Twenty Minute Shag

It was September 1981, I was at Edge Hill teacher training College, reading Mathematics and Art and learning how to Kayak.

The campus swimming pool was our venue, Tuesday nights, training kayaks and lots of time to practice being upside down and drowning. It was inexpensive and an hour and a half of eskimo rolls and swimming with eyeballs full of chlorinated water always resulted in a great yearning for a pint in the college bar.

A couple of pints of Double Diamond and that great swim weary, relax feel, would always go down well, and lets be honest, we were the college Kayak guys and gals. Wacky swim hair, lots of laughs and beer, our own niche in the bar.

The memory of that one night will stay with me until I die, the cute, young funky girl who came in with her friend after a night out in Ormskirk, her drift over to the kayak group and the grabbing of me, the old blonde guy (I was almost 24 and she was 17) and that relaxed feeling of it all.

"I've had a bottle of wine and we had to hitch back"

"I've been kayaking for an hour, wanna half of lager?"

She accepted, I bought her a lager and she plonked herself on my knee and we had a giggle.

About five minutes went by and I squeezed her boob.

"Stop that, it's making me really randy"

How can any man follow an instruction like that?

Within fifteen minutes, much to her mates annoyance, we were in her dorm room, having a great shag. I was back in the bar about half an hour later with the team and she was in her dorm room sleeping off her wine.

It was funny at the time, because she was megga cute, was in my Art group and seemed to really like me when she was sober, but, unfortunately it was a one off thing, never repeated.

However, when I look at the timing of it all, I believe that the evil Karen came along about the same time, typical of the girl over the last twenty-five years, always stopping me from having sex with other women...

Wax on, wax off

If anyone was listening, I'd take a vote.

But, my single reader has said that I'm veering off the path and not being nostalgic, I'm just becoming more bitter and twisted and ready to CILL my landlord.

Sorry, me bad. Too much of them and not enough me.

So, no vote, but I'm going to start waxing again, thought, as I'm a horny old bugger to start reminding myself of all the women I've had, or not had, or wished I had.

Seems like a topic.

Food network

I'm watching the food channel, I live my life through a young man called Kevin Brauch who has a program called "The Thirsty Traveler" and in this episode he's in South Africa, quaffing Amarula Cream Liqueur and eating roasted banana's with liqueur and fresh cream.

Thirty minutes ago, he was in Alaska, drinking beer, steering a kayak around glaciers and eating salmon and crab. Hob-knobbing with brewmasters and hanging with brewery owners.

Imagine that for a job, cruising the planet and being paid to drink.

Being paid to drink and eat.

drink, eat and travel, free, with pay.

He probably hates his job.

Schedule this.

It may be a sign that I’m getting very old, but every day here in the salt mines I find the frustration associated with the new, latest and greatest system, is growing.

There was a time, when we where young and foolish, that we’d do a bit of rewarding engineering and create a viable part, watch the thing grow in the workshop and eventually see the component or assembly off flying somewhere. There would be strength and fatigue tests, sometimes the occasional surprise and a redesign, but often everything was just plain old fine and we’d move on to the next challenge.

Not any more.

In the early 1990s, there was a scent in the air that things were going to change, it was decided in a dark, smoke filled room somewhere, that engineers had to be relabeled as a resource, and that resource could be managed, and of course, micro-managed. It feels like over those fifteen or so years, each individual engineer has been enhanced by the addition of at least two, maybe even five managers. All who will do their best to slow the process down so that it’s done properly, and if it’s not done properly they will produce the appropriate document or manual to ensure things fit with the global ideas of a progressive and harmonized company.

If it ain’t broke, they’ll break it.

And they will tell their managers, higher in the food chain, that everything is fine and can be done on time, even when the loaded bus is teetering precariously on the edge of an Italian mountain road, they assume someone will drive on and things will be just lovely.

We cannot do that any more, besides having no traction with the wheels hanging out in thin air, all the managers are sitting at the back, wondering why we’re not getting anywhere, reading their owners guides with respect to the importance of an efficient yet tidy bus and the application of correct windscreen washer fluid specifications and standards.

Meanwhile, on the driverless bus to nowhere, the engine is completely seized and gravity is about to do it’s magic.

Are we there yet?

A job to do.

This weekend was the first on our own for the last six weeks, and what did we do?

We worked in the garden, and it was our garden, not some wrecked bad tenant yard, it was our personal wrecked space (because, the time we've been there, things have deteriorated here).

And we improved it, and it felt excellent. Veritibilly, Billy-bob.

Of course, as we were here and not driving around Oshawa, we could actually garden and partake of the red wine and a bit of cheese at the same time.

An excellent combo.

It's not the most efficient way of doing yardwork, tends to deteriorate later in the afternoon towards sitting on the deck and looking at what we did a few hours ago.

Better than real work and there will be more, next weekend.

Wine of course.

Done the Malls

I think I mentioned before that, as a few of us have planned our escape from the POW camp, other inmates, who had met their sell by date, have negotiated their way back into the huts by convincing the guards that they’re much happier being a prisoner.

Ron, who was 65 a couple of months ago, retired and then returned last week. I met him by his cubicle and told him I was proud that he’d escaped retirement, that I’d not met many people who had achieved that feat, or fate, whatever you want to label it.

He said, “I’ve had my five weeks, I’ve done all the malls” and was “glad to be back”

As a relatively naive 48 year old, I hadn’t realized.

Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I need to rethink.

Think.
Thinks.
Thunk.

I have to get out sooner before these wise old idiots reprogram me.

22 months and counting.

Paint no more

Its been over three weeks since I last updated the blog, a delay caused by the endless amount of jobs that had to be done to fix the house. The jobsite was actually cleared up on Sunday, leaving a clean house that was once again, at peace.

I hope it sells quickly, to a loving couple that will raise a couple of sprogs who can enjoy the garden.

I hope it’s not bought by someone who just wants to flip it for a quick profit, but if they do, hopefully they’ll sell it to the previous couple.

But, at the end of the day, what will be, will be. It will sell to whoever and we can transport that cash out to our land in BC and move on with our own story.

Tonight will be the third night without a paintbrush in my hand, I’ll replace it with a nice cold beer.

Cheers.