Decision Time

As you might have realised, I am firmly established in the "grumpy git" category of mankind. I seem to have made that transition from benevolence to malevolence with an ease which encourages me to research my family tree under B for Borgia in order to find Great Aunt Lucrezia and prove that evil thoughts are a work of gene-ius.

Sadly, my frustration with all the petty annoyances of life is not outwardly manifested. Oh, to be one of these people that can shout and cause trouble at the drop of a hat. I tend to use subtlety which, of course, goes over the heads of many but has the advantage of making me feel better without risking an admonitory smack in the face from the recipient of such comments. Sometimes, of course, the object of my wrath is not eligible for the mot subtile and this is where the laser cannon comes to prominence. "Eh? Laser cannon? What's the stupid old duffer chuntering on about now?" I hear you ask. Allow me to elucidate.

Let us say that an old, red BMW comes down the road. It will have the obligatory twat in the go-faster sunglasses driving (usually way over the speed limit). It will have the obligatory "long blonde hair, short dark roots" bimbo beside him and also 20, 000 watts of drum 'n bass pounding out and leaving a trail of pedestrians wondering why their ears have suddenly started bleeding profusely? I could scream something subtle as he flashes past ("Tosser" springs to mind) but I gain far more satisfaction from imagining my laser cannon in my arms, sighting along the barrel and then watching the aforesaid vehicle explode into a million tiny pieces.


It helps me get round Scummerfields as I decimate the queues of people in front of me buying their pack of Golden Virginia and £2.30 a litre bottle of Serbian vodka. The satisfaction as I lay waste the rabble around the Reduced section before strolling through the smoking bodies to take my pick of the out of date coleslaws and pro-biotic drinks is almost palpable.

OK, you've got the picture now so I can get to the nub of the matter.

This morning, whilst out strolling, I was passed by a Suzuki Vitara (you know, the cheap one that tries to pretend it's going to be a 4x4 when it grows up). As it drove past, I noticed it had written on the rear window, in large pink letters, "Powered by Fairy Dust". Naturally, without even thinking, I hoisted my laser cannon to my shoulder and, just as I was going to pull the trigger, I noticed a Liverpool FC sticker in the side window. My finger hesitated and I was faced with a tough decision.

Anyone who admits that they are a total and utter loser by mentioning fairy dust really deserves oblivion. It's classified under the same sub-section of Life as sweet-looking animals on nightwear and talking baby talk to adults.........however, there must be a semblance of intellect there somewhere if they support the Reds unless, of course, there is a man around who has vainly attempted to give the Vitara some semblance of machismo. In the end, I pulled the trigger rationalising that, if she was a Liverpool supporter she was fatally flawed. Were he to be the fan then the loss of his sticker was a small price to pay for ridding him of someone who likes fairy frigging dust!

Life is all about decisions. We make them and we live with those decisions. I have made many wrong ones but today, when I returned home, I strolled in safe in the knowledge that I had provided yet another contribution to making the world just that little bit better.

If you want fairy dust then might I suggest something like this is far more appropriate!!

Precious Moments

I'm sure that many parents will agree that there is a direct relationship between growing older and embarrassing one's children. When they are little, they are happy for you to whirl them around, play on the swings with them, dash around like a mad thing and generally fulfil the role of entertainer until that fateful day when they utter the dreaded words which will become oh so familiar over the following years.........."Dad, you are SOOOO embarrassing!".

It's quite strange that, the more they want you to stop, the more the desire grows, for example: my daughter and I might be wandering around the supermarket and I might do something perfectly innocent like suggest I practice my Hunchback of Notre Dame impression. My beautiful little girl fixes me with a steely gaze, her lips tighten and she hisses at me "Dad, if you even try, I promise you I am walking out of here.". I admit that there are times when I might just have gone a bit too far but anybody would think that they are under the impression that I am nothing other than a staid, well-behaved and placid oldie. I really wonder from whence this impression arises (teehee)?

Master and Miss Bassett are now 22 and 18 respectively and, sadly, I have to admit that the days of playing Hide and Seek or them joining in the "Don't Walk on the Cracks in the Pavement" game are now gone but I feel the need to embarrass them just one more time (although there are still my speeches at any future weddings to look forward to!!).

The reason for this embarrassment is because I just wanted to place on record my pride in their achievements.

Today, Miss Bassett became the official recipient of A Levels in English, Law and Psychology and has gained her place at Brighton University where she will be undertaking a degree in English Language & Linguistics. I always hoped that she would go to Uni as it was something that I was not allowed to even attempt. The fact that she has inherited her Dad's love of words is even better. Congratulations, sweetheart, you deserve your success - now go and enjoy it.

Master Bassett is a different kettle of fish. He has more of a natural ability rather than a scholastic bent and decided, after his first year of college, that he wanted to progress through his own efforts rather than waste time learning 'irrelevancies'. At the time I was quite happy for him to go along that route as I had the confidence in him. He had always wanted to become a police officer and, as of 1st October, his wish becomes true. I have total admiration for the way that he has gone for his dream and the first time I see him in uniform will be a big moment for me.

All in all, it's been a satisfactory time where the offspring are concerned. Sure, lots of people go to University and there are a fair numbers of coppers around but the fact remains that 2 of them are mine.

It's funny; in my head I can say a million words that describe the love and respect I have for them yet, for once, I can't seem to put those thoughts on paper. Suffice to say, well done and may your future's be all you wish them to be. We're incredibly proud of you both and I'm sure that your grandparents will be looking down with pride also.

Charity Begins at Home

Once upon a time, I was a young boy. I know the thought of this mature, august countenance as a tousle-headed, freckle-faced youth is a bit hard to bear but yes; a boy I was. This isn't something that will surprise most people - it's one of those strange aspects of Life that we are born young and get older but I preface this particular blog in such a way for a reason.

In those long-past days one had very little compared to the present. Things lasted longer and we "made do". Clothes were passed down through the kids (thank God my older sibling was male!), toys were played with for many years, adults would sit around the television watching Billy Cotton's Bandshow on the one solitary channel and the only exhortations to buy were the local shopkeeper tempting the shopper with the promise of some lovely fresh sausages.

Then of course we got commercial television and the wonderfully exotic adverts persuading us to buy new and exciting products like Coco Pops, Fairy Liquid ('for hands that do dishes') and Smarties. The Milky Bar Kid became the hero of us all and we ran to the shop clutching our 3d, having fallen under the influence of early marketing. Time passed and the marketing industry became more sophisticated until we reached that stage where we became inundated with pleas to buy everything from holidays to health products, cosmetics to caravans and eye surgery to iPods.

This consumer society meant houses were filled to bursting with all sorts of "must collect" products which, once they got home, quickly became "dust collect" products until somebody had a bright idea - charity shops! Suddenly, houses were quickly emptied of products and a whole new era of shopping heaven was born. Those first charity shops tended to be full of very old books, yoghurt makers and quaint clothing but it was still a chance to browse through for the odd treasure. Time passed and it seemed that every empty shop became the repository of abandoned goods for some charity or another. There were bargains aplenty and it enabled people on a lower income to perhaps benefit as well as providing funds for the charities in question. Of course, it also enabled quite a few people to make a fast buck as they quickly realised that the charities hadn't really appreciated just what a gold mine they were sitting upon.

The reason for all this? I have to confess, I can't walk past a charity shop without popping in. As I walk through the door, there is a frisson of expectation and, more often than not, I emerge with something or other. Of course, the charities are a lot more slick these days and siphon off the good stuff but my 'treasures' are of the simple variety such as books, games, LPs,; perhaps even memories of times gone by that just have to be bought.

When I was doing my regular Quiz Nights, there was a constant source of reference material, when I went through my jigsaw period I couldn't resist several puzzles at a time, if I suddenly become fond of a particular author then I will scour the shops for their work. Last visit, we returned with the following:

• An unusual copy of Alice In Wonderland
• Jane's Aircraft Recognition Guide
• "The Office" Scripts
• A Terry Pratchett hardback (yep, there are still a few hardback editions I haven't got)
  
• A book on watercolour perspectives, and
• The one Bill Bryson I needed to complete his entire collection
  

It's quite interesting how trends change in charity shop bookshelves. Once, every shop would have plenty of Geoffrey Archer novels and it would be a matter of honour to spot one before we left (I never bought one - honest!). It was an arbiter of the day to come and, should I occasionally find an Archer-less shelf, I knew that the day was destined for mediocrity. Nowadays, it's The DaVinci Code and the game is to see how many I can find in one shop (current leader is Lewes Oxfam with 4 copies!). I'm often to be seen browsing through the kid's books as well, looking for Famous Five, William and other gems of my youth.

There has been the occasional embarrassment as well. One in particular occurred when I saw a very sweet rubber duck (have I told this story before?). Brand new and still in its box, I took it to the sweet little old lady at the counter and explained how pleased I was to find it as such things gave Mrs B a lot of pleasure and she had a large collection. It was only after, when we opened it, the we found it was actually a novelty vibrator and the duck's head was not quite the shape that we envisaged! Needless to say, I haven't ventured into that particular shop subsequently.

To those of you dear readers that enjoy charity shops, help me beat the DaVinci Code record. To those of you who don't, please bear them in mind that us poor addicts need your cast-offs. Might I suggest Help the Aged as your chosen charity as I may well need them in the near future!

I'd love to know what your "best buys" have been. Feel free to leave a comment :-)