Sunday, January 29, 2012

On the move.

A week ago I got a letter through the door. It was from my letting agency. There were twenty three pages in the A4 envelope, but I only needed to read the first one. The lady who owned my flat wanted to move back in. I've to be out of here by April 10th.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a bit annoyed but sur' what can I do? My lease is up, and I can't exactly tell the owner to sit and swivel. But, the more I think about it, the more I realise it's an inconvenience at most.
Moving's not that big a deal for me. I've had a lot of practice. Since I went to college when I was 18, I've moved... oh... nine times? It's grand. The move itself can usually be done in two or three days. Prick over and back yourself with some stuff on your day off. Rope in a few friends, one with a car. Buy everyone a rake of pints for helping you. Tip to the nearest Tesco and buy teabags.
Spend the next week waking up in a strange bedroom in a state of panic.

I like where I live right now, though. I live in a nice wee flat twenty minute's walk from the city centre. I've a spare room and a sofa bed, handy for having friends over. And I've made it my own. I bought wee sets of shelves, throws for the sofa, put up photos and stuff. I'm kinda comfy.
The place is costing me a bomb, though. I could easily be paying £60, maybe £70 less a month somewhere else. I can afford to live here, I'm on a decent wage, though I can't help but feel every pound I pay in rent is a pound less I have towards a deposit for when I eventually get off my arse and buy a place.

BUT the place has changed me a bit. This is my first time living on my own and, since moving her a year or so ago, I've become more antisocial. I still go out, I still see people but I'm too content going home to my wee flat on my own and sitting in watching a DVD boxset. Fuck, it's what I'm doing right now. (Real Steel, just so you know.)

The last place I lived, when I first moved to Edinburgh, was great. I'd a sound flatmate I still see a fair bit. It was good having someone to talk to, someone to discuss the big issues with (Call of Duty MW2 vs Call of Duty World at War, blue label milk vs green label milk etc.). Someone to have a bottle of beer with at the end of the day. It's hard to say which I'm happier with, living alone or with a flatmate. But I think I was healthier, at least from a mental health perspective, living with someone. So maybe I'll start looking at the 'Property to share' section of Gumtree.

Anyway, that's what's happening in my life right now. Not the funniest stuff I've ever written, but I reckon it's important you folk know a bit about who's writing this crap. Just a humble grizzly bear-wrestling, devestatingly good looking optometrist who needs a new place to live.
G'dluck.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

My idea.

Okay, so here's something I'd like to do sometime.

I'd start by monitoring Edinburgh Zoo's website for news. I'd be looking for a very specific topic: A pregnant giraffe. I could be waiting years. Doesn't matter. I'd potter away at my current job, waiting for the news to come. Those giraffes have to get pregnant sometime. When Maisie (you try come up with a good giraffe name) the giraffe gets pregnant I go into action. I apply for  job in the Zoo. Don't ask for much money, spend the whole interview talking about how I love animals and how I know Bill Oddie.
They'll hire me. They'll have to hire me. Can't risk annoy Bill Oddie.
I'd work for a year or so, giraffe gestation is about fifteen months. I'd rise up the ranks, get more and more responsibility and access throughout the zoo.
Then, when Maisie goes into labor, I'd run into the shed among all the vets, point at her and shout:
"SHE MUST BE HAVING A GIRAFFE!"
My work done, the vets of Edinburgh Zoo's sides split with laughter at my thoroughly witty joke, I'd leave and go back to optics.



I didn't say it was a good idea.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

New passport.

I've sent my passport off to be renewed. No longer must I walk through customs with a picture of a 17 year old child in my pocket. A beardless, fresh-faced child with an enthusiastic smile and fuck all knowledge of optometry.
Soon I'll have a more up to date passport. One with a photo of a 26 year old man, sporting a well maintained beard with a look of despair and weariness in his eyes and slightly more than fuck all knowledge of optometry. Big pair of eyebrows too, they've come a long way since me teen.
.
It's been niggling away at me for ages now. I nearly didn't get into India two or three years ago, man at customs asked every question he could pronounce and got his friend over to look at me for a while too. I'm going to America in mid-March to see my brother, so I want to have it done for then. Should all be done by February, I reckon.

It does mean I'm grounded, though. I've no real plans to go anywhere right now but the fact that I can't fly anywhere means I'VE NEVER WANTED TO FLY SOMEWHERE MORE IN MY LIFE. I'd fly to flipping Shannon Airport and spend the weekend eating black toast in Lough Derg if it meant I could get out of this country.
It's a bit like that chilli pepper in my fridge, back there in the bowl with the tomatoes. I don't particularly want to eat it. It's getting a bit shriveled up now, should probably go in the bin. But if you told me I wasn't allowed to eat it it'd be in my mouth before you had the full stop put at the end of your sentence.

Oh, sorry about the unimaginative post title. Was gonna mull it over for a while, see if something clever came up but nothing did.

Whisht, kettle's boiled. I'll talk to ye later.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

J-

I was walking home earlier this evening when I saw two young men standing near a traffic light, looking a little clueless, trying to read street names in the darkness of a January evening. As I approached, I could see they were pretty well dressed and looked like someway decent folk. The taller of the two raised his eyebrows at me in a "Could you help me?" kind of way. I wandered over. I was crossing at this junction anyway.

"Sorry sir..." American accent. This wasn't going to end well. He continued "...but have you thought about how, in these times of hardship for so many people, that maybe the answers lie in the Lord J-".
I bowed my head, as if a headache just kicked off between my ears. Raised my hands a little and mumbled "Sorry, not today" before he got to finish his question. I went to cross the street, the man had just turned green (The traffic light man, not the Jehovah's Witness, although that may have brought me back to religion. The ability to change colour to match my surroundings would be an excellent super power to have. I'd endure a few masses if superhuman abilities were on offer. Don't bullshit me with "everlasting life", that doesn't count.)

I crossed the street, so did they. I walked a little faster, but SO DID THEY. I walked past some people on the street. Two girls at an ATM. Some loud Italians at the bus stop. A young couple coming out of the shop. None of these people were asked about God, the two sets of footsteps behind me no quieter than before.

These men wanted my soul, and they wanted it bad. I crossed the street, nearly home. Didn't look back as I crossed. Went to take the penultimate corner before my flat and quickly checked behind me. A blown-over wheelie bin.

Across the street, outside the Harp and Castle pub, the two young men had stopped an old woman who'd come out for a smoke. She raised her hands and shook her head. They walked on, and I went home.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Scrape scrape scrape.


That's the sound of me scraping the bottom of the barrel. To be honest, it could be the sound of me scraping many things. But today, it's the barrel. Only ten posts in and I have NO IDEA what I should write about.
I was gonna rattle on about my Christmas. Maybe upload half a dozen photos, list off all the wonderful people I spent time with. Eh, no.
I was gonna set out my year. I've a busy year. Two weddings, a skydive and a trip to California. I was gonna talk about this. Not today.
I was gonna review a film or two, maybe a game. But again, no drive. Then, as I walked home yesterday evening from a busy day buying shelves and eating Big Macs, it hit me. My purpose. Tomorrow, I told myself, I would review apples.
Brave, I know, but stay with me. It's the new year. People are panicking. Nicotine patches are flying off the shelves, McDonalds are pushing the salad option and half of HMV's shelves have Davina Mc-fucking-Call on them.
An easier option would be to just eat more apples. BUT WHICH ONES?
Now you're talking.
That's the flimsiest excuse for a blog post I've ever had. But sur' I'm halfway there, lets kick on and upload some pictures:
Apple 1- Braeburn.
Braeburn's a fine starter apple. You can get a bag of them in any half decent supermarket. They're not a pretty apple, mind. You won't pull women eating Braeburns. I'll show you prettier apples later on, but this is definitely a good apple to start with if you're new to this whole fruit and veg thing.
Taste-wise, it won't knock your socks off (your ankles are too fat for that, maybe you need to eat more apples), but it's a safe bet. Like if someone sent you out for cereal and you came back with Corn-Flakes. They wouldn't tell you to keep the change like if you came back with Cheerios, but they wouldn't tell you to go fuck a lawnmower like if you came back with All-Bran. It's a safe apple. It's probably fed to people on life support.
(It's worth mentioning that, while you'd get to keep the change if you came back with Cheerios, there'd be significantly less change. It's not a black and white decision.)
Apple 2- Golden Delicious
You know something? As I was thinking about writing this earlier today, I was looking forward to it. I was looking forward to listening to a Chemical Brothers album and tapping away at my keyboard whilst sipping green tea. I thought up the above cereal analogy while waiting for the printer to print a prescription and smiled to myself. (I rarely smile to anyone else.) But then I thought of something. And my smile vanished. Remember, it was an inside smile. The chap waiting for his prescription didn't notice a thing. I'm a professional, like.
Anyway, the reason my smile vanished was I remembered I've have to buy a golden delicious apple to write this thing. I hate golden delicious apples. I hate their colour. It's a sickly, jaundiced yellow. It's like a faded high-vis jacket a tramp wears while pissing in a bin.
It tastes like a potato pretending it's an apple. It's all flourey and sweet and, blah. Get this thing off my table.
I said a braeburn apple was like coming home from the shop with Cornflakes. A golden delicious is like coming home with a wheelie bin full of dead crows.
IT'S THAT BAD.
Apple 3- Gala
Gala apples, like their name suggests, are a bit of fun. Never too big .You can hide a gala apple in your sock if you're trying to sneak an apple into a shindig. Carry a big obnoxious apple in your hand (That gimpy dope of a golden delicious above is a good fall guy, nobody cares if he finds his way into a bin.) They'll take that and presume you're now appleless, leaving you free to ride the bouncy castle and have a cheeky apple in the jacks.
They're a good looking apple, too. Redder than braeburns above. Not a whole lot of difference in taste. Not as far as I can tell, anyway. I'm not great at tasting things, like. Every glass of red wine I've put down my trap has been "not bad", "fruitey" and, if I'm really pushed for another adjective, "red".
That said, there's one apple that stands out proud from the rest. Let's bring in the granddaddy. Or, rather...
Apple 4- Granny Smith
Oh yes. This is why we're all here. If you're brave enough, tackle this beast of an apple. Anything decent that's apple flavoured is Granny Smith flavoured. (I'm going solely on Mickey Finns apple sours and applejack sweets). Colour-wise, it's downright electrifying. It glows in the dark.
It's not going to apologise for being green.
Fuck you, you apologise for not being green. That's what I it might say.

Granny Smith apples are like going to the shop for cereal and coming back with STRIPPERS.

ONE WARNING, though. There's a very fine line between a big Granny Smith apple (Jackpot!) and a cooking apple. Usually, cooking apples are ugly lumps of things that look like they've been beat with the leg of a table and granny smiths are, well, just lovely. But you can, and do occasionally, get a good looking cooking apple. If it happens, just go with it. It's like a rodeo, it'll try to throw you, but if you keep at it you'll be proud as fuck. You just ate a cooking apple. See all those people clapping? That's for you. Now pick yourself up off the floor of the bus, it's your stop.