dkpw – Wicked Fire

As part of my new regime, I’ve bought a couple of audio books to listen to when pounding out the miles. I’ve just finished Pride and Prejudice, which was beautifully read by Lindsay Duncan. The recording was unabridged and lasted about five weeks, so was excellent value.

I’ve bought a couple more for the weeks ahead, Emma read by Wanda McCaddon. I very nearly went for the same novel read by the lovely and normally, very well spoken Jenny Agutter. Sadly the sample clips revealed that she was reading at too great a speed and with little differentiation between the characters. Such a shame as an Agutter – Austen combination would be a perfect fit in so many peoples’ minds.

My other book is a perfect fit – The Hitch-hikers’ Guide to the Galaxy read by the splendid Mr. Stephen Fry. He was friends with Douglas Adams, and shared much in common; wit, secularism and a love of all things Apple. It’s therefore highly appropriate that he is reading his friend’s work, and he does it so well.  The laconic, sardonic humour is perfectly expressed by SF – so much so that I’ve caught myself laughing out load as I troll round Inverleith Park of an evening.

This can cause trouble, as I’ve had some strange looks as I’ve either laughed out loud or stupidly stifled a smile, only for it to become a smirk, when approaching wheezing, misshapen, lumpen female joggers. Clearly they think I, Adonis like, am laughing at them. I’m not but I’m sure it will get me a a kicking one evening.

In case you  have not read, or re-read THHGTTG recently, I thought I would share this atheistic display of wit and logic from the guide about the Babel fish:

“Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindboggingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as the final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God. The argument goes something like this:

`I refuse to prove that I exist, says God, `for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’

`But,’ says Man, `The Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. QED.’

`Oh dear,’ says God, `I hadn’t thought of that,’ and promptly vanished in a puff of logic.”

Oh, that was easy,’ says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.

Please see any of Richard Dawkins’ books, but particularly the Blind Watchmaker, for a more complete, if slightly less witty refutation of the argument for “Intelligent Design.”

My grandmother was always careful about visiting the lavatory when in a curry house.

She was a pish wary nan.

It’s festival time in Edinburgh, so this week, I shared a taxi with…

Christopher Biggins

and Sue Perkins.

Well, this is not strictly true. I was in the same cab as Chris and Sue, AFTER they had been in it. Oh, to think that my buttocks have rested on the same seat as Sue’s pert bottom and Biggins’ flabby arse. This is what gives living in Edinburgh the frisson, the buzz, the glamour – sharing arse space with minor celebs.

According to my driver, one of the reasons Biggins’ arse is flabby, is that he picked him up on George Street and drove him to his next destination on George Street. Now that’s either vanity, not wanting to be bothered by the “little people” or extraordinary laziness – potentially both. Such are the circles I travel in.

I was out with the DarkStars on Monday in the sunny town of Peebles.

We ambled, gambolled and perspired (mostly me) along the banks of the Tweed in the town’s park, when Mrs. Darkstar spotted a large Grey Heron coming towards us. We were all armed with cameras, but by the time we managed to frame the bird, it was past us and heading towards the upper branches of a pine tree on the far shore. Even at maximum zoom, it was a tiny, grey, indistinct smudge in my viewfinder.

Mrs. Darkstar laughed cruelly at our catching only the arse end of the bird. Surely this mockery, was a small token of revenge for the hours she’s been forced to endure birding in the biting wind, rain, sleet and darkness each August in Lochinver for the last 10 years. She may be justified…

However, but in a moment all that was forgotten, as a joyous cry arose – as did the heron. It obligingly flew directly over-head and with only nano-seconds available I fired off a burst from the trusty Canon. I manged to get this shot which although over-exposed, which normally happens when you shoot the sky, is in focus.

Sadly I only had the 24-105 zoom on, the 200 would have been superb. Still I’m quite pleased with it. I need to work on my post production skills to get the best from the camera. It will be a labour of love.

My second day of child care was slightly less successful.

I planned a trip to Whitby (I say Whitby) partly because I had thought there would be a pleasant beach for Emma to paddle on, there was the Bram Stoker literary connection and the fish and chips are legendary.

We had a pleasant drive from Leeds, which Emma timed on her new watch, it was a slower than expected hour and a half, at 1 hour, 58 minutes, 17 seconds. My excuses for the slow driving were the numerous caravans we crawled behind, very twisty roads, as well as the mist and the rain. Just as we were arriving in Whitby, Emma announced that the blisters on her feet had burst. Sure enough the stigmata like callouses had oozed small blood trails over and down the upper surfaces of both feet. The blisters had been both caused and burst by the very flip flops she had now discarded in the foot-well of her seat.

A sultry, humid and steamy Whitby.

I, knowing the Emma is an intelligent child asked her where her socks were, and what other shoes she had brought with her. Obviously she had brought nothing but the friction educing, foot-shredding flip flops. Traipsing around Whitby in those was out of the question, as was now a visit to the beach. A panicked phone call to DarkStar brought derisive comments about my lack of parenting skills, laughter and the suggestion that I buy some cheap shoes and socks. Whitby may have many things, mostly old people and fish and chip shops, but an obvious childrens’ shoe and sock seller was not one of them.

I parked up in the station car park, and we visited the supermarket to see what they had. Nothing suitable was the answer. So Plan B was put into operation, “Patch and Mend.” We bought some plasters and iodine antiseptic spray. Back at the car, I realised that I didn’t have any scissors with which to cut the strip plaster, the ones I had with me were in a bag in Leeds. So….. off to another shop, we found some scissors for a pound. Luckily these were razor sharp and so dangerous they were tied to the packaging and each handle with police quality plastic restraints. Ironically these could only be removed by another pair of scissors. Thinking outside the box, I used a key to saw off the restraints and at last, after an hour of dithering, I could tend to Emma’s feet. A couple of squirts of iodine, the application of plaster strips and I was now confident that I could return Emma to her parents without her feet looking like raw mince.

The flip-flops and plasters – I did a good job if I say so myself.

Time at last to move off and visit Whitby Abbey, scene of Dracula’s landing in England.

Well, actually, No!

The car I hired is fitted with an electronic handbrake. This is simply a button. You lift the button to engage the brake and drive off using the clutch and accelerator and the brake is automatically released.

That worked going forward, but what about reversing? What about reversing on an incline? What about reversing on an incline when a Mod has parked his Vespa about a foot away from your front bumper? What about reversing on an incline when a Mod has parked his Vespa about a foot away from your front bumper and every time you try to rev up, the handbrake releases itself and you move forward closed to the front wheel of the Vespa?

This was not fun.

Emma, who had been counting every time I swore or ranted at another driver, managed to tot up quite a few good ones during this performance. I tried it one last time, but still the fucking car went forward. I stopped, got out and saw that I was literally an inch from the Vespa’s wheel. I could not try again. If I could not go back, I would have hit the bike, and seeing how today was going, that would happen just as the Mod came round the corner with 30 of his machete wielding mates. Also the parking attendant was looking at me.

I couldn’t move the bike, for the above reason and as the Vespa already had a ticket there was no telling when the owner would return. Logically, the Police were my only option. I was given the non-emergency number by the visitors’ centre and proceeded to grovel in the most humbly apologetic manner I could. Naturally enough, they at first thought I was taking the piss. “You want us to send a police officer to help you with your handbrake!?” I explained that I did, as I was an inch from the bike. The parking attendant was now listening in. She agreed that we could not move the bike, just in case. The police said they would ring back. They did and said that I should call the hire company. I lied and said that I had. If a very nice officer could come and help me say move the bike, it would take about 20 seconds of their time.

Eventually a very nice officer did come and help. We moved the bike and I showed him what the car was doing. He’d never seen one with an electronic handbrake and accepted that I should not actually be charged with wasting Police time. Phew. Emma was very well behaved and remembered as previously prompted, to thank the very nice officer as we drove off to the Abbey. We had passed the “attitude test.”

We parked up at the Abbey, in the now sweltering humidity and headed towards it. Seeing that the price for entry for an adult and child would be a massive £10, I managed to divert Emma to have a short walk around the walls of the site. Being an intelligent child, who nonetheless managed to bring only the footwear which had shredded her feet, she did agree that £10 was far too much to look at that old ruin in detail. We were compensated by seeing some baby swallows flitting about and headed back to Whitby for some lunch of fish and chips.

The style of architecture known as Gothic-conservatory.

Considering it’s their national dish, the English severely fuck it up. Why in the name of all that is culinary, do they leave the bloody skin on one side of their fish? It’s not a fillet of fish, because you’ve only done half the job. Who in their right mind wants to eat partially cooked fish skin? I don’t and neither did Emma. The lovely Geordie (all right Teesider) parking attendant, recommended Magpies fish and chip emporium, while we were waiting for the police to turn up.

Back in town the holiday makers were four deep on each pavement, all of them were in the queue for Magpies fish and chips. Sweating like a bastard, I was surrounded by bluff Yorkshire folk, rough Teesiders, countless children and irritated mothers all deciding what to have. The humidity was at 96%, it was 23 degrees and when I was near the door of Magpies, that must have doubled. I asked Emma what she wanted to eat, “Cod and chips.” Big sign on the counter, “No Cod.” Brilliant! Two haddock and chips were ordered and consumed al fresco. Sad to say they were very disappointing. I know I’ve been spoilt by the excellence of our Italian fish and chip shops in Edinburgh, and admitting that tastes and methods vary, even Emma brought up on the sub-standard English variety rated the meal as poor.

Before the queues started…

We moved on to the top of the town to see what amusements we could find.

At last, a successful move. In the cooling  sea breeze, there was delicious ice cream to be enjoyed and crazy golf was played. Emma lost, as despite my considering golf to be “the game that style forgot” – my Uncle’s putting tutorials came back to me, and I improved with every hole. Sadly unlike just about every child around me, I did not achieve (fluke) a hole in one. Despite the inducement of a second ice cream if she managed it, Emma also failed.

I was reassured to see that this was a quality establishment, endorsed by one of golf’s finest names. I hope Arnold does not charge them too much in licensing fees.

After the difficult windmill hole, the 6th was a simple par 2.

The “18th” green.

After the golf it was time to return to civilisation, well Leeds. We went to the pub, and I introduced herself to the delights of lemonade and lime, something her parents had bizarrely failed to do.

At last, returned safely once again to the bosom of her family, Emma enjoyed an evening of playing Angry Birds and poker. She recklessly folded pocket kings in the face of a big bet from myself, mind you I had hit a set of 5s. Worse was to come, as “the rabbit hunt” revealed that the turn would have been a K and she would have won all of my money. Nonetheless she did go onto win. Carrot fajitas and a small amount of booze saw the end of my stay in Leeds with the ‘Stars.

I set off the next morning with two impeccably ironed shirts courtesy of Mrs. DarkStar. I didn’t recognise them!

This was my first day in loco parentis. Mr. & Mrs. DarkStar had to return to the bowels of the NHS while I and Miss DarkStar entertained ourselves.

We travelled early into the centre of Leeds for some retail therapy. Despite the provision of precise directions to suitable car parks, the sat nav and myself were not up to following DarkStar’s instructions and ended up in a desolate building site riddled with pot holes, passing itself off as a car park and charging £5 for two hours and £8 for more.

I owed Emma a birthday present. She had previously expressed interest in a clock, but had already acquired a radio controlled clock for her bedroom. So a far more suitable option was, of course, a Baby G-Shock. We had seen a couple of she liked on Amazon and we ventured to the shops hoping to match her expectations, with a view to shopping on line if our hunt was unsuccessful.

After a couple of abortive attempts at some of Leed’s higher end watch emporia, we found the ever popular H Samuels stocked a good range of Gs, including three or four Baby Gs. I stupidly suggested that Emma, as a 9 year old girl might like to try on the pink one. WRONG. Bring forth the blue and white model! She tried it and liked it. Ker Ching – sale! Emma is now a member of the G-Shock gang. For those of you interested in such things she discerningly chose, a Casio Baby G BG-169A-6VER in blue with the bull bars and the excellent 2156 module. This will serve her well while on holiday, swimming, playing tennis and at school. The best thing is that when you press the back light button you see an animated dolphin swimming!

We refreshed ourselves at a Starbucks (Emma had a carmel-mocha-pocha-latte-frappachino – I had coffee) and spent some time reviewing the Baby G’s many excellent functions.

We spent an enjoyable couple of hours wandering around Leeds’ finest shops and Emma ended up with some dragon’s egg bath bombs and a sparkly mouse from Lush, as well as a purple top from Fat Face, in addition to the watch. We were going to look at some book shops but Emma declared herself “shopped out” and in need of an Angry Birds fix.

We headed home, where she jacked up on the iPod.

She could not indulge herself for too long, as we had a date at the cinema, Toy Story 3 in 3D. I’ve seen the previous episodes and so despite my normal distaste for the American cultural imperialism pumped down the world’s throat by the decadent capitalist running dogs (Hollywood and Disney) I actually enjoyed the final part. No, I did not cry.

Returning home, Mr. & Mrs. DarkStar were relieved to find that their house was still standing and that their daughter was alive. To celebrate the avoidance of catastrophe, they most graciously took me to Adriano’s for some lovely veal. As a confirmed watch freak, I was pleased to hear the Maitre’D say to Emma, “That’s a nice watch!” Good spot Adriano.

More poker was had after our meal, I think I won, but again a surfeit of booze has dulled my recollection. I do know that I assisted Mrs. DarkStar to sign up and create an account on PokerStars, much to DarkStar’s perturbation and trepidation.

Today’s theme is birds.

First and of the highest importance to Emma DarkStar, was the purchase by her father of the iPod hit game, Angry Birds. I can attest to the almost instantaneous, crack-like addictive qualities of this game in adults. What the hell chance does a 9 year old girl have? None.

Having drained two iPods of their charge, we managed to persuade Emma to come out for a trip to spot some real birds at the RSPB reserve at Fairburn Ings. We’ve been before, but never at this time of year and in this weather, sunny but oh so humid. The place was packed not only with normal people but also those from Castleford and seemingly countless ginger children!? WTF. There were many young birds on the feeders and in the grounds. Although mostly the usual suspects, the best spot was easily a Green Woodpecker, which flew strongly in front of us deep into the flora. That was very nice and my first.

We returned home and DarkStar began preparing for our barbecue. With an inevitability only found in episodes of Terry and June, he called us to our seats and the rain began. Luckily it was merely a passing shower and in the end we did enjoy our burgers, sausages, chicken and salad in the garden. Helen DarkStar has kept in it excellent nick, and the triffid, together with all the other plants are literally blooming.

There then followed an evening of poker. Due to the amount of alcohol consumed I cannot actually remember the results, but I think I won. I stand to be corrected by Emma who was the only sober player.