Hey, so sorry about all the non-posting over the last few weeks. As mentioned, I've been having some technical difficulties which have now been resolved. (And thanks also to all of you who sent messages saying you were missing househusbandnot. My favourite was "write your blog you big galoot".)
So since we last spoke I've been:
1) camping with mrs househusbandnot
2) to Scotland
3) 41
On the way to Scotland, mrs househusbandnot and I went camping in the Lake District, which was surprisingly mellow. We had visions of turning up at the campsite, and being watched in the rain by seasoned campers as we bolloxed around with the ropes and pegs before giving up and retiring to the nearest hotel. But we got the tent up, and the seasoned campers left us alone (all too busy having sex with their children). And it didn't rain.
The last time I was in the Lake District was when I was about 12, but my mum had invited some freaky friend of hers who wandered around the countryside quoting Wordsworth, which - aged 12 - I found more embarrassing than anything that had ever happened to me ever. Almost as embarrassing as I would find it today I guess.
I remember from school that Wordworth's big gig was to show the link between human experience and the natural world. (This is a lie. I looked it up on the web. I don't remember anything about Wordsworth from school other than the fact he married his sister or always wore a cape or something. And anyway I go with the Martin Amis thing about poets just being wannabe authors but who don't drive so have not seen enough to write a book.) I'm not sure how much of the human experience/natural world thing mrs househusbandnot and I achieved, but we went for walks and laughed at sheep and got stared at by sullen cows, which was a nice break from our human experiences in London where you get laughed at by sheep and stared at by sullen bulls and where the only walking getting done is to offices and the supermarket and the off licence.
Then we headed up to Loch Lomond in Scotland, which is kinda cool in a run down Scottish way. And then over to Edinburgh. On the Wordsworth ticket, I was keen to show mrs househusbandnot some picturesque Scottish countryside, but the route we took from Glasgow to Edinburgh through West Lothian was just town upon grey run down town of people waiting around on the streets for something to happen - a sociologist's paradise, each day repeats. Lots of boys pushing their tired looking children around in second-hand prams and huge billboards encouraging people not to smoke heroin. We ended up eating Tesco's sandwiches in a layby, staring at rusting farming equipment and listening to threatening dogs bark at us from over the hill. Not the romantic loch-side idyll I had hoped for. Her stomach rumbling from a lack of fresh food, mrs househusbandnot made me promise to never make her move to Scotland. She said she would take up smoking heroin if she had to live anywhere we had driven through that day.
Edinburgh was quite a contrast, where we stayed in my cousin's achingly comfortable and lovely apartment on Drummond Place. We managed to avoid any Edinburgh Festival events by going to see Miami Vice at the cinema and hanging out with my cousins. On our final day in Scotland, we went on a cruise on my cousin's power boat around the West Coast, about as close a Miami Vice an experience as I have ever had north of the border.
Back in London, not sure what all the nature we took in on our holiday has taught us. Maybe to spend more time working so that we can go on more holidays. And that two days of camping is about as post-modern as any couple needs to get. And that Scotland is like the USA, with great places on the west and east coasts but not that much in the middle.
Incidentally, went to blokewhohaslotsofjobs' new exhibition last night. And saw all our urban(e) friends again, but was feeling rather divorced from the whole London thing. I guess Wordsworth was onto something. Or maybe it's the 41 blues?
Aug 30, 2006
Aug 29, 2006
Arrested Development
Despite promises of searing new posts and exciting new characters I regret to say that here at househusbandnot HQ I am experiencing compromising IT difficulties. Bear with me whilst I sort this out and will be back atcha on Friday.
hhn
hhn
Aug 23, 2006
Fear Not
Yesterday I promised some clearer thoughts and maybe some new characters after my week away, but still drawing a bit of a blank.
Before mrs househusbandnot and I went away, I was finding the daily output of househusbandnot pretty easy going and knocked them out in an hour or so every day without too much thought. But I'm still stuck here people. Just one piece of objective criticism (see yesterday's post) and I've dried.
I guess I could argue that all I have done since we got back from our holiday is paint floors and therefore don't have much to talk about. But that didn't stop me blathering on about fridges and other details of a mundane urban life in July and early August (aka househusbandnot: the early years).
I could also argue that we had such a relaxing time in Scotland that I can't summon up the angsty introspective cynic that is househusbandnot. (Yeah, whatever.)
And/or I could just stop doing househusbandnot.
But I can hear the sighs of disappointment from around the globe, the panicked wheezes from the househusbandnot junkies, the tear-arresting gulp from our friend in Hawaii, the murmurs of discontent from the campfires of the Clan Househusbandnot in Scotland, and the frustrated thump of a fist on a worktable in househusbandnot's stalker's bunker. Oh yeah, and my mother in law who told me last week she thought househusbandnot was "boring".
Re new characters, I wish I was a good enough writer to give some colour to the super-loser at the campsite in the Lake District who had called his son Tynan and was bellowing at his bored looking wife for his special tin mug in the morning. And God created Tosser. Or my cousin's husband and his story about Stanley Baxter chasing him around a sofa with a plaintive but threatening "You don't know what you are missing. I must have you." Or the bloke I overheard in a Scottish pub confessing to his friend "I thought she was shy. But then she took all her clothes off". Or the grumpy farmer who was trying to look noble and moody from his tractor when we asked him for directions, to the background music of Prince's Raspberry Beret from the radio in his tractor cabin.
I'll work on it.
Before mrs househusbandnot and I went away, I was finding the daily output of househusbandnot pretty easy going and knocked them out in an hour or so every day without too much thought. But I'm still stuck here people. Just one piece of objective criticism (see yesterday's post) and I've dried.
I guess I could argue that all I have done since we got back from our holiday is paint floors and therefore don't have much to talk about. But that didn't stop me blathering on about fridges and other details of a mundane urban life in July and early August (aka househusbandnot: the early years).
I could also argue that we had such a relaxing time in Scotland that I can't summon up the angsty introspective cynic that is househusbandnot. (Yeah, whatever.)
And/or I could just stop doing househusbandnot.
But I can hear the sighs of disappointment from around the globe, the panicked wheezes from the househusbandnot junkies, the tear-arresting gulp from our friend in Hawaii, the murmurs of discontent from the campfires of the Clan Househusbandnot in Scotland, and the frustrated thump of a fist on a worktable in househusbandnot's stalker's bunker. Oh yeah, and my mother in law who told me last week she thought househusbandnot was "boring".
Re new characters, I wish I was a good enough writer to give some colour to the super-loser at the campsite in the Lake District who had called his son Tynan and was bellowing at his bored looking wife for his special tin mug in the morning. And God created Tosser. Or my cousin's husband and his story about Stanley Baxter chasing him around a sofa with a plaintive but threatening "You don't know what you are missing. I must have you." Or the bloke I overheard in a Scottish pub confessing to his friend "I thought she was shy. But then she took all her clothes off". Or the grumpy farmer who was trying to look noble and moody from his tractor when we asked him for directions, to the background music of Prince's Raspberry Beret from the radio in his tractor cabin.
I'll work on it.
Aug 22, 2006
Characterless? Moi?
Back from my week away in Scotland and the Lake District with mrs househusbandnot, relaxed and deeply in need of some fresh food. Scottish food remains entirely flavourless and pointless - and possibly dangerous judging by a sign we saw in the window of one Edinburgh restaurant: 'Cook Wanted. Experience Of Handling Fresh Food An Asset'. They don't even do normal stuff like bread or coffee in an acceptable way. (Majority of Scottish people also appear undercooked and looking like they were mad with the wrong - or old - ingredients.)
Just as bad in the Lake District where we went for a long walk around Lake Buttermere and retired to local pub for the worst meal that anyone has ever had ever. Holiday diet consisted mainly of pickled onion flavoured crisps and diet coke, and Scotch once we got over the border into Scotland.
Am back from holiday full of thoughts and resolutions and stuff, but a little hesitant back in the blocks with househusbandnot. Will get back into stride in the next few days. (While we were away, I hooked up with a close friend who is a real writer. She told me she thought househusbandnot could be A LOT better and didn't really sound enough like me, so looking to raise the stakes in future posts. She says I need more characters too.)
Incidentally, a first post from my sister at housewifenot. should you be feeling a little short-changed by househusbandnot's somewhat muted return.
Will be back tomorrow with clearer thoughts and maybe some characters.
Just as bad in the Lake District where we went for a long walk around Lake Buttermere and retired to local pub for the worst meal that anyone has ever had ever. Holiday diet consisted mainly of pickled onion flavoured crisps and diet coke, and Scotch once we got over the border into Scotland.
Am back from holiday full of thoughts and resolutions and stuff, but a little hesitant back in the blocks with househusbandnot. Will get back into stride in the next few days. (While we were away, I hooked up with a close friend who is a real writer. She told me she thought househusbandnot could be A LOT better and didn't really sound enough like me, so looking to raise the stakes in future posts. She says I need more characters too.)
Incidentally, a first post from my sister at housewifenot. should you be feeling a little short-changed by househusbandnot's somewhat muted return.
Will be back tomorrow with clearer thoughts and maybe some characters.
Aug 11, 2006
househusbandnotless
Just when you thought your summer could not get any worse, I am sorry to say that househusbandnot is going off air for a week or so. mrs househusbandnot and I are going on a short holiday to Scotland. Will be posting again on 22nd August.
If you cannot handle being househusbandnotless, suggest you go back and read some of the cracking 31 posts I have published so far. If that is not enough, then I can recommend the following to get you through until 22nd:
1) Stalking mrs househusbandnot and I in Scotland
2) Reading a few other blogs to see what you are missing in househusbandnot's absence
3) A visit to the that monkey rescue place I mentioned a few times
4) Killing Michael Winner
5) And sending me any comments on what you would like to hear about on househusbandnot in the future, although I will have many a tale to tell after our holiday (Oh God I'm going to turn into one of those bloggers who is going to post holiday snaps on his blog....."Here's mrs househusbandnot eating an ice cream. Yum", "Here's a funny photo of a kebab that looked like the Taj Mahal", "Here's us in a pub enjoying a drink with some locals just before we lost our wallets", "Here's..." ...aaaaaaaaargh
See you the end of August
hhn
If you cannot handle being househusbandnotless, suggest you go back and read some of the cracking 31 posts I have published so far. If that is not enough, then I can recommend the following to get you through until 22nd:
1) Stalking mrs househusbandnot and I in Scotland
2) Reading a few other blogs to see what you are missing in househusbandnot's absence
3) A visit to the that monkey rescue place I mentioned a few times
4) Killing Michael Winner
5) And sending me any comments on what you would like to hear about on househusbandnot in the future, although I will have many a tale to tell after our holiday (Oh God I'm going to turn into one of those bloggers who is going to post holiday snaps on his blog....."Here's mrs househusbandnot eating an ice cream. Yum", "Here's a funny photo of a kebab that looked like the Taj Mahal", "Here's us in a pub enjoying a drink with some locals just before we lost our wallets", "Here's..." ...aaaaaaaaargh
See you the end of August
hhn
Aug 10, 2006
Eyes Wide Shut
So there was me and Terry Gilliam the film director having a really nice chat about stuff. He was much nicer than I expected him to be. He also looked a lot more like Oliver Stone than I thought he would, although he was banging on about how computer animation was killing comedy films. (He had a real thing about that new cartoon Cars.) But he was really nice, although his dressing gown was a bit short.
And he was smoking a cigar. We were in the bedroom I used to have on the ground floor of my mother's house in South London.
And we went to bed (separately), and I was thinking about how the air smells differently after it rains and wondering if I was half Cherokee or something because I could smell the weather. But it turned out Terry had dropped his cigar into a bin in the garden which had gone up in flames, and we had to get out to the garden to save my mother's dog who was pretty smoked out but still alive by the time we got to him.
And then I was watching a rugby match on TV in anticipation of playing that afternoon for a team I had played for years ago who really wanted me to play again despite my protestations that I was not fit enough for a whole game. And then we went into this large dining hall that was in an Oxford College or Hogworts or something. And the waiters kept on bringing us really tasty left overs from the top table and saying we would not have to pay for them. Terry wouldn't join us to eat and just sat in a corner saying he was too tired and needed to sleep. After lunch I lit a cigarette but Shirley Williams aka Dame Williams of Crosby got really annoyed with me for smoking, and my old boss joined in and asked me to leave.
So I went to get changed for the rugby match but kind of knew that I didn't have my boots, and so I went to a shop on the grounds of the school we were playing against, but they only had a really really expensive pair that I couldn't afford. So I went to try and find the pitch we were playing on, and these two blokes offered to show me a short cut because I was running late, and I had to help them get down a wall swinging on planks of wood that kept on falling down to the bottom of the wall. On the way down I had to push a cat off a ledge, and it was really pissed off that I had disturbed it. And there were really intense shards of broken glass all the way down the wall.
When we eventually got down to the bottom of the wall, it turned out I was still in the wrong place and had already missed kick off. So I walked down this high street where there was a great charcuterie where I was given lots of bits of smoked chicken and pie and stuff. So I ate all this food, and then went wandering along the high street to another charcuterie but the food looked really old. There were all these trussed up cooked poussin that looked really grey and nasty. And I was thinking I should not eat so much before I played rugby, and wondering if I could play in the trainers I was wearing because it was not as muddy as I had thought it was going to be. I figured that I would make the second half at least. I kept on thinking everything would be okay if my team were winning, but how annoyed with me they would be if they were losing. And then I woke up.
Writing about dreams is kind of illegal I know, but the only other thing I had going this morning was an A to Z of information I don't need, or my thoughts on different colours.
But for any of you dream readers out there: the lack of boots thing is a recurring motif in my dreams. It's based on me (in awake world) having massive feet and never being able to find the right shoes or clothes to wear. The cigars and the cigarettes is because I stopped smoking a while ago. Terry Gilliam? No idea. Shirley Williams? She turns up in my dreams quite a lot because I met her about four hours after I finished my finals at university and for a while I had a funny photo of me and her that someone took that day. The charcuterie stuff is - I guess - because I lived in Brussels for a while and I am greedy. The nasty charcuterie food is - I guess - because I feel guilty about being greedy. My mother's dog? I just miss him. I can smell the weather though.
(If this is your first time reading househusbandnot, it is not usually about vague homoerotica and pies. Honest.)
And he was smoking a cigar. We were in the bedroom I used to have on the ground floor of my mother's house in South London.
And we went to bed (separately), and I was thinking about how the air smells differently after it rains and wondering if I was half Cherokee or something because I could smell the weather. But it turned out Terry had dropped his cigar into a bin in the garden which had gone up in flames, and we had to get out to the garden to save my mother's dog who was pretty smoked out but still alive by the time we got to him.
And then I was watching a rugby match on TV in anticipation of playing that afternoon for a team I had played for years ago who really wanted me to play again despite my protestations that I was not fit enough for a whole game. And then we went into this large dining hall that was in an Oxford College or Hogworts or something. And the waiters kept on bringing us really tasty left overs from the top table and saying we would not have to pay for them. Terry wouldn't join us to eat and just sat in a corner saying he was too tired and needed to sleep. After lunch I lit a cigarette but Shirley Williams aka Dame Williams of Crosby got really annoyed with me for smoking, and my old boss joined in and asked me to leave.
So I went to get changed for the rugby match but kind of knew that I didn't have my boots, and so I went to a shop on the grounds of the school we were playing against, but they only had a really really expensive pair that I couldn't afford. So I went to try and find the pitch we were playing on, and these two blokes offered to show me a short cut because I was running late, and I had to help them get down a wall swinging on planks of wood that kept on falling down to the bottom of the wall. On the way down I had to push a cat off a ledge, and it was really pissed off that I had disturbed it. And there were really intense shards of broken glass all the way down the wall.
When we eventually got down to the bottom of the wall, it turned out I was still in the wrong place and had already missed kick off. So I walked down this high street where there was a great charcuterie where I was given lots of bits of smoked chicken and pie and stuff. So I ate all this food, and then went wandering along the high street to another charcuterie but the food looked really old. There were all these trussed up cooked poussin that looked really grey and nasty. And I was thinking I should not eat so much before I played rugby, and wondering if I could play in the trainers I was wearing because it was not as muddy as I had thought it was going to be. I figured that I would make the second half at least. I kept on thinking everything would be okay if my team were winning, but how annoyed with me they would be if they were losing. And then I woke up.
Writing about dreams is kind of illegal I know, but the only other thing I had going this morning was an A to Z of information I don't need, or my thoughts on different colours.
But for any of you dream readers out there: the lack of boots thing is a recurring motif in my dreams. It's based on me (in awake world) having massive feet and never being able to find the right shoes or clothes to wear. The cigars and the cigarettes is because I stopped smoking a while ago. Terry Gilliam? No idea. Shirley Williams? She turns up in my dreams quite a lot because I met her about four hours after I finished my finals at university and for a while I had a funny photo of me and her that someone took that day. The charcuterie stuff is - I guess - because I lived in Brussels for a while and I am greedy. The nasty charcuterie food is - I guess - because I feel guilty about being greedy. My mother's dog? I just miss him. I can smell the weather though.
(If this is your first time reading househusbandnot, it is not usually about vague homoerotica and pies. Honest.)
Aug 8, 2006
All Apologies II
mrs househusbandnot said I was a little close to the mark about lesbians yesterday (Man, she should have seen what I was going to write.) So apologies to any lesbians who do actually just go to the pool to swim rather than pick women up. Apologies also to any gay men who were offended by my remarks in the same post about being cruisey in the changing rooms.
And sorry to the old bloke for being ageist about the fact that his swimming is so slow. Go get 'em old timer. And sorry also to the posh girl who I am sure is very nice in her own posh no-concept-of-less-posh-people's-personal-space kind of way. (Actually, mrs househusbandnot is really scared of posh women, and like the horses that they look like they know she is terrified of them too. A few months ago at a restaurant with a buffet, this really posh old bird marched across the entire restaurant and bellowed "Well go on girl. Get your food" at her.)
Actually while we are on the apologies stuff, sorry also to Hawaiians who I may have portrayed as a little out of touch with the real world. And real house husbands for being rude about them being a bit too organised and anal (man, there I go again with the anti-gay stuff), and other bloggers for saying that they write rubbish about their vacations and how spritely their granny still is, and bees for implying that they are not as frightening as sharks. Jeez, it there anyone I haven't offended in the 30 odd posts I've done so far? And someone was saying the other day that househusbandnot read like anything they would read in The Daily Telegraph.
I'm not apologising to Will Self or Guy Ritchie (and I can't be bothered to go back and find the links for where I dissed them either.) They both deserve anything they get, most of all Will Self for his column in The Evening Standard. Pointless, pointless, self-satisfied, lazy rubbish. (Maybe he could take over househusbandnot while I am away next week?) And I don't take back my opinions about the Edinburgh Festival despite being there next week, where I will citizen's arrest anyone with a trombone for crimes against music and or comedy.
Actually this apologising thing doesn't really work for me because...well because I don't really mean it. But I guess I will regret saying that when I am stung towards death by Hawaiian bees, having failed to beat them off because I am exhausted by a bout of arm wrestling with lesbians in an Edinburgh pub, and having ignored a house husband's advice about always travelling with a decent insect repellent. And as I lie dying in a Scottish gutter, Will Self and bloggers alike will ignore me as they hurry to get to the evening performance by 32 Austrian tuba players of their interpretation of The Swimming Pool Library. Ahh, death where is thy sting?.
And sorry to the old bloke for being ageist about the fact that his swimming is so slow. Go get 'em old timer. And sorry also to the posh girl who I am sure is very nice in her own posh no-concept-of-less-posh-people's-personal-space kind of way. (Actually, mrs househusbandnot is really scared of posh women, and like the horses that they look like they know she is terrified of them too. A few months ago at a restaurant with a buffet, this really posh old bird marched across the entire restaurant and bellowed "Well go on girl. Get your food" at her.)
Actually while we are on the apologies stuff, sorry also to Hawaiians who I may have portrayed as a little out of touch with the real world. And real house husbands for being rude about them being a bit too organised and anal (man, there I go again with the anti-gay stuff), and other bloggers for saying that they write rubbish about their vacations and how spritely their granny still is, and bees for implying that they are not as frightening as sharks. Jeez, it there anyone I haven't offended in the 30 odd posts I've done so far? And someone was saying the other day that househusbandnot read like anything they would read in The Daily Telegraph.
I'm not apologising to Will Self or Guy Ritchie (and I can't be bothered to go back and find the links for where I dissed them either.) They both deserve anything they get, most of all Will Self for his column in The Evening Standard. Pointless, pointless, self-satisfied, lazy rubbish. (Maybe he could take over househusbandnot while I am away next week?) And I don't take back my opinions about the Edinburgh Festival despite being there next week, where I will citizen's arrest anyone with a trombone for crimes against music and or comedy.
Actually this apologising thing doesn't really work for me because...well because I don't really mean it. But I guess I will regret saying that when I am stung towards death by Hawaiian bees, having failed to beat them off because I am exhausted by a bout of arm wrestling with lesbians in an Edinburgh pub, and having ignored a house husband's advice about always travelling with a decent insect repellent. And as I lie dying in a Scottish gutter, Will Self and bloggers alike will ignore me as they hurry to get to the evening performance by 32 Austrian tuba players of their interpretation of The Swimming Pool Library. Ahh, death where is thy sting?.
Aug 7, 2006
Not Drowning
When I am not writing househusbandnot or filling out job applications or generally trying to figure out what to do next, I do a lot of swimming. (As the more loyal of you readers out there will remember, I achieved a long-held ambition the other day by swimming two miles in one session.)
I swim at a very swish club which is part of a hotel in central London. (househusbandnot prospective stalker to self: "He is giving me details. He wants me to follow him.") Well kinda swish. Like our flat, there is always something broken there. On good days it is just a couple of broken showers. On bad days it is the heating in the swimming pool, when braver people than me brace themselves for a reproductive organ freezomatic experience that would get them into the boys or girls club in most Innuit initiation ceremonies. (I've been thinking about Innuits a lot. It is as a result of watching that bloke from the TV programme Tribe who is now trying to get to the North Pole in Scott of the Antarctic's original seal-skin pants. If you are not watching this programme on Sunday evenings 1) you should 2) the huskies are winning so far.)
Anyway, when the heating is working, the pool is great, and if I time it right it is only me and that actor who played Neil in The Young Ones pottering around in a 25 metre pool with all the space we need to engage in our swimming regimes. Sometimes there are people who are staying in the hotel, but mostly it is just me, Neil and maybe a few gay dudes doing our thing.
I think swimming is the way forward. After a decent swim I feel I could take on the world, walk to the North Pole with or without fur pants, breathe air as God designed us to breathe it, and fly. Not that I was always a big swim fan (Swim Fan is a really badly excellent movie by the way.) I didn't learn until I was about nine years old, and then for reasons I never worked out I had to learn in pyjamas.
If I ever manage people again, I am going to make them go and swim at least three times a week. Not in a noncey way so that I can check out what they look like in wet pyjamas or anything. Just so they are fired up for a day's work, having had some space in their lives over and above the commute crush, the queue in Pret A Manger for a hummous wrap, and trying to get past the head of HR in the office kitchen while she prepares her chicken and chive slimasoup. (I would never employ a head of HR at househusbandnot inc. I'd just get my staff to do some sort of Innuit loyalty blood-letting ritual. Heads of HR are really weird. They look like they live in tree houses. )
I do have a few reservations about swimming pools and people who frequent them though:
1) They are monstrously cruisey. (I can only speak for the men's changing rooms here, but looking at some of the bull dykes who crash up and down the swimming lanes, I am assuming that it is the same peak-a-boo deal in the women's changing room. What is it about swimming and gay people? I guess it's just a naked thing.)
2) That really really old man who swims so slowly that you think he is actually suspended in a Damien Hirst sculpture.
3) That bloke who thinks it is acceptable for his eight year old son to swim in the lengths lanes with the same regard for us serious swimmers as an amphetamined mackerel.
4) Swimming hats. Hair on plastic just doesn't work for me, even as a spectator sport.
5) That really posh girl who does one length of crawl followed by one length of breast stroke and then a length of backstroke, all with total disregard for other people in the pool. I think she thinks she is back in Princess Margaret's pool in the West Indies or something.
I don't know what they would say about me. Oh, that fat bloke who screams "Yeah" every time he completes a length. But, hey I love it. Like management, it would be perfect if it wasn't for the (*&(*Ing people.
I swim at a very swish club which is part of a hotel in central London. (househusbandnot prospective stalker to self: "He is giving me details. He wants me to follow him.") Well kinda swish. Like our flat, there is always something broken there. On good days it is just a couple of broken showers. On bad days it is the heating in the swimming pool, when braver people than me brace themselves for a reproductive organ freezomatic experience that would get them into the boys or girls club in most Innuit initiation ceremonies. (I've been thinking about Innuits a lot. It is as a result of watching that bloke from the TV programme Tribe who is now trying to get to the North Pole in Scott of the Antarctic's original seal-skin pants. If you are not watching this programme on Sunday evenings 1) you should 2) the huskies are winning so far.)
Anyway, when the heating is working, the pool is great, and if I time it right it is only me and that actor who played Neil in The Young Ones pottering around in a 25 metre pool with all the space we need to engage in our swimming regimes. Sometimes there are people who are staying in the hotel, but mostly it is just me, Neil and maybe a few gay dudes doing our thing.
I think swimming is the way forward. After a decent swim I feel I could take on the world, walk to the North Pole with or without fur pants, breathe air as God designed us to breathe it, and fly. Not that I was always a big swim fan (Swim Fan is a really badly excellent movie by the way.) I didn't learn until I was about nine years old, and then for reasons I never worked out I had to learn in pyjamas.
If I ever manage people again, I am going to make them go and swim at least three times a week. Not in a noncey way so that I can check out what they look like in wet pyjamas or anything. Just so they are fired up for a day's work, having had some space in their lives over and above the commute crush, the queue in Pret A Manger for a hummous wrap, and trying to get past the head of HR in the office kitchen while she prepares her chicken and chive slimasoup. (I would never employ a head of HR at househusbandnot inc. I'd just get my staff to do some sort of Innuit loyalty blood-letting ritual. Heads of HR are really weird. They look like they live in tree houses. )
I do have a few reservations about swimming pools and people who frequent them though:
1) They are monstrously cruisey. (I can only speak for the men's changing rooms here, but looking at some of the bull dykes who crash up and down the swimming lanes, I am assuming that it is the same peak-a-boo deal in the women's changing room. What is it about swimming and gay people? I guess it's just a naked thing.)
2) That really really old man who swims so slowly that you think he is actually suspended in a Damien Hirst sculpture.
3) That bloke who thinks it is acceptable for his eight year old son to swim in the lengths lanes with the same regard for us serious swimmers as an amphetamined mackerel.
4) Swimming hats. Hair on plastic just doesn't work for me, even as a spectator sport.
5) That really posh girl who does one length of crawl followed by one length of breast stroke and then a length of backstroke, all with total disregard for other people in the pool. I think she thinks she is back in Princess Margaret's pool in the West Indies or something.
I don't know what they would say about me. Oh, that fat bloke who screams "Yeah" every time he completes a length. But, hey I love it. Like management, it would be perfect if it wasn't for the (*&(*Ing people.
Aug 6, 2006
Interviewnot
So, I was threatening to provide an interview with a famous sociologist and his thoughts on blogs. Well I got him (famous sociologist) sat down over the weekend in a restaurant and ran the warm up question of "What Do You Think About Blogs?" by him. He didn't miss a beat: "There are three reasons for blogs. 1) to self-justify 2) as a cry for attention, 3) and to share thoughts on your current thinking. I do the last one a lot. Have you been watching the cricket?" (James) Buzz Blunt or what? So much for the in-depth interview. (He was also sucking on half a dozen oysters at the time, which kind of added insult to my mis-planned industry.)
So, moving swiftly on from said expert's first two thoughts, househusbandnot current thinking (other than that sociologists suck - on oysters):
Just finished a job application for that job I really want. Man, is that a laborious process. I ended up sending a 13 page document back. I feel sorry for whoever has to wade through all those previous employments and relevant experiences and personal qualities and fictitious A level results. But I guess they have some sort of check list to sort out the sociopaths and pathalogical liars. I was at school with a bloke who once convinced an interview panel that he had organised Band Aid. Now there's impressive lying. (Speaking of Live Aid, my loquaciousnot interviewee was eating his oysters in a restaurant where he had previously watched Bob Geldof being turned away because he didn't have a reservation. ["Give us your &^*&^ing table".] This appealled to my bivalve-slurping sociologist friend's sense of..something.)
I tried not to lie on the job application, mostly because I am a terrible liar face to face. But also because I have some misplaced desire to work for an organisation that wants me and my experiences, rather than me and my fantasies. ("It wasn't easy I admit, but once we reached the North Pole I knew I was going to have to take over leadership of the team because I could communicate with our local guides. Amazing when a smattering of the Innuit language comes in handy. Mind you, getting Status Quo on stage at Live Aid was a whole other management challenge. And right after I had slept with Madonna...") I am probably missing a trick and should lie a bit more on job applications, and in life in general actually. Madonna, if you are reading this, your husband seems a really cool guy. Hey, this lying thing is easy.
We will see what they think of my application aka novella. I think I answered most of the questions, and mrs househusbandnot proofed out the references to 'pubic speaking", 'skulls management','in-c*&^y experience'. Fungers crissed.
So, moving swiftly on from said expert's first two thoughts, househusbandnot current thinking (other than that sociologists suck - on oysters):
Just finished a job application for that job I really want. Man, is that a laborious process. I ended up sending a 13 page document back. I feel sorry for whoever has to wade through all those previous employments and relevant experiences and personal qualities and fictitious A level results. But I guess they have some sort of check list to sort out the sociopaths and pathalogical liars. I was at school with a bloke who once convinced an interview panel that he had organised Band Aid. Now there's impressive lying. (Speaking of Live Aid, my loquaciousnot interviewee was eating his oysters in a restaurant where he had previously watched Bob Geldof being turned away because he didn't have a reservation. ["Give us your &^*&^ing table".] This appealled to my bivalve-slurping sociologist friend's sense of..something.)
I tried not to lie on the job application, mostly because I am a terrible liar face to face. But also because I have some misplaced desire to work for an organisation that wants me and my experiences, rather than me and my fantasies. ("It wasn't easy I admit, but once we reached the North Pole I knew I was going to have to take over leadership of the team because I could communicate with our local guides. Amazing when a smattering of the Innuit language comes in handy. Mind you, getting Status Quo on stage at Live Aid was a whole other management challenge. And right after I had slept with Madonna...") I am probably missing a trick and should lie a bit more on job applications, and in life in general actually. Madonna, if you are reading this, your husband seems a really cool guy. Hey, this lying thing is easy.
We will see what they think of my application aka novella. I think I answered most of the questions, and mrs househusbandnot proofed out the references to 'pubic speaking", 'skulls management','in-c*&^y experience'. Fungers crissed.
Aug 3, 2006
Another List And A Dollar
So househusbandnot has been going for around a month now, so thought I would take stock and see what it/we/I have achieved so far:
1) It has pissed off my 'feminist' sorry feminist friend. Which I wasn't trying to do. I tend to live or die by my sexism, rather than try and hide it behind my blog like Alistair Campbell. Blogfession, hmmm.
2) It has made me read a lot of other people's blogs. Not a particularly edifying experience, but I am sure the feeling is mutual.
3) It has made me realise (duh) quite how self-validating blogging is.
4) While it hasn't got me out of the house, it has got me thinking every morning. (Note to self: Read No 4 again, every morning, forever.)
5) It has made me learn html, something I guess I should have done a while back, but you know the deal. ("Oh, what should I do this afternoon? Learn html or read popbitch?")
6) It has made me realise how often I use the phrase "really really".
7)It has got me back in touch with blokeihaventseenforages.
8)It has earned me exactly one US dollar from advertising. (That's a really really low return on the time I spend on househusbandnot, but what the hell.)
9)The film rights have not - as yet - been scooped up by that ginger bloke from Happy Days who is bald now.
10)And is has solicited comment from a few freaks out there/here.
Speaking of freaks, someone was in touch about my anti-Edinburgh Festival stance. Well I happened to see some photos of this year's Festival on a BBC site this morning. Some of the captions to these photos, most of which featured someone playing a trombone, read as follows:
"Australian-based musical troupe Mikelangelo [sic] and the Black Sea Gentlemen bring their trademark brand of "gypsy cabaret" to the festival"
"Using gibberish language and a capella song, Norway's Jo Stromgren Kompani takes an unusual look at three nuns living in a remote Alpine valley"
and
"The Scottish Dance Theatre use Shakespeare's sonnets and the music of Tom Waits as its inspiration"
There is occasional truth in this self-validating exercise. I think I will give it another month, not least of all so I can keep being entertained by the spellcheck on blogger.com which just suggested "Bolshevik's" instead of "blogfession". Maybe I'm onto something here.
1) It has pissed off my 'feminist' sorry feminist friend. Which I wasn't trying to do. I tend to live or die by my sexism, rather than try and hide it behind my blog like Alistair Campbell. Blogfession, hmmm.
2) It has made me read a lot of other people's blogs. Not a particularly edifying experience, but I am sure the feeling is mutual.
3) It has made me realise (duh) quite how self-validating blogging is.
4) While it hasn't got me out of the house, it has got me thinking every morning. (Note to self: Read No 4 again, every morning, forever.)
5) It has made me learn html, something I guess I should have done a while back, but you know the deal. ("Oh, what should I do this afternoon? Learn html or read popbitch?")
6) It has made me realise how often I use the phrase "really really".
7)It has got me back in touch with blokeihaventseenforages.
8)It has earned me exactly one US dollar from advertising. (That's a really really low return on the time I spend on househusbandnot, but what the hell.)
9)The film rights have not - as yet - been scooped up by that ginger bloke from Happy Days who is bald now.
10)And is has solicited comment from a few freaks out there/here.
Speaking of freaks, someone was in touch about my anti-Edinburgh Festival stance. Well I happened to see some photos of this year's Festival on a BBC site this morning. Some of the captions to these photos, most of which featured someone playing a trombone, read as follows:
"Australian-based musical troupe Mikelangelo [sic] and the Black Sea Gentlemen bring their trademark brand of "gypsy cabaret" to the festival"
"Using gibberish language and a capella song, Norway's Jo Stromgren Kompani takes an unusual look at three nuns living in a remote Alpine valley"
and
"The Scottish Dance Theatre use Shakespeare's sonnets and the music of Tom Waits as its inspiration"
There is occasional truth in this self-validating exercise. I think I will give it another month, not least of all so I can keep being entertained by the spellcheck on blogger.com which just suggested "Bolshevik's" instead of "blogfession". Maybe I'm onto something here.
Country Life
I went down to see my friend Bad - aka Bad - for the evening in Suffolk last night, which was very mellow and pastoral.
As is usual with an evening with Bad, we:
1) Ate too many oysters
2) Drank mad drinks - sherry, vodka with Angostura bitters etc.
3) Smoked some fish (it's not a euphemism)
4) Admired his garden. He grows great stuff like loganberries (they are posh raspberries) and artichokes and fennel and figs. I asked Bad how come he knew so much about growing stuff. "Masters First Class in Tropical Agriculture," he said.
5) Talked about his kids who were away with Mrs Bad at that festival that David Cameron is threatening to attend to show his green cred. I think it is called The Green Festival. (Literal PR lot you've got there David.)
6) Discussed Bad's work, which is very cool and all about trying to create affordable housing out of used containers.
7) Discussed my work, which is currently very uncool and involving me trying to get people to employ me when all they want to do is go on holiday and forget about work for a while.
8) Took a few calls from our respective wives to make sure we were okay. (Women, huh? You and your mate try to recreate a Russian Banya in his garden on one snowy December evening, and then you burn some Calvados to see if it will explode. And they never forget it.)
9) Took a dip in Bad's new pool
10) And generally hung out and talked about life. (Bad on life: "It's not what you get at the end of it. It's how you get there." He's smoked a lot of fish over the years.)
When I spoke to mrs househusbandnot this morning before I got onto the train she asked me why I was sounding a bit flat. I think it was because I had been thinking about us getting the hell out of London and growing loganberries and figs. But when I was done talking with mrs househusband, Bad told me a ferret had killed all four of his chickens, and that there wasn't a shop within 20 miles to get me a paper to read on the train home. I'll stick to the vicarious visits rather than the full transfer for now.
(Sorry this post is a bit late today. The Badger Line train back in from Suffolk took ages and ages, and ages. I never realised quite how slowly a train could go while technically moving.)
As is usual with an evening with Bad, we:
1) Ate too many oysters
2) Drank mad drinks - sherry, vodka with Angostura bitters etc.
3) Smoked some fish (it's not a euphemism)
4) Admired his garden. He grows great stuff like loganberries (they are posh raspberries) and artichokes and fennel and figs. I asked Bad how come he knew so much about growing stuff. "Masters First Class in Tropical Agriculture," he said.
5) Talked about his kids who were away with Mrs Bad at that festival that David Cameron is threatening to attend to show his green cred. I think it is called The Green Festival. (Literal PR lot you've got there David.)
6) Discussed Bad's work, which is very cool and all about trying to create affordable housing out of used containers.
7) Discussed my work, which is currently very uncool and involving me trying to get people to employ me when all they want to do is go on holiday and forget about work for a while.
8) Took a few calls from our respective wives to make sure we were okay. (Women, huh? You and your mate try to recreate a Russian Banya in his garden on one snowy December evening, and then you burn some Calvados to see if it will explode. And they never forget it.)
9) Took a dip in Bad's new pool
10) And generally hung out and talked about life. (Bad on life: "It's not what you get at the end of it. It's how you get there." He's smoked a lot of fish over the years.)
When I spoke to mrs househusbandnot this morning before I got onto the train she asked me why I was sounding a bit flat. I think it was because I had been thinking about us getting the hell out of London and growing loganberries and figs. But when I was done talking with mrs househusband, Bad told me a ferret had killed all four of his chickens, and that there wasn't a shop within 20 miles to get me a paper to read on the train home. I'll stick to the vicarious visits rather than the full transfer for now.
(Sorry this post is a bit late today. The Badger Line train back in from Suffolk took ages and ages, and ages. I never realised quite how slowly a train could go while technically moving.)
Aug 1, 2006
Y.O.U?
I have a friend whose response to pretty much anything I say - from the mention that I once went to China to the fact I just texted someone - is "YOU? You've been to China?" or an equally incredulous "YOU? You know how to text?" So no big prize for guessing how she reacted when I told her I had created househusbandnot. (Hint: it started with "YOU?" and ended in "blog?".) Incidentally, you should check her blog at www.oneglove.co.uk It looks more like a website to me, but hey what would I ("YOU?") know.
I wish I was as surprised by me as my friend is. Being English - well Scottish actually ("YOU? You're..." yeah yeah yeah, alright already.) - I've usually procrastinated so much about everything by the time I actually do it that I am rarely surprised by anything.
There have been some recent exceptions to my no surprises existence:
1)Realising that there is absolutely no difference to the pleasure gained from eating a standard-sized Magnum to a mini Magnum (If you are reading this from America, a Magnum is an ice-cream over here rather than a gun. Ironic, huh?)
2) That monkey rescue centre I mentioned the other day.
3) www.oneglove.co.uk aka completelynutsam.
4) How infrequently househusbandnot has been syndicated to major newspapers around the globe since it bounced into the world a month ago.
5)A ginger-haired bloke on the bus the other day who was mumbling about "600 years of history, and still he hasn't come back". And if you'd seen him people you would know he was talking about Satan rather than Jesus.
6)blokeihaventseeninages' loyal reading of househusbandnot. He doesn't know this, but I still laugh most weeks about an afternoon I spent with him in a pool hall in Norwich 20 years ago making up comedy names for people we were at college with. Good training for househusbandnot.
7) How I swam two miles the other day, and managed to walk unaided to the changing rooms (where I collapsed in a puddle of blubbery self congratulation).
8) The strength of my wife's desire for me to like aubergine dip as much as she does.(Babe, it is *&(^%ing disgusting. It tastes like burnt monkey tail.)
9) How often the rules for recycling change. Take lids off all bottles, wash all clear glass, don't wash anything that is glass, magazines but no books, only put green glass in with your used mobile phones, no Pringles tubes please, dead polar bear collection only by special arrangement etc etc etc. It is truly surprising that they have not sorted this out yet. We want to recycle. Please make up your minds and we will do it.
10) Quite how short my previously quite long telephone conversations are with my mate Jim since I started househusbandnot - "youmentionedthatontheblog", "iknowaboutyournewtableireadaboutit", "youhavenoconversationleftgoodbye". Minutes, seconds of conversation, where we used to ramble on for hours.
I think there should be more surprises in life. Like caped villains, nature programmes, free things, puppies, and cocktails, you can't get enough of them nowadays. I'm going to go on a surprise hunt for the rest of this week.
I wish I was as surprised by me as my friend is. Being English - well Scottish actually ("YOU? You're..." yeah yeah yeah, alright already.) - I've usually procrastinated so much about everything by the time I actually do it that I am rarely surprised by anything.
There have been some recent exceptions to my no surprises existence:
1)Realising that there is absolutely no difference to the pleasure gained from eating a standard-sized Magnum to a mini Magnum (If you are reading this from America, a Magnum is an ice-cream over here rather than a gun. Ironic, huh?)
2) That monkey rescue centre I mentioned the other day.
3) www.oneglove.co.uk aka completelynutsam.
4) How infrequently househusbandnot has been syndicated to major newspapers around the globe since it bounced into the world a month ago.
5)A ginger-haired bloke on the bus the other day who was mumbling about "600 years of history, and still he hasn't come back". And if you'd seen him people you would know he was talking about Satan rather than Jesus.
6)blokeihaventseeninages' loyal reading of househusbandnot. He doesn't know this, but I still laugh most weeks about an afternoon I spent with him in a pool hall in Norwich 20 years ago making up comedy names for people we were at college with. Good training for househusbandnot.
7) How I swam two miles the other day, and managed to walk unaided to the changing rooms (where I collapsed in a puddle of blubbery self congratulation).
8) The strength of my wife's desire for me to like aubergine dip as much as she does.(Babe, it is *&(^%ing disgusting. It tastes like burnt monkey tail.)
9) How often the rules for recycling change. Take lids off all bottles, wash all clear glass, don't wash anything that is glass, magazines but no books, only put green glass in with your used mobile phones, no Pringles tubes please, dead polar bear collection only by special arrangement etc etc etc. It is truly surprising that they have not sorted this out yet. We want to recycle. Please make up your minds and we will do it.
10) Quite how short my previously quite long telephone conversations are with my mate Jim since I started househusbandnot - "youmentionedthatontheblog", "iknowaboutyournewtableireadaboutit", "youhavenoconversationleftgoodbye". Minutes, seconds of conversation, where we used to ramble on for hours.
I think there should be more surprises in life. Like caped villains, nature programmes, free things, puppies, and cocktails, you can't get enough of them nowadays. I'm going to go on a surprise hunt for the rest of this week.
In The Round
So it's August, which like oysters is impossible to pronounce in French.
I am waiting in for a kitchen table to be delivered. I got cold feet about making a table. I think I was punching a little above my ability as a carpenter on this one, having only ever made a box that didn't close properly in woodwork at school about 25 years ago. I also figured out why I wanted to make the table in the first place.
When I was at university I was really in love with a girl who had what I thought was rather a pointless boyfriend (well I would wouldn't I). He was always turning up at weekends from London and either whisking the object of my desires off to London, leaving me to listen to Smiths records (LMTLTSR) or hanging around at her place at university, LMTLTSR. Anyway, they finally split up just after we graduated, and I went round to her place on her birthday in August with a gift (almost certainly a Smiths record). But that (*(*&^% had made her a table for her birthday, and it was very very beautiful. (I bet his wooden box closed properly too.) They got back together.
So in some mad way, I have always thought making a table would be the most romantic thing any man could do for any woman. But back in the real world, I figured that it did not justify me spending money on wood that I was only going to turn into a giant game of Spillikins/Pick-Up-Sticks.
Now, as you know mrs househusbandnot does read househusbandnot. And you may be thinking that I should not be writing about people I used to fancy for her to read about. But she admitted to me last night that she was so in love with a bloke at school that she helped him finish his play about a group of people who survive a nuclear war, and took it to the Edinburgh Festival. It was called Behind The Sun or something equally meaningful. And they performed it 'in the round' so that the audience would feel more closely involved with what was going on on stage (less able to exit to pub before first interval more like).
I don't think there is any moral to these tales of hand-made tables and ham-made dramas, unless I am missing something. I did ask mrs househusbandnot if she would dig out Behind The Sun for review, but she was not playing, unless I made her a table, and matching chairs, or a life size replica of HMS Victory.
In other August news, I have my birthday this month. Same day as Martin Amis, Elvis Costello, Ivan The Terrible, Claudia Schiffer and Cardinal Richelieu (who presumably could order oysters in a French restaurant without the waiter thinking he was inhaling a wasp).
I am waiting in for a kitchen table to be delivered. I got cold feet about making a table. I think I was punching a little above my ability as a carpenter on this one, having only ever made a box that didn't close properly in woodwork at school about 25 years ago. I also figured out why I wanted to make the table in the first place.
When I was at university I was really in love with a girl who had what I thought was rather a pointless boyfriend (well I would wouldn't I). He was always turning up at weekends from London and either whisking the object of my desires off to London, leaving me to listen to Smiths records (LMTLTSR) or hanging around at her place at university, LMTLTSR. Anyway, they finally split up just after we graduated, and I went round to her place on her birthday in August with a gift (almost certainly a Smiths record). But that (*(*&^% had made her a table for her birthday, and it was very very beautiful. (I bet his wooden box closed properly too.) They got back together.
So in some mad way, I have always thought making a table would be the most romantic thing any man could do for any woman. But back in the real world, I figured that it did not justify me spending money on wood that I was only going to turn into a giant game of Spillikins/Pick-Up-Sticks.
Now, as you know mrs househusbandnot does read househusbandnot. And you may be thinking that I should not be writing about people I used to fancy for her to read about. But she admitted to me last night that she was so in love with a bloke at school that she helped him finish his play about a group of people who survive a nuclear war, and took it to the Edinburgh Festival. It was called Behind The Sun or something equally meaningful. And they performed it 'in the round' so that the audience would feel more closely involved with what was going on on stage (less able to exit to pub before first interval more like).
I don't think there is any moral to these tales of hand-made tables and ham-made dramas, unless I am missing something. I did ask mrs househusbandnot if she would dig out Behind The Sun for review, but she was not playing, unless I made her a table, and matching chairs, or a life size replica of HMS Victory.
In other August news, I have my birthday this month. Same day as Martin Amis, Elvis Costello, Ivan The Terrible, Claudia Schiffer and Cardinal Richelieu (who presumably could order oysters in a French restaurant without the waiter thinking he was inhaling a wasp).
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