a Mrs Pritchard. 6 Chester Road. Being a babe in arms, I remember absolutely nothing of my time there. The house was demolished about 20 or 30 years ago, and the space it occupied has remained undeveloped ever since.
It stood smack bang in front of where the advertising hoarding now stands. I don't know exactly how long we lived there, but I think from there we moved a couple of miles south to a village called Ness.
Street View doesn't cover the little cul-de-sac where we lived. The picture is as close as I can get.
We were somewhere over on the right I think. This little close was built around a small circular green. I have the vaguest wispiest memory of a parrot in a cage, out in the sunshine. I'm told it bit me when I stuck my finger through the bars of it's cage. It may be that the memory is not real, but stems instead from being told about it on a few occasions. Also, I'm sure my mum and dad would have made friends there, and would have returned there with me once we'd moved on.
What I can definately recall as my earliest memories stem from my time living back in Neston, in 20 Hawkins Road, almost opposite my Nana and Grandad's house.
The back garden was a mess, and as I played, I somehow managed to stand on a furniture tack in my bare feet. I was carried in by my Dad, and sat on the edge of the kitchen sink while he pulled it out. Slightly clearer in my mind is the terror of being alone in my bedroom (the small upstairs front window in the picture) while somewhere, a car horn was sounded repeatedly. As I had no idea what this was, those disembodied beeps terrified me. And on another occasion, the headlights of a car must have swept across my window. A light appeared out of one wall, rushed across the room, and vanished through the opposite wall. This was accompanied by a brief noise. To my infant senses, this too was inexplicable and monstrous. I think my parents had put a lock on the outside of my door. Presumably I was insecure, and wanted to spend the nights with them, while they thought otherwise. I screamed and cried at that door for what seemed like hours before someone came and let me out.
My Dad was by now working at a car factory in Ellesmere Port. My Mum was working part time doing bar work. They took the plunge, got a mortgage, and bought their own house. It was a new build in a little village called New Brighton, near Mold, in North Wales. It cost them £6,500. I was four and a half years old. It was 1972.
63 Moor Croft. It backed onto a slagheap and a big field. There were woodlands over the fields. I made friends, pretended to be a mountain climber, played marbles and hopscotch, went to school, first infant, then primary, learned to swim, played with matches, and went to the village shop for my mum.
Then, five years later, my Nan fell ill, and we sold up and went back to Neston so that we could be near. She died of stomach cancer soon afterwards. She was only 59.
We now lived on a small loop of housing estate called The Quillet.
Number 22, on a corner. We had a big wide front garden. Our back garden was a long triangle. We had a secret passage through to the side garden. We had a black rabbit called Sooty. We had heavy snow and threw snowballs. I had a new school, and found new friends. I played monopoly and did handstands. I tried to abseil down a 5 foot high cliff in the disused railway cutting nearby. I left primary school, and became the smallest fish in a much bigger comprehensive pond. And I hit puberty.
We stayed at The Quillet for seven or eight years I think. Then we moved again.
Not far though. Just a couple of miles down the road to Little Neston, and a newly built bungalow right down on the Dee marshes.
And my Mum and Dad live there to this day. The tree you can see behind the house was planted as a sapling from an acorn my cousin Heidi germinated. The house is called "Heidi's Oak"
The green car on the drive now belongs to my wife.
We moved there when I was about 17 or 18. I didn't spead my wings until I was about 25. By this time, I was working as a postman. I was in a bit of a mess at the time, and moved out because I wanted to change things.
Bedsit land. Four walls. a bed with a crappy thin foam mattress. Shared Kitchen and Toilet. Alcoholic bloke upstairs who would leave the cooker on and set the smoke alarm off. Pot-head son of landlord downstairs. I got on well with him actually :) As you can see, the house was right next to a large expanse of wildness - the Dee Marshes. A big esturine salt marsh that is theoretically tidal, but which only floods in the highest tides of the year. A hundred years ago, this was navigable. First the silt, and then the marram grass, made it what it is today.
Moving out was certainly a change in many ways, but not necessarily for the good. This was really not a good time in my life. I was a pretty strange and messed up person at the time.
Six months after leaving home, I moved back. But it wasn't ever going to be for long. I wasn't getting on with my Dad, which then caused arguments between him and my Mum. Plus, I'd made the break. It wasn't the same going back.
This time, I was unemployed, so I was limited to what the social would pay. And so once again, flats and bedsits beckoned. This time I lived at 15 Haydock Road, Wallasey, down by the banks of the Mersey. About 20 miles from my Mum and Dad's.
I might have moved quite a lot, but I haven't really gone very far. I stayed in my one little room for a few months, then I upped sticks yet again, this time about 100 yards down the road to a pokey little attic flat on the corner of Magazine Brow
See the top two dormer windows to the left? Well that was my flat. Carrying bottles of calor gas up those stairs wasn't fun. The water you can see in the background is the River Mersey. Once again, it was nice to have open space nearby.
My twenties were drawing to a close, and I'd passed most of them in a chaotic fug of alcohol and cannabis. A lot of it was spent alone. By choice. But now, I was moving again, and this time, it was with a friend. Paul, also enjoyed a smoke or three. We had a lot in common, and so we decided to get a house together. In Craven Street, in the middle of Birkenhead.
We decorated, had wild parties, got a pet cat, and a pet dog, spent our dole money on weed, and gradually came to dislike each other from spending too much time together. In the end we blew apart quite explosively, and I moved up the road to a flat near Birkenhead upper park. I got the cat. Paul got the dog.
Once again, I had some open space nearby. Directly behind the house was the upper, slightly less manicured part of Birkenhead Park. One day there was a balloon festival from there. And one of our fence panels was down, so I was able to jump out of bed and walk straight into the middle of it. I was 29 years old, and was working at last, as the manager of a charity shop.
But the shop failed to thrive and I found that it was difficult to find another job because of the amount of rent I would have to find. So I put my name on the council house waiting list, and I was happy to take whatever they offered.
This turned out to be a one bedroomed flat in Moreton, Wirral.
You can just see it behind the trees. It wasn't the nicest part of the world. The local arseholes welcomed me by smashing all my windows.
It was also the place where I finally started to dig myself out of a hole. And eventually, I met Bren, and then moved in with her, and then married her.
And I've been here for I suppose 9 years now. Literally yards from the bedsit I was living in 15 years ago. This is the longest time I've ever spent in one place, and we're likely to stay here for a while yet, although I would never rule out another move, for a whole range of possible reasons.
So there you have it. 14 places in 43 years. An average of three years in any one place. If you were to travel from one to the next, your journey would take you just a smidgen under 50 miles, at least as the crow flies, and I've ended up less than 5 miles from where I started.
This is what my life path looks like.
OK. I wasn't really. I was born in Clatterbridge Hospital, in/on Wirral.
My Mum was 20 years old, and my dad was 28. They'd just got married a couple of weeks earlier and were just starting out, living in various private rented places.
So for the first six months of my life, I lived on the top floors of a building in a rundown part of Birkenhead called Rock Ferry.
Here's what my Mum has to say about it:
Although you were born at Clatterbridge hospital we were living at 16 Queens Road. Rock Ferry. What a depressing hole. we had the top floors although only the first of those was habital. We must have been really thick as we were probably entitled to help as your dad earned £11 a week and the rent was £5.50 in new money. luckily we were only there 6 months. Good job you were a great baby and hardly cried as it was a very depressing time. I am sure you know that the saying ' money isn't everything is said by people who have never been without x
It's hard to make out exactlu where the building is situated. There are some newish houses on the even numbered side, so it may not exist any more. Here is my best guess.
From there we went to Neston, about ten miles away, and close to my maternal grandparents. We lodged in a house that was owned by a Mrs Pritchard. 6 Chester Road. Being a babe in arms, I remember absolutely nothing of my time there. The house was demolished about 20 or 30 years ago, and the space it occupied has remained undeveloped ever since.
It stood smack bang in front of where the advertising hoarding now stands. I don't know exactly how long we lived there, but I think from there we moved a couple of miles south to a village called Ness.
Street View doesn't cover the little cul-de-sac where we lived. The picture is as close as I can get.
We were somewhere over on the right I think. This little close was built around a small circular green. I have the vaguest wispiest memory of a parrot in a cage, out in the sunshine. I'm told it bit me when I stuck my finger through the bars of it's cage. It may be that the memory is not real, but stems instead from being told about it on a few occasions. Also, I'm sure my mum and dad would have made friends there, and would have returned there with me once we'd moved on.
What I can definately recall as my earliest memories stem from my time living back in Neston, in 20 Hawkins Road, almost opposite my Nana and Grandad's house.
The back garden was a mess, and as I played, I somehow managed to stand on a furniture tack in my bare feet. I was carried in by my Dad, and sat on the edge of the kitchen sink while he pulled it out. Slightly clearer in my mind is the terror of being alone in my bedroom (the small upstairs front window in the picture) while somewhere, a car horn was sounded repeatedly. As I had no idea what this was, those disembodied beeps terrified me. And on another occasion, the headlights of a car must have swept across my window. A light appeared out of one wall, rushed across the room, and vanished through the opposite wall. This was accompanied by a brief noise. To my infant senses, this too was inexplicable and monstrous. I think my parents had put a lock on the outside of my door. Presumably I was insecure, and wanted to spend the nights with them, while they thought otherwise. I screamed and cried at that door for what seemed like hours before someone came and let me out.
My Dad was by now working at a car factory in Ellesmere Port. My Mum was working part time doing bar work. They took the plunge, got a mortgage, and bought their own house. It was a new build in a little village called New Brighton, near Mold, in North Wales. It cost them £6,500. I was four and a half years old. It was 1972.
63 Moor Croft. It backed onto a slagheap and a big field. There were woodlands over the fields. I made friends, pretended to be a mountain climber, played marbles and hopscotch, went to school, first infant, then primary, learned to swim, played with matches, and went to the village shop for my mum.
Then, five years later, my Nan fell ill, and we sold up and went back to Neston so that we could be near. She died of stomach cancer soon afterwards. She was only 59.
We now lived on a small loop of housing estate called The Quillet.
Number 22, on a corner. We had a big wide front garden. Our back garden was a long triangle. We had a secret passage through to the side garden. We had a black rabbit called Sooty. We had heavy snow and threw snowballs. I had a new school, and found new friends. I played monopoly and did handstands. I tried to abseil down a 5 foot high cliff in the disused railway cutting nearby. I left primary school, and became the smallest fish in a much bigger comprehensive pond. And I hit puberty.
We stayed at The Quillet for seven or eight years I think. Then we moved again.
Not far though. Just a couple of miles down the road to Little Neston, and a newly built bungalow right down on the Dee marshes.
And my Mum and Dad live there to this day. The tree you can see behind the house was planted as a sapling from an acorn my cousin Heidi germinated. The house is called "Heidi's Oak"
The green car on the drive now belongs to my wife.
We moved there when I was about 17 or 18. I didn't spead my wings until I was about 25. By this time, I was working as a postman. I was in a bit of a mess at the time, and moved out because I wanted to change things.
Bedsit land. Four walls. a bed with a crappy thin foam mattress. Shared Kitchen and Toilet. Alcoholic bloke upstairs who would leave the cooker on and set the smoke alarm off. Pot-head son of landlord downstairs. I got on well with him actually :) As you can see, the house was right next to a large expanse of wildness - the Dee Marshes. A big esturine salt marsh that is theoretically tidal, but which only floods in the highest tides of the year. A hundred years ago, this was navigable. First the silt, and then the marram grass, made it what it is today.
Moving out was certainly a change in many ways, but not necessarily for the good. This was really not a good time in my life. I was a pretty strange and messed up person at the time.
Six months after leaving home, I moved back. But it wasn't ever going to be for long. I wasn't getting on with my Dad, which then caused arguments between him and my Mum. Plus, I'd made the break. It wasn't the same going back.
This time, I was unemployed, so I was limited to what the social would pay. And so once again, flats and bedsits beckoned. This time I lived at 15 Haydock Road, Wallasey, down by the banks of the Mersey. About 20 miles from my Mum and Dad's.
I might have moved quite a lot, but I haven't really gone very far. I stayed in my one little room for a few months, then I upped sticks yet again, this time about 100 yards down the road to a pokey little attic flat on the corner of Magazine Brow
See the top two dormer windows to the left? Well that was my flat. Carrying bottles of calor gas up those stairs wasn't fun. The water you can see in the background is the River Mersey. Once again, it was nice to have open space nearby.
My twenties were drawing to a close, and I'd passed most of them in a chaotic fug of alcohol and cannabis. A lot of it was spent alone. By choice. But now, I was moving again, and this time, it was with a friend. Paul, also enjoyed a smoke or three. We had a lot in common, and so we decided to get a house together. In Craven Street, in the middle of Birkenhead.
We decorated, had wild parties, got a pet cat, and a pet dog, spent our dole money on weed, and gradually came to dislike each other from spending too much time together. In the end we blew apart quite explosively, and I moved up the road to a flat near Birkenhead upper park. I got the cat. Paul got the dog.
Once again, I had some open space nearby. Directly behind the house was the upper, slightly less manicured part of Birkenhead Park. One day there was a balloon festival from there. And one of our fence panels was down, so I was able to jump out of bed and walk straight into the middle of it. I was 29 years old, and was working at last, as the manager of a charity shop.
But the shop failed to thrive and I found that it was difficult to find another job because of the amount of rent I would have to find. So I put my name on the council house waiting list, and I was happy to take whatever they offered.
This turned out to be a one bedroomed flat in Moreton, Wirral.
You can just see it behind the trees. It wasn't the nicest part of the world. The local arseholes welcomed me by smashing all my windows.
It was also the place where I finally started to dig myself out of a hole. And eventually, I met Bren, and then moved in with her, and then married her.
And I've been here for I suppose 9 years now. Literally yards from the bedsit I was living in 15 years ago. This is the longest time I've ever spent in one place, and we're likely to stay here for a while yet, although I would never rule out another move, for a whole range of possible reasons.
So there you have it. 14 places in 43 years. An average of three years in any one place. If you were to travel from one to the next, your journey would take you just a smidgen under 50 miles, at least as the crow flies, and I've ended up less than 5 miles from where I started.
This is what my life path looks like.
Monday, 7 February 2011
It started here...
Here, in this unassuming little end terrace.
Me and Dave dropped a tab each, and went out for a walk. Twenty minutes later, and still firmly connected to planet Earth, we arrived here,
This little pub, right down on the Dee marshes was and is stripped down to the basics. It's too small to be anything but a place to drink, so there's no jukebox. No television. No fruit machine. Just tables and benches and a bar, and in the winter, a roaring fire. But this was summer, and we bought ourselves a pint of lager each.
Now I'm not the sort of person that can let a drink go unfinished. Not unless I fall asleep, but now, I was starting to feel the first gentle inklings that the little piece of paper I'd swallowed was going to do something. We left our drinks and walked back into town.
By the time we'd reached the town centre, I was feeling very strange indeed. It wasn't a particularly nice feeling. I was a bit paranoid. A bit confused. But I couldn't stop grinning. I felt like it must be obvious to everyone around that I was as high as a kite. Like there was a big red flashing arrow in the sky above my head shouting "HE'S HERE!!! HE'S TRIPPING!!!"
But then we got back to Dave's and shut the front door, and I was able to relax.
The precise order of events is somewhat unclear. What is clear is that this was a powerful hit. I remember listening to the Psychedelic Furs, "Sister Europe" and the phase effects in the song took me with them to some place far above the earth.
My eyes were closed, yet I could see an image in my mind that was as white as snow. Then the whiteness got sucked through my eyeballs to leave blackness, which in turn sucked through to leave the white again.
There was a clock on the wall. Black hands and black roman numerals with a plain white face and a round pale wooden surround. But now the white was icing, and the hands and numerals were blurring and sinking into it. The patterns in the carpet were writhing and coiling slowly past each other, and when we moved, we left vague image trails behind us, like a Harold Egerton strobe photograph made real.
I found myself incapable of working out what to do with a guitar, and quickly gave it up as a bad job. And I laughed constantly and loudly at the whole universe for what may have been anything between 10 minutes and 10,000 years.
Somewhere in all this, I had to go to the toilet. I crawled up the stairs, and had the most amazing poo of my life. Seriously, words cannot describe the sensation of moving your bowels while you're tripping your tits off.
And somewhere in all this, the phone rang. I was in the back room, laughing my head off, and the phone rang.
Somehow I knew the call was for me, and that it was bad news. Dave answered it, and then called me to the phone.
It was my sister, Kate. My Mum and Dad had been in a car crash. Could I go down and see them and make sure they're ok?
A minute earlier, I was somewhere beyond Saturn. Now I was 100% in the here and now. I promised that I would go down and see them a bit later, but that I couldn't go right at this moment. Turns out that they got sideswiped by someone changing lanes without looking. A bit shook up but otherwise uninjured. But keeping things together while I dealt with the call was not a problem. Somehow the drug just hit the pause button until I hung up. Then I was tripping again.
We watched Copeulation, a compilation of videos by Julian Cope. In the song, "Laughing Boy", the sky was doing exactly what the sky outside our window was doing.
We watched it again a few days later, when we were straight, and the sky in the video was still doing what the real sky was doing when we were tripping. Honestly, you'd think Julian Cope had taken acid or something.
What else is there to say? At some point, things peaked. Then there was a sort of plateau phase that went on for several hours. Then gradually, things became less intense, and perhaps 8 hours after we took the tabs, I was able to go down to see my folks and make sure they were ok.
It wasn't a comfortable visit. I'd also smoked a lot of pot while I was tripping, and I couldn't find much to say. We watched a wildlife programme on the telly. (big African skies doing a little of the same weird shimmering that I'd been seeing all afternoon, and then I made my excuses and headed back to Daves.
Some time around 3pm I went to bed, and surprisingly, slept pretty much straight away.
I've never ever done it again (I tried to once, but the tab I bought from some shady shit called John turned out to be a small square piece of carboard with a picture of a strawberry on it.
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