tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20764124494859839712024-03-04T23:49:11.137-08:00The idle musings of HendoHendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-48397081990896296062012-11-09T14:15:00.001-08:002012-11-09T14:17:21.723-08:00<p>I'm hovering. How is this possible?</p> <p>I'm looking across the city that I love but seeing it from a brand new perspective. The people below me are going about their lives, oblivious to or disinterested in my presence as they scurry to and from their intended destinations. Is this normal? Nobody seems startled or alarmed. I don't remember being able to do this before and it seems at once both strange and completely natural.</p> <p>I look left and see a large multi-coloured wing. To my right, yep there's another one. I don't feel like I'm doing anything, but they seem to be keeping me in the air. </p> <p>My arms hang loose by my sides. Slowly I raise my right arm - bit of a wobble there but I'm still upright. Now I lift my left arm, and suddenly feel a bit silly - hanging here with my arms above my head. Still no wobble though.</p> <p>From my unique (to me at least) vantage point I can see over some of the buildings nearby but not all of them. "How do I get a bit higher?" As I realised I'd have that thought, I started to ascend slowly: now I can see over a few more buildings.</p> <p>"Hmmm, that seems easy enough. Now, how do I turn?"</p> <p>Slowly I start to rotate. The tallest building is behind me now and I'm seeing crystal-clear blue sky and the lazy river stretching across my field of vision with its network of road and foot bridges teaming with rush-hour cars and pedestrians. "Well, I don't know how this has happened but I don't think I want it to stop." Still nobody seems perturbed. There's nobody else up here either, just me and the birds.</p> <p>"Aw wait a minute! Did I die and get reincarnated? Calm down, do any of the other birds have arms and legs?"</p> <p>I decide to try something. Rotating slowly till I face the tallest building, I lean forward. Not bending at the waist, but moving slowly from the vertical to the horizontal planes, I start drifting towards that building. I hover over the building, then gingerly touch down on the roof of it.</p> <p>"So, this flying stuff isn't so hard, right?". I spend a few minutes drinking in my latest view, and marvelling at my new-found view over the city's historic west-end, towards the university that's what, 700 years old? Suddenly I have a crazy thought and leap from the edge of the building - as I start to fall, I catch myself and hover directly outside the office block's windows - I can see in and nobody is concerned. I can also see my own reflection, and it's definitely me alright, albeit with these magnificent wings. I swoop over to the motorway overpass, executing a graceful landing before taking off once more, bound for the roof of the library. This is so much fun. I wish my wife was here.</p> <p>My wife?</p> <p>I'm lying next to her - she has most of the covers whilst I've got the bed sheet that I need. The room is bathed in sunshine and I'm late for work...</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-92191791130248403232012-10-19T16:57:00.001-07:002012-10-19T16:57:24.226-07:00Banks (or Why Today Sucked!) Part 2<p>I thought I should perhaps give you a quick update on how this panned out. Not because I feel the banks deserve equal representation, but in case you’re interested.</p> <p>A few days after I posted that previous blog entry, I got a phone call from someone at the customer complaints team. They’d been trying to contact me all day but because I was buried in work I couldn’t take the call. Anyway, the gentleman I spoke to seemed genuinely concerned with my issue, and seemed to understand why I was so pissed off. I’ve worked on-line in call-centres and I know the training you get for talking difficult customers down so perhaps he was just flannelling to mollify me – either way I wasn’t actually that agro at the time so it was fine. Anyway, he asked me what I wanted to get from my complaint and I told him that I wanted a written apology and a guarantee that the issue would be looked into. Who was I kidding? A written apology MIGHT happen, but investigation into the issue wouldn’t happen.</p> <p>The written apology DID happen. About a week after I spoke to that guy, I got a letter through apologising profusely for my inconvenience and promising to investigate my complaint in more depth. Also as a token gesture (their words not mine), they would be crediting my account with a small amount by way of an apology. Since no charges were levied against my account (I was largely complaining because of the possibility of charges rather than the appearance of them), I’m going to take the receipt of £35 as a personal victory.</p> <p>So there you are people: if you’ve got a complaint about your bank, don’t bitch at your partner (which I did) or your workmates (yeah, did that too). Instead, bitch at your bank. If you can keep the language fairly civil (insulting but not abusive which is unusual for me), you’ll stand a good chance of being heard.</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-74349317835176525092012-09-12T14:43:00.001-07:002012-09-12T14:43:01.916-07:00To the 96<p>We witnessed the carnage, we saw the devastation<br>We read about drunkenness, blame and The Truth<br>At long last we know what we've always believed<br>That the Bizzies were corrupt, all the way to the roof</p> <p>The 96 sleep and they'll never return<br>The families can cheer, have their day in the sun<br>The guilty should rot and Fourth Estate burn<br>And Kelvin MacKenzie should turn round and run</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-60487591475260757502012-09-10T11:36:00.001-07:002012-09-10T13:21:48.098-07:00Banks (or Why Today Sucked!)<p>For a long time I’ve known that I hated banks. I don’t know when I came to know this, but the banks in this country never fail to annoy me.</p> <p>I’ve been a customer with the Bank of Scotland for more years than I like to count. In that time I’ve had numerous arguments with them about my bank accounts. Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not some sort of financial whiz, but I like to think I’ve got a fairly tight rein on my own finances. When Bank of Scotland merged with Halifax Building Society and then were later taken over by Lloyds TSB, I’d rather hoped that their ability to handle money would be improved. How wrong was I?</p> <p>Anyway, not to give away too much information about my personal finances I have three accounts with The Bank of Scotland, one of which is used to pay all of my regular monthly Standing Orders and Direct Debits. One of those Standing Orders goes to my ex-wife and it’s caused me trouble in the past when that money hasn’t been transferred when expected.</p> <p>Last year, my ex-wife got in touch with me to let me know that she hadn’t had the money she was expecting. She wasn’t angry per se, but wanted me to try and get the issue sorted out. After a bit of back & forth with the bank, it transpired that because the Standing Order that credits my bill payment account couldn’t go through until the Monday morning (3rd) and the bank won’t honour the outgoing Standing Orders until the day AFTER the cash has credited my account. So in the end, I arranged that if my money gets transferred IN on the 1st of the month, the money to my ex-wife won’t go out until the 2nd of the month. Stick with this, it gets better.</p> <p>This morning I got a call from Cat to say that I’d had a letter from the bank advising non-payment of the Standing Order to Carla. After no fewer than FORTY MINUTES, I had established that the Bank of Scotland actually makes up the rules as it goes along. First of all they tried to tell me that they don’t transfer money between accounts at a weekend, despite evidence that I was able to provide that contradicted this. Also, they’ve tried to tell me that the payment to my ex-wife was never scheduled to happen on the 2nd of the month, basically that I’d never changed the Standing Order instruction. However the same person was at a loss to explain how there had been a period of about 5 months where the money HAD been taken on the 2nd of that month. The response to this was that the 1st must have been a holiday Monday, but that stopped when I rhymed off the months where the 1st of the month was a mid-week.</p> <p>The upshot of all this? The girl at the end of the phone finally took the hint and lodged a complaint with the complaints department. I spent 40 minutes on hold with the bank while the call handler <strong>consulted</strong> with the complaints department rather than transferring the call. People, I’ve worked for more than 18 years in the Call-centre industry and I can tell you, I’ve had some angry customers on the phone. I always found that the best way of mollifying a customer was to transfer him/her to someone that could deal with the complaint. If nothing else, it got them off MY back.</p> <p>Watch this space. I’ve given the bank 7 (calendar) days to come back to me and explain what gives them the right to alter my bank account arrangements without my express permission. I may have thrown in a few choice insults about Victorian banking methods and the fact that they seem to switch their bank systems off on a Friday evening. Either way, let’s wait and see.</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-81612911282425827892012-09-09T14:57:00.001-07:002012-09-09T14:58:03.897-07:00Yay, the Olympics are finished!!!<p>Ok, I’m prepared to believe that I might be the only person in the country that’s glad that the Olympic and Paralympic Games are over. I’m not a killjoy, nor am I a totally cold-hearted individual, but here’s my thing:</p> <p>As most people that will know me will attest, I’m not a fan of sport. I used to play football with some of the guys from work once a week and I’ve been a member of a gym for the past 7 years, but I’m really not into team sports, especially not watching it. So imagine the hell I’ve had to put up with this year – almost from the moment the Scottish football season ended, we had Euro 2012. No sooner did that end than we were headlong into the Olympic Games that already feels as if it’s been on since this time last year. Then a fortnight’s break and we have the Paralympics. </p> <p>Don’t get me wrong, I understand the obsession with sport. I don’t subscribe to it, but I understand it. For some people, their sport is like my music and television.</p> <p>To finish, I’d like to cite Adam Hills. As many of you who HAVE followed the Paralympic coverage will know, he hosted a show on Channel 4 called The Last Leg (presumably named as a play on words around his own prosthetic limb). They used to run a segment on Twitter entitled “Is it wrong to…?”. So, in that tradition, is it wrong to see the closing ceremony of the Paralympics on the TV and think “Thank God!!”?</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-65138211615096504412011-02-23T13:32:00.001-08:002011-02-23T13:32:46.647-08:00In Memory Of…. Alec “The Producer” Cooper<p><font face="Calibri">Just a quick post tonight. Earlier on today, a good (I’m not going to say “old” because he’s 18 months younger than me) friend posted a message on Facebook inviting people to join him for a drink this evening and mark the day 11 years ago when a friend passed away.</font></p> <p><font face="Calibri">In all honesty, my first reaction was one of disbelief at the length of time involved, although when I sat for a second and thought about where I was living and working at the time, I realised that it was 11 years right enough. Shit.</font></p> <p><font face="Calibri">I came to know Alec Cooper through my friendship with Alan. Alec was a part-time DJ who used to love mixing music for his friends and revelling in their enjoyment of his sometimes really eclectic and random mixes. He wasn’t much for going out clubbing but when we could persuade him to, he’d be the life and soul. My memory of him is as a really funny guy. Not a comedian per se, but just someone who could deliver a dry one-liner and have everyone in stitches. </font></p> <p><font face="Calibri">I will never forget the night eleven years ago when Alan phoned me to say that Cooper was dead. He’d committed suicide and none of us had seen it coming. He was clearly burdened and didn’t feel that he could turn to anyone, so took what he felt was the only way out.</font></p> <p><font face="Calibri">Whatever it was that troubled Cooper, he will undoubtedly have ended up in a better place as a result of his death. I like to think that wherever he is, there’s an amazing party in progress, and he’s smiling his enormous smile.</font></p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-18977392367886098572011-02-22T13:50:00.001-08:002011-02-22T13:50:31.343-08:00Tuesday 22nd February 2011<p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Don’t worry dear reader, you haven’t lost a day somewhere along the lines. I didn’t write anything yesterday for a variety of reasons, primary of which was that I couldn’t motivate myself to do it. I’ve decided to rethink my approach to this blog a little bit: if I can’t be motivated to write then I won’t. That may seem lazy, but I’m concerned that if I force myself to post something, I’ll end up posting something dull.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Besides, other than the fact that it was Monday (always a drag in my head) there wasn’t a lot going on. Cat was working until later because she teaches on a Monday night so I was only in the house about 40 minutes when she phoned to tell me which train she’d be on.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Off on a quick tangent here: when I woke up on Sunday I had a ringing in my ears. This isn’t terribly unusual: we’ve all had raucous Saturday nights out in a club and woken up on a Sunday to discover that our eardrums haven’t forgiven us yet. The thing is though, although I was out on Saturday night, I wouldn’t have described the pub as particularly noisy. Anyway, Cat was in the kitchen last night whistling, and the noise hurt my ears so I decided to make an appointment to see my local GP. I’m not generally one for running to the doctor’s: in fact, I used to joke about seeing the doctor once a year whether I needed to or not. Maybe that’s a guy thing, I don’t know. Anyway, I rang my GP this morning and got an appointment for tonight (got lucky there – registered with a practice that runs early and late appointments once a week for those of us that work. Didn’t know THAT when I joined them). According to my GP, I have slightly swollen eardrums (possibly due to a mild infection) and the potential for fluid build-up in the auditory canals. I’m not on antibiotics for it, so hopefully the ringing will stop and my hearing will improve. </font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Something interesting (and I think funny) just occurred to me. When you’re a smoker, everyone who either has never smoked or who has quit will queue up to point out the damage that you’re doing to yourself. And they are of course right (he says, staking his claim for the moral high-ground). I’ve now been a reformed smoker for more than five years and wouldn’t go back to it for all the money in the world. Actually, given what they charge now for a 20-deck, you’d need all the money in the world to support that habit. Here’s the kicker though: when I was a smoker I was horribly prone to catching colds. Usually by the time I got to the end of March, I would have had 3 or 4 colds since the previous Christmas. I’d wake up, spend 3 or 4 days walking around like a human snot-ball and then it would clear up. These days, I get one cold a year but the downside is that I spent about 3 months “building up” to getting a cold, then I get a bit blocked up and think I’ve got away with it, and then it hits me like an express train when I’m not looking. Last year, I felt a bit crap about a week before my birthday, recovered in time for my birthday and then spent about 3 days on the couch (during my time off work of course) unable to function properly.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">I’ve heard it said that most men are lousy patients. I try not to agree with such (normally feminist) sentiment but on this occasion it’s right. Because I don’t get ill very often, it tends to hit me hard when I do and yes, I’m a whinger. </font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">By the way, I’ve always liked the phrase “reformed smoker”. Back when I started driving taxis in late-1998, I generally only drove for one person and she was militantly anti-smoking. She would never miss an opportunity to give someone grief about smoking and of course, she would NEVER allow someone to smoke in her car. Anyway, I did a couple of shifts for someone else and one night I was sitting on the rank when a girl I knew approached the car from the back and climbed in. She asked me if she could smoke and when I hesitated, unsure about how to answer this, she told me that Roger (the owner of the car) would normally let her. So I decided to let her smoke but made a mental note to check this with the man himself when I took the car back. Besides, it meant that I could have one with her.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">When I took the car home to Roger, I asked him what his position was on passengers smoking in his car. His response was that he’d been a reformed smoker for 20 years and that smokers are basically like alcoholics: a man that drinks a bottle of scotch a day would be considered an alcoholic. If that man then got clean and never touched a drop for the rest of his life he would still be considered to be an alcoholic, albeit a reformed one. According to Roger, although he’d been off the fags for 20 years he was still a smoker, it had just been a long time since his last one!</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Good night.</font></p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-63874689681190653332011-02-20T10:08:00.001-08:002011-02-20T10:08:40.408-08:00Sunday 20th February 2011<p>Ok, so in my blog entitled “Friday 18th February 2011” I said I was in a bit of a downer but couldn’t put my finger on why? Cat and I had a full scale blow-up this afternoon, mainly because I was being an arse. I’m not going to get into the details of it but the upshot of it was that I ended up in floods of tears for what I thought was no good reason.</p> <p>As we were sitting in the living room in the aftermath of my explosion, Cat and I talked through the possibilities for why I was so pissed off. We ruled out the house, the cats and Cat herself, but then she put forward a suggestion. Was I missing dad? Did I want to be able to talk to him, and have him see our new flat and so forth? It might sound strange, given that this year marks the fifth anniversary of his death but she was so spot-on it hurts.</p> <p>About 10 days ago I was going through an old expanding file that I had, and throwing out some of my really out-of-date paperwork. I’m a horrendous hoarder and there was stuff in there from at least 10 years ago, stuff that had no sentimental or other value so I was merrily binning it. Then I found two letters, both written to me by each of my parents. </p> <p>This is a bit hard for me, so bear with it. I’m not sure if I’ve told this stuff before so if I have then please forgive me. When I was married, there was a lot of bad blood between my then-wife and my parents. Most of it was a clash of personalities but there were a lot of nasty things said on both sides. I was torn between retaining a healthy relationship with my parents, and defending my wife. I also tried my best to make sure that both of my parents saw my baby son, despite my wife’s efforts to make sure that didn’t happen. Long story short, I was spineless. I should have been a lot more forceful in defending the relationship that I had with my parents, and in making sure that they had as much access to my son (their first grandchild after all) as his other grandparents had. Anyway, I don’t remember the exact details that prompted my parents to write these letters (one from each of them incidentally) but as I read them the other day I wished, perhaps for the thousandth time, that I had some sort of time machine so that I could go back to when that stuff all started and either stop it from happening or at least be more of a man about the whole thing. As I read dad’s letter to me, I could hear his voice narrating it and I could picture him sitting in the dining room with his word processor as he typed it. </p> <p>This afternoon, Cat suggested that I talk to dad. I think the suggestion from her was that I could do that out loud and probably fill in the blanks in the conversation. Probably good therapy, but the trouble is that I wouldn’t hear his voice. The only time I’ve heard his voice in my head was last week when I read back that letter. By rights, the letters should all be destroyed because they point to an episode in my life that I’m not in the slightest bit proud of. The thing is though, I’ll keep them so that I can hear dad’s voice.</p> <p>In case you’re wondering, when my now ex-wife and I split up, I went back to my parents’ house with my tail between my legs and was welcomed with open arms. I was never judged or criticised, although there were times when dad and I would have heated discussions about what had happened. I said “sorry” on more than one occasion, but always wish I could do more to express my regrets. </p> <p>I’m not really a religious person, but if there is some sort of afterlife to look forward to, I hope dad can see the life that I’ve made for myself with Cat, and the home that we’ve bought and be glad that I’ve finally got something right. If the afterlife involves reincarnation, perhaps this time he’ll have a better son.</p> <p>Sorry dad.</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-2472572140676453012011-02-19T17:30:00.001-08:002011-02-19T17:30:36.954-08:00Saturday 19th February 2011<p>I love Saturday. I think it must be absolutely my favourite day of the week for a number of reasons. Unless I’ve had some sort of mental episode and arranged to be doing something very early, there’s never an alarm going off while it’s still dark outside. I don’t need to rush around the house and get ready, even if the kids are coming for the weekend.</p> <p>My Saturday started properly at about midday. For those of you that think that’s lazy, you’re right but I would refer you back to my opening paragraph. Cat was going out shopping with her mum this morning and had arranged to meet her at half nine. When she told me that, I think my response was something like “well, go out quietly then”. So I got up, faffed around for a little while and then made some coffee.</p> <p>People that know me think I drink too much coffee. For the record, I disagree. When I’m at work, I will generally drink my way through 2 cafetiere loads each day which equates to about six mugs. I also have a cafetiere in the house but I got sick of drinking cold coffee so I invested in a coffee machine just before Christmas. I say “invested”: Cat and I used to do all our shopping in Sainsbury’s and had managed to amass about 18,000 nectar points, so I used some of those. Now I’ve got a coffee machine that will keep the coffee hot for 2 hours, which is plenty of time for me to drink the contents of the jug! Even if the machine does go off, the jug holds the heat for quite a while so it’s all good. The point is though, I don’t have trouble sleeping (sometimes have trouble waking up though) and I don’t get the shakes, so am I really drinking too much? Ironically, I can’t abide espresso – it’s way too strong for me, in fact to me it seems like consuming those 3 mugs of coffee in a single small cup. One thing I will say is this: if I go a full day without a single cup of coffee, I risk a full-on migraine. Last Friday I was off work, so I got up early and went to the gym after dropping Cat at work. By the time I got home it was gone two, so I sat down to watch TV. Next thing I knew it was 7 o’clock. I’d caffeine crashed, and lost the afternoon on the couch. So maybe I am an addict. There’re worse things to be addicted to in my opinion.</p> <p>So, I drank my first cup of coffee and was about half way through the second when Cat came in with her mum, and a box from IKEA. I knew she was going to buy a chest of drawers, but the bedside cabinet I didn’t know about. Anyway, Tina stayed for about an hour and then we took her to the station.</p> <p>Once we got back up to the house, I lifted the chest of drawers out of the car and set about building it. If you’ve never built IKEA furniture before, it can be a nuisance to do. If you’re over 25, you might remember what a nuisance MFI furniture way. If you’re not, ask your parents. To me, IKEA is just MFI for the 21st century, the only difference being that instead of giving you instructions in very poorly-written English, they give you diagrams that don’t really help.</p> <p>Halfway through building the chest of drawers, I broke one of the struts. Not badly, but enough to render it useless so I had to jump in the car and get a replacement. Little did I know that the replacement she gave me wasn’t exactly the same. Bugger going back there though.</p> <p>In the event, we now have a chest of drawers and a bedside cabinet. Next month, we’ll buy another one of each so we’ve got one each.</p> <p>This evening I’ve found a pub. Being fair, it’s not difficult. Not sure if I’ll make it my regular but if I want to go out for a pint in Airdrie, I now have a location. The staff and regulars seem nice, as did the girl hosting the karaoke. I mean really, how long did you think it would be before I found a karaoke place in Airdrie eh?</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-11987787638604952712011-02-18T11:39:00.001-08:002011-02-18T11:39:41.811-08:00Friday18th February 2011<p>Hi</p> <p>I had a better day today. Maybe part of that was because it’s Friday: even though I’m on-call this weekend and can’t therefore get up to any sort of mischief (not that I could afford to anyway), there’s a lot to be said for the knowledge that no alarm is going off at 5:45 tomorrow morning. Unless I get called that is!</p> <p>I managed to sort out one of the things that pissed me off yesterday. I’m still not going to bore you with the details of why I was having such a bad day – all of the things that annoyed me were trivial, not to say petty. Some of them were also my fault which actually makes them worse – I could have avoided spilling coffee down my new silk tie on the train yesterday morning by being more careful, or just not taking the damned coffee on the train in the first place. </p> <p>Some of the things that pissed me off yesterday were people, some of them based in the building I work in, some of them not. Oddly, the guy in my building that pissed me off is easier to avoid than the girl that works 400+ miles away. The girl that annoyed me yesterday did it again today but this time I had a word with someone who had a word with someone else and just after lunch I received an email apology from her. So it’s over, at least for now.</p> <p>I still can’t put my finger on why I’m in such a downer right now: we’ve got a new flat that we’re really pleased with, two new cats that are just adorable (see yesterday’s post for pictures) and I’m engaged to an amazing girl who’s completely managed to u-turn my idea of marriage. We don’t have any reason to go anywhere or be with anyone this weekend so there’s no pressure and I’ve also got a boss who’s adamant that despite my horrendous workload, I shouldn’t be working any longer than absolutely necessary in order to get a job done.</p> <p>To say I can be a moody bastard would be an understatement, although I’ve been known to deny it when other folk have said it. It’s true though: I inherited a lot of genetic similarities from my late father and as I get older, I can spot more and more of them. The biggest ones that I seem to have picked up are moodiness and a ridiculously short temper. Not violent, just noisy. I always knew dad and I were temperamentally very similar, but it frightens me sometimes just how much. </p> <p>I’m skating around the D word, because as soon as you start talking about being depressed, people start substituting depressed for depression which in turn means you should be taking some sort of medication. I am depressed, but I do not have and never have I had depression, even in the darkest periods of my life. So there! <img style="border-bottom-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-left-style: none" class="wlEmoticon wlEmoticon-smile" alt="Smile" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvnFI8CeRbIFcWHqq0VFxeXYuK4YYRhAKzZhkIXON5gWUN4UqNZoo3iAZnDLH_s_g_p0UaY1ZIcn3xLtJxaLdG4lSjqP_zIBoFy4syeHYiSagN84M4iM_HJrkDCl3d9IEQyf76WFfAg/?imgmax=800"></p> <p>I can’t even claim to be badly off, although I CAN claim to being rather strapped for cash this month. Yet again I’ve managed to get through the horribly long month of January without being too bad for money, and yet the shortest year of the month saw me skint by the 10th. How does that work exactly?</p> <p><strong>Companies on my List</strong></p> <p><strong>The Permanent List</strong></p> <p>I’ve decided to start a new feature. Every time I write this column I’m going to “out” any companies that have annoyed me enough to make it onto my List. There isn’t an actual List you understand, but believe me you don’t want to end up on it. Just to get the ball rolling, be aware that certain companies retain honorary lifetime membership of the List. They are:</p> <ul> <li>BT – anyone who’s ever found themselves trying to get money back from these people when they’ve been overcharged will understand how frustrating it is;</li> <li>TalkTalk: I got a phone call from one of their call-centres one Saturday afternoon about a year ago. On my landline which is unusual because I never give that number out. When I explained that I wasn’t interested, the guy told me that I should listen because (and I quote) “I know where you live buddy!”. I’ve never dealt with TalkTalk but I did make the mistake of giving my landline number to their parent company (The Carphone Warehouse) when purchasing a mobile phone contract. Last time I’ll do that!</li></ul> <p><strong>The Temporary List</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>I went out in Glasgow two weeks ago for a night of fairly heavy drinking with friends, believing that I could get a bus back home to Airdrie at closing time (midnight). I believed this because the website of the largest bus operator in the city told me this. What it didn’t tell me was that I’d have to wait for two hours for a bus to turn up, only for the bastard driving it not to stop to pick anyone up. Even when I ran down the street after him (always a clever trick in Caterpillar boots) he wouldn’t stop. So, <strong>First Bus</strong>, welcome to my List. You’ll need to do something really special to avoid being promoted to the Permanent List. Bankruptcy should about do it!</p></blockquote> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-18549517017990089642011-02-17T15:56:00.001-08:002011-02-17T15:56:16.358-08:00New Beginnings<p><font size="3" face="Calibri">I’m sitting here at my desk (at home, not at work) at 10.30 on a Thursday night in February. I’ve had a properly crappy day today. If you’ve ever had the kind of day where by 8AM you’re wondering why the hell you got out of bed, that’s been my day today. I’ll not bore you with the details. Just take my word for it that today has been shit. </font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Now that I’ve got that off my chest, time to explain tonight’s title.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">I decided to start this blog about 8 months ago for a number of reasons. When I was a teenager I harboured ambitions about becoming a journalist. There used to be a drama series on television called Lytton’s Diary starring Peter Bowles. I don’t remember a whole lot about the series other than that Peter Bowles was a Fleet Street-based journalist who seemed to hold himself accountable to a greater moral standard than other journalists of his day. I’m not saying that this drama series was the reason for wanting to become a journalist but at the age of 14, it seemed like a good idea. My father was trying to steer me towards a job with the Customs Service which didn’t really appeal to me and I knew from my teachers that I was pretty handy with the English language. So, I made my subject selections based on advice that I was given and dug in. By the time I was 16, I had qualifications in English, French, History, Office Studies, Maths and General Science. I failed Technical Drawing, mainly because I found it terminally dull and boring. However, by the time I was 16, I had also lost all interest in becoming a journalist having found that I liked computers far more instead.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Before anyone asks me, no it didn’t occur to me to combine computers and journalism. Hey, I’ve never claimed to be clever!</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Anyway, to get back to my reasons for starting this blog, I’ve always felt that I had more to say. I’m very strongly opinionated (not always an endearing quality) and I have something of a tendency to rant about stuff that pisses me off. Looking at other people’s blogs made me realise that perhaps everything that I want to say can be said here: people don’t have to listen to me banging on about stuff – they can dip in, read what they want and then leave. The trouble that I have at the moment is that, in the words of the masterful Pink Floyd, I thought I’d something more to say….</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">The reason for tonight’s title is very simple: I’m at a time in my life when I’m experiencing a lot of new beginnings. I want to share some of those with you, but I also want to add a new one to the list. I DO have more to say, I just need to get my finger out and get it said, right?</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Anyway, here are some of the new things that are happening with me right now. Some you’ll know about, some you won’t. Before I go into that though, let me give you a little bit of my more recent history.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">In July of last year all four tyres on my car were slashed at some point between me parking outside my flat at about 7.30 at night and going back out to the car at 5.30 the following morning. As per usual, nobody saw anything and I was left with no option but to spend nearly £200 putting four brand new tyres on my not-yet 3-year old Vauxhall Corsa. I didn’t know who had done the damage to my tyres but I’ve always been of the opinion that if you have a problem with someone, take it up with that person – don’t take the coward’s way out and damage his property.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Time passes and at the end of August we start toying with the idea of trading the car in. She’s nearly 3 years old and there are some great deals going on brand new cars, mainly because the economy’s in the tank and the dealerships are panicking. So we settle on a beautiful little Citroen C3 – a slightly bigger engine than we had in the Corsa but still small enough that the road tax isn’t a big expense. Of course the insurance hurts a bit because I stupidly decided to claim for the Corsa’s tyres on my insurance. Won’t do that again…</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">For a week or so we’re decadently running a two-car household. I had decided not to use the Corsa as a down-payment on the Citroen, believing that I could get a better deal if I sold it myself. Cat’s driving licence was out of date so I couldn’t insure her to drive the Citroen on the 7 days’ complimentary cover anyway so I drove the Citroen and she drove the Corsa.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">On the 19th of September, we heard a hissing noise coming from outside. Given that we’re 3 storeys up and even allowing for the fact that the living room window was cracked open, it was quite impressive that we heard anything. Imagine my horror when I look out of the window and a guy with a hoodie on is walking away from my car. Yes, we’d been done again only this time, I know who he is and where he lives because my living room looks into his, and my girlfriend had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing him assaulting his girlfriend one Saturday night. Suddenly, things start to make sense.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">I’ve never been physically violent but If I could have got my hands on him that night, I’d probably have killed him. I’ve never in my life thrown a punch at anything more solid than a training bag – not for any particular reason other than that I tend to try and avoid trouble and also because in my mind’s eye I look vaguely ridiculous when I punch things. Regardless, if I’d got my hands on him, he’d have gone down. While I was running down 3 flights of stairs to confront the guy that did my tyres, Cat was on the phone to the police to report the incident as she had done the first time. When the two officers arrived, they already knew about the first tyre-slashing incident and expressed a high degree of sympathy with us. However, they were at pains to point out that they couldn’t go and arrest the guy on the basis of my say-so. They were also keen to request that I not go and try to confront the guy in the street, although they did agree that they’d probably have done much the same in their position. Anyway that’s another £200 up in smoke and this time it’s out of pocket, not on the insurance. When the mobile unit turned up the following day to replace my tyres he commented on what a shame it was to be taking away four ruined 3-week old tyres.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">By now we’re fed up. Clearly it’s a bad move leaving the car outside my own (albeit rented) home so we start looking for places within range of the flat that we could safely park the car overnight. Luckily the area we lived in had quite a lot of security cameras around so we became pretty adept at parking the car where it would be seen on-camera. The thing was though, it was now the end of summer and after about a week of sneaking around like that, I was starting to get pretty fed up with it, particularly because the girl across the road had provided her boyfriend with an alibi for the night when I watched him walk away from my car. So we decided it was time to move.</font></p> <p><strong><u><font size="3" face="Calibri">New Home</font></u></strong></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Cat and I spent quite a bit of time looking at the possibility of renting a place in Glasgow or even buying something affordable. The problem is that when the higher salary earner has quite high monthly outgoings (child maintenance etc) and the other salary earner is effectively classed as a student, and you’re living through a recession, you’re options tend to be a bit more limited than they might otherwise be. To make matters worse our flat in Govan was a Housing Association property. Such so-called “Social Housing” needs to be affordable because it has to be available to some of the more vulnerable members of society. Whilst this was great when we were starting out in 2006 because it meant we were paying around £200 in rent, it meant that if we were going to make the jump from Housing Association to private landlord we would see quite a hefty jump in rent. If we bought a place, it would be even worse.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">First things first then: we decided to investigate the property market, which meant a visit to a mortgage advisor. We had decided that because Cat is classed as a student, we’d be better to get the mortgage amount calculated on my salary and outgoings. After about a fortnight’s wait, the mortgage advisor came back with the maximum amount that we could expect to borrow from the bank. In the meantime we’d seen a 3-bedroom property in a former Housing Association block that was going for a very low amount, probably as a result of the mortgage lender having repossessed it. If you’re not already aware of this, repossessed properties are sold by means of a ballot – all interested parties submit sealed bids, and the property goes to the highest bidder. The problem there is that you have to do all the legal stuff (and therefore pay the solicitor) without having any guarantee of a set of keys at the end of it.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">When we went back for the second viewing of that property, we discovered that the block was scheduled for demolition within a few years, so it would only be a temporary home for us at best. We ran away screaming!</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Slightly dispirited, we started casting the property net a bit wider. Cat and I both loved living in the city, not least because we could have a night out and be able to get home quite easily. We both grew up in Helensburgh, where a night in Glasgow either means the last train home or a painful taxi fare. However, we realised that we could move a bit further out and get more property for our money.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">I have to tell you, some of the properties we saw were hilarious, and not in a good way. We lined up a bunch of viewings in Cumbernauld, which is just outside Glasgow. It’s a post-war New Town and one which has (deservedly in my opinion) been voted the worst place to live on a number of occasions. We saw one place that appeared to have been vacated in a hurry and would have seen a second were it not for the fact that it was in the process of being burgled at the time. Again, away we ran!</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Against my better judgement, Cat persuaded me to look at properties in Airdrie. Airdrie is set in the heart of Lanarkshire and used to be part of a thriving coal mining community which has long since shut down. Nowadays its a commuter town, being only 30 minutes on the train from Glasgow. I say “against my better judgement” because deep down, I wanted to stay in Glasgow. Regardless, Cat set up some viewings.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">One of the viewings that we attended in Airdrie was of a top-floor three-bedroom place. It was owned by an elderly couple who had lived in the block for about 30 years but now needed to move because the husband had some form of illness that meant he couldn’t breathe properly and was therefore largely housebound. We left, telling the estate agent that we were interested but would need to think it through. That was a lie: we fell in love with the place.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">To try and cut this very long story a bit shorter, Cat and I moved out of the flat in Govan on 26th November and into that 3-bedroom property during the worst snow seen by Airdrie in a long time. So, we’ve now lived here for nearly three months, we’ve met some of the neighbours and we can park the car outside the house without any fear of damage being done. Much as I hate the guy that slashed what I now believe was both sets of tyres, I think that the bastard did me a favour by galvanising us into action.</font></p> <p><strong><u><font size="3" face="Calibri">New Relationship Status</font></u></strong></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">As you may be aware, I’ve been married before. When Cat and I got together I was pretty adamant that I wasn’t doing that again – in a drunken moment at my sister’s wedding I may have made the mistake of telling someone this in front of Cat, which wasn’t really my finest hour. Anyway, since Cat and I got together we’ve attended four weddings and eventually I’ve come around to the idea. So much so in fact that when we were in the USA just before New Year, we decided to get engaged. Not a formal proposal, not down on one knee, no asking her dad for his daughter’s hand in marriage, just a conversation had over a couple of beers at the end of 3 days’ of hectic travelling from Glasgow to New York via London, Chicago and Washington DC. Last of the romantics me!</font></p> <p><strong><u><font size="3" face="Calibri">New Animals</font></u></strong></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Cat and I always wanted to get a kitten. However the problem with the flat in Govan was that it was just too small. And I’d seen some of the cats living in our street – no way I was having a kitten going outside and becoming a home to as many fleas as that!</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Four weeks ago, Cat was in Helensburgh visiting her parents. Because I was on-call that weekend I opted to stay at home, rather than risk being called. On the Saturday, Cat called me to say that she’d called into the local SSPCA shelter in Dumbarton and had seen a couple of gorgeous cats. So, I agreed to take a look at them, on the understanding that nothing was being decided there and then. Yeah, right! I fell in love with the two of them, and we collected them two days later. The house now has two litter trays, scratching posts and umpteen cat toys, as well as two of the cutest cats you’ve never seen. They’re sisters, and are about 12 months old each. They were handed in to the SSPCA because their elderly owner was going to into a care home and couldn’t take them with her. Because of this, they seem to be happier with Cat than they are with me, although they do let me stroke and play with them sometimes. They even let the kids play with them, although they’ll accept Laura more than they will Tony.</font></p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxhtRrj-8GuzM0TYLOLUwDpxuD75UPD7VnQ99p_rViXVuTR56DXlt28eI4VSQirfe2hxzo7q1pRwgDo3U7SZIaDOAK3GYswJGCKO59-gyISTnLK3p-O80TAyl5k2TyjZBvLAPutht8Q/s1600-h/100_1696%5B3%5D.jpg"><font size="3" face="Calibri"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="100_1696" border="0" alt="100_1696" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLG9UtzB9TFbbxFu6dxi0-Rrgo970fbD1u9jhjEllXsIz0zKoMhfh-hIfD9kvbRBfAQIE58MvnRLDQ99id4asF8F5tofqzt9zJGYR2Kp7ww2gkoiQsA2HClfktRIgEATCJnE4N_ubdg/?imgmax=800" width="244" height="184"></font></a></p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvTjKd0tabOlYL9QVaueuVY2c9QfddRbN-ZgxwLIDjcLDAdX1B2Jzq6CzVs-JIkmhrp5PHhNUc4oG3DJsDBNWDA-aaOl7WIvDgNL9t6jMryfpgV_xyJ9mAf2pFHieQawkcHwD7C8HfA/s1600-h/100_1697%5B3%5D.jpg"><font size="3" face="Calibri"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="100_1697" border="0" alt="100_1697" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgw99zl0j2zsKC7CVOYZvscwQI3BnkBbogTbqcepv6tZIBdIUmn7_7kzSDiTs0i6GNTvfIC8qC4fthlr-Fyujrii9NEtY0LPqoYRu9TO-27qoj1HczV9l80l5Cvi-ROoFSyUE9j7Dzqw/?imgmax=800" width="244" height="184"></font></a></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">Rosie (at the top) will do absolutely anything if you wave a ball of wool in front of her. To a certain extent Minnie (below) is the same although she prefers it when I get the laser pointer out – she goes nuts for that little red dot!</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri"></font></p> <p><strong><u><font size="3" face="Calibri">The Future</font></u></strong></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">In the next six months or so, Cat and I are going to be completely re-decorating the house. Don’t get me wrong, the place is in good shape and doesn’t need decorating. The problem is though: it’s not our taste and style. It’s decorated after the taste of the elderly couple that we bought it from. No doubt there’ll be updates on here as the work progresses.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri">That brings me onto the other thing I wanted to say, which is really more of a promise. I’ve been pretty hopeless at keeping this blog going: I’m certainly not as devoted to it as other people I know who blog every week. The thing is though, I want to try and get better at it, so be prepared for the over the coming weeks.</font></p> <p><font size="3" face="Calibri"></font></p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-79451483264957084422010-10-31T13:00:00.001-07:002010-10-31T13:00:17.847-07:00In Memory Of….<p>Dear friends this is just a quick note.</p> <p>By the miracle of modern technology in general and Facebook in particular, I’ve recently been able to get back in touch with people that I went to both Primary and Secondary school with. </p> <p>A few days ago somebody that I went to Primary School with posted our Primary 4 and Primary 5 class photographs and tagged as many people as he could remember names for. This then led to those of us that he’d tagged proceeding to chip in and tag or name others that we remembered. It was great seeing those pictures from our childhood, over 25 years ago.</p> <p>During these back-and-forth exchanges with people I’ve learned some very sad news which is that two of the people in those pictures have passed away. For that reason I wanted to dedicate this blog to the memories of not only Andy and Mariyam, but also the other people that I’ve been privileged to know over the years who are no longer with us.</p> <p>Rest in peace dear friends & family</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-24966985145156635502010-08-31T17:00:00.001-07:002012-10-22T17:28:34.091-07:00Friends & Family<p align="justify">Sorry I’ve been absent for so long dear reader, but August has been a bit hectic one way or another. </p> <p align="justify">This story’s going to ramble a bit I’m afraid. Stick with it though – like the late bus home from the pub at three in the morning, I’ll get you there eventually.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>July 2005</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">At the beginning of July 2005, I decided to join one of the gyms close to my office, since at the time I lived 25 miles outside Glasgow. As a smoker, you might think this slightly strange or unusual – my parents certainly did. I had a motive though: I wanted to give up smoking and felt that being a member of a gym was the best way of guilt-tripping myself into doing that. I also had another more serious motive: in early 2005 my father (a pipe smoker) was diagnosed with throat cancer and was receiving regular bouts of both chemo- and radio therapy.</p> <p align="justify">At the risk of straying off-topic slightly, if you’re looking for a good chain of gyms run by a well-known company, I honestly can’t speak highly enough of <a href="http://www.virginactive.com/" target="_blank">Virgin Active</a>. Anyway, as usual I digress. When I first joined the gym, I had an induction with one of the personal trainers. We talked about my goals, my lifestyle etc and I told him that I was a smoker, and that I wanted to get fit. I told him that at the present moment, I couldn’t run for a bus!</p> <p align="justify">A couple of months later, I hooked up with my girlfriend, and instantly had another good reason to quit smoking: she’s asthmatic and the smoke used to affect her quite badly. At this stage, I was staying with my parents and decided that I would no longer smoke in the house. Dad had quit smoking pretty soon after he was diagnosed, so it seemed a bit insensitive to smoke in the house, and it made life easier for Cat when she stayed over.</p> <p align="justify">Now, I discovered two things about myself in the months after I joined the gym. The first one was that I actually enjoyed physical exercise. Don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to turn myself into some muscle-bound iron-pumper who spends all of his spare time in the gym. That said, I did quite like how I was starting to look, but anyway. The second thing I discovered was that I actually have very little shame or guilt, therefore using the gym to shame me into quitting smoking clearly wasn’t going to happen. So, time to go speak to my GP.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>Zyban</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">Time for another diversion: about 11 years ago I got my doctor to give me a prescription for a new Nicotine Replacement Therapy called Zyban. The company I work for provides a lot of smoking-cessation counselling services so I'd had access to most of the available information about the product. I’d also heard one or two horror stories, and been treated to someone lecturing me on how the drug didn’t actually beat the addiction or break the habit but merely fiddled with the parts of the brain that control addiction yada yada yada. So, I spoke to the doctor and he gave me my first prescription. For those of you who don’t know, the way the drug works does indeed meddle with the <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/hi/TheSeer/seratonin.html" target="_blank">serotonin</a> levels of the brain. My limited understanding of biology leads me to believe that addiction is triggered by low levels of <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/hi/TheSeer/seratonin.html" target="_blank">serotonin</a> in the brain, which Zyban helps to raise. At this particular stage in my life, as readers of my other blogs will know (see <a href="http://hendosidlemusings.blogspot.com/2010/06/helensburgh-and-taxis.html" target="_blank">Helensburgh and taxis</a>) I was working two jobs and holding down a part-time college course. That was all fine but the problem is that because Zyban was originally developed as an anti-depressant, you have to be very careful to make sure that you follow the dose. A single course of Zyban lasts for about 30 days, and is taken at a rate of one tablet per day for the first three days, and then two tablets per day thereafter until the end of the course. To make it more complicated, the two tablets should be taken a minimum of 8 hours apart. I could handle that fine, until Saturday night came around – I’d be out working and suddenly realise at one or two in the morning that I hadn’t taken the tablet the previous night. To cut a long story short (oops, too late), I eventually went into melt-down, and went ballistic at my then wife in front of my young son. So, the tablets got dumped and I ended up back on the cigarettes. You might be interested to know (if you don’t already) that when taking Zyban, you don’t actually make an effort to quit smoking- it just happens believe it or not.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>The GP Visit</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">When I went to the doctor in October of 2005, I asked her for a prescription for Zyban, having already spoken to the people closest to me and warned them of the potential side effects. The doctor started to explain the various ins-and-outs of the drug, but stopped when I told her all I knew about it, including how I understood that she had to check my blood pressure because of the small risk of pressure increase as a result of the drug. So, she checked my blood pressure (120/80, go me!) and gave me my first prescription. I’d told her that I was going to be going on holiday, so would start the course when I returned which she approved.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>The Tablets</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">Once I’d returned from my holiday (Tenerife in November is excellent for a nice quiet relaxing holiday) I started taking the tablets as instructed. I also made sure that after the first three days, I always had plenty of alarms and things set to remind me to take the night-time tablet.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>Christmas 2005</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">That Christmas was slightly unusual, in a number of ways. My sister and future brother-in-law had suggested a few months previously that they would like to organise a big family Christmas, which would involve the two of them plus me, mum & dad and Iain’s parents. I was on-call that year so I was happy to drive up to their place on Christmas morning, having seen my own children the previous night and delivered their presents to them. Cat was having Christmas with her parents, since it was the first time in a while that her father had been home for Christmas – I should explain, Cat’s father served in the Royal Navy whilst mine served in the Merchant Navy. Although they’re quite different, there are a number of similarities, them not being around for Christmas or other family occasions being just one.</p> <p align="justify">Despite dad’s illness, Christmas day that year was amazing. Christine (my sister) did all the cooking, despite numerous offers of help from both mothers. We all just had a really nice day. It’s the most sober Christmas I’ve had in a long time, but that wasn’t a problem. We stayed with Iain and Christine that night, and drove back to Helensburgh the following day, which neatly coincided with me coming off-call. Still taking the tablets, still great :)</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>New Years Eve</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">New Year’s Eve can usually only be described in one way here in Scotland – messy. That year, Cat & I were meeting with friends and going out drinking in some of our old haunts in Helensburgh, a trick made slightly more complicated by the fact that a lot of the bars in the town charge an admission on New Years Eve when they wouldn’t at any other time of the year. Anyway, we were out until the pubs closed, although Cat headed back up to her parents’ home just after midnight because she was finding the smoky atmosphere in the pub a little hard to cope with. I think I staggered into Cat’s parents’ home at about three in the morning, absolutely hammered.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>New Year’s Day</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">If New Year’s Eve is a messy night in Scotland, New Year’s Day tends to be a day of quiet reflection, usually caused by a large intake of alcohol the previous night. The 1st of January 2006 was no different for me, and I think it was about 7 o’clock that night before Cat (and especially me) could face going outside. By the time we did go out, it was icy cold outside and very foggy. That didn’t stop us walking nearly 2 miles and ending up in a hotel along the waterfront in Helensburgh for a much-needed hot chocolate. Ok, so we got a taxi home, who cares? Now, it’s worth noting that I didn’t have a single cigarette from the moment I surfaced at lunchtime. I did however have one at about 9:30 that night whilst perched on Cat’s parents’ front doorstep. Cat still jokes that she’s never seen anyone turn green quite as quick as I did that night. That was the last time I smoked a cigarette! The tablets had worked, I just needed to finish the course.</p> <p align="justify">They say that the first thing you regain after stopping smoking is your sense of smell. I’m not usually much for what “they” say, but on this one, “they” are spot-on. When I walked into my bedroom sometime on the 2nd of January, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Bearing in mind that the room had been largely smoke-free for about four months, it was still rank with the smell of stale cigarettes. So, time to get cleaning! After a few days of concerted cleaning, and camping at Cat’s place so I could leave the bedroom window wide-open in January, the room was not only tidy, but odour-free.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>March 2006</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">The weekend after my birthday, we had a sudden and (I think) unexpected fall of snow. I’m not generally a big fan of snow – it’s nice enough to look out at if you’re standing with a hot beverage looking out of the window and thinking how pretty it looks, but I really am not a big fan of driving in it. Anyway, on the Saturday morning we woke up to be greeted by a heavy fall of snow, and dad going nuts downstairs because he was unable to get out and about with his zimmer frame. So, I went outside to start clearing the path and driveway so that he could get out, and I could go pick up the kids. Incidentally, at this point Cat and I had been dating for six months and she hadn’t met the kids. Dad was very grateful for my efforts, and the snow (and sledges that Cat produced) proved to be a great ice-breaker (no pun intended). </p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>August 2006</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">For the life of me, I can’t remember what I’d been up to on the night of Friday 18th August, but I know that there was an heroic quantity of alcohol involved, which meant that when my mobile rang at about 8:30 the following morning, I was always going to ignore it. Once it had stopped, I checked it and made a mental note to call my sister back later on. Just as I put it down again, Christine rang for a second time which is very unusual. She told me that dad (currently in hospital in Glasgow) had taken a bit of a bad turn, so would it be ok for me to go home and run mum up to the hospital.</p> <p align="justify">When I got home, mum and I had a cup of coffee and then I drove us to the hospital. Mum talked for most of the way – I needed all my concentration for driving so I was quite happy to let her ramble, but I noticed that she was telling me stuff about how they’d first met which I thought was a little bit odd. </p> <p align="justify">Iain and Christine were already at the hospital when we arrived. Dad was in quite a heavy coma, so there was no possibility of communicating with him. After a short while, one of the doctors came out and asked if she could have a word with mum, so I accompanied them into a small office next to the ward. I swear I never saw this coming, but the doctor told mum that dad was unlikely to recover, and it was now merely a matter of time before he lost his battle with cancer. </p> <p align="justify">Later that afternoon, George Henderson passed away, surrounded by all those who loved him. He was 63 years old, but could have been mistaken for ten years older.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>September 2006</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">Weddings are a time of great happiness, especially when you’re related to one half of the ceremony, and a good friend of the other half. For all of that happiness though, this particular occasion was tinged with a lot of sadness. It had dawned on me about six months previously that dad may be incapable of walking Christine down the aisle, and it had always been my intention to talk this over with him and tell him I was happy to step in if he couldn’t do it. Well that conversation never took place, but I think I did what dad would have wanted anyway. Oddly enough, a few weeks before Iain and Christine got married, Iain’s dad and I had a conversation one Sunday afternoon whilst watching Iain’s brothers band (<a href="http://www.ernestmusic.co.uk/" target="_blank">Ernest</a>) playing. During that conversation, he offered to walk Christine down the aisle, if I didn’t feel up to it. I politely declined because the offer was meant in no way other than a kind gesture.</p> <p align="justify">So, the day of the wedding, I walked my beautiful sister down the aisle while Cat filmed it. Later on, I also gave a speech in place of the father-of-the-bride speech. Probably not my best speech, but I think the last time I spoke in public was at my own wedding ten years previously! Give me a microphone and a karaoke backing and I’m fine, but I’m not an orator.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>September 2007</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">In about June of 2007, I did a really crazy thing which was to sign up to run a 10-kilometre road race to raise money for The Beatson Oncology Unit, where dad had been treated and looked after so well. Now, I’m not a runner, although at over 6ft tall, I probably should be. So I trained, and I got sponsorship, and I don’t mind telling you I was more than a little bit pleased to finish the race in a time of 1 hour and 18 minutes. I don’t remember much about the rest of that day to be honest. I do know that there was alcohol involved though!</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>September 2010</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">Last August, Cat and I decided to purchase a couple of bikes. We both live within four miles of Glasgow city centre, and our respective work places so it seemed like a good idea. If I’m honest, I’m very definitely a fair-weather cyclist, so the bike didn’t really get used much between the end of last September and the beginning of April this year. However, somewhere along the way Cat and I decided that it’d be fun to take part in the <a href="http://www.pedalforscotland.org/" target="_blank">Pedal For Scotland</a> event. This annual event is actually three separate rides, one for families and youngsters, one for all-comers and one for keen cyclists. Cat and I (and latterly my son Tony) have signed up for the all-comers event which covers 51 miles between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Incidentally, if you’re interested in sponsoring us, you can either donate to <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/ianandcatpedallingformaggies" target="_blank">Maggie’s Cancer Care</a>, <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/ianandcatpedallingforalzheimers" target="_blank">Alzheimers Scotland</a> or the <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/iancatandtonypedalforSAMH" target="_blank">Scottish Association for Mental Health</a>.</p> <p align="justify"><strong><u>Conclusion</u></strong></p> <p align="justify">First of all, if you’ve managed to get to the end of this blog then thank you for sticking with this. I want to finish now, but I want to make a few points before I do:</p> <ul> <li> <div align="justify">Please cherish every contact you have, be it parent, sibling, workmate, close friend of even just drinking buddy. I’ve lost various people in my life, some of them to illness, some to suicide and a few to old age. The older I get, the harder I find it becomes to accept the death of a loved one. It’s even tougher if you didn’t see it coming, and perhaps didn’t get to tell that person how you feel about them. It’s been four years now since dad passed away, but I still find myself wanting to talk to him, to tell him how things are with me, talk to him about the kids, etc. Don’t get me wrong, mum’s still around but I never really had a lot of father & son time with dad, and I regret that so very much. </div> <li> <div align="justify">I’m never going to be the guy who sits and tells you that smoking is bad for you, or that sh*t will kill you. It’d be hypocritical for me, a reformed smoker, to lay that one on anybody. That said, that shit probably WILL kill you, so if you do smoke and I’ve struck a chord, you know what to do. </div> <li> <div align="justify">If I, as a reformed smoker, can take part in a 10-kilometre road race or a 51 mile cycle, anybody can. If you are thinking about doing it but think you’re unfit, or are daunted by the distance, you should stand up and give yourself a good shake. I try and attend the gym regularly, and I enjoy my cycling but I’m still not some muscle-monkey for whom that stuff comes easily, so if I can do these things, anybody can.</div></li></ul> <p align="justify">Mostly for dad, but for me too. Sleep well.</p> Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-3433474384169081062010-06-24T16:51:00.000-07:002010-06-24T17:54:21.511-07:00AlcoholIt may not seem like it, but tonight's blog actually has quite a serious point to it, and may come across as slightly depressing in places. If it does depress you, I can only apologise and hope that you can forgive me. I need to say what I need to say though.<br /><br />I can honestly say that as a teenager, I never experimented with alcohol. When we were kids, mum and dad would encourage us to try whatever alcohol they were drinking, although it was generally red wine and I still don't like it. I never saw any point in drinking something I didn't like, so I didn't get into it at all. That is, until I accidentally got drunk on 4th July 1992, the year I was 19. Actually, I think I got drunk the night before, but I do know that I attended a barbeque for some visitors from the US with a God-awful hangover.<br /><br />Ok, time for a quick diversion: I sat my driving test when I was 1 month past my 18th birthday and (for the record) passed first time, although I succeeded in stalling the car now fewer than 3 times and mounted the kerb whilst reversing round a corner. Anyway, I digress - you'll find I do that a lot, especially when I'm tired (as now) or distracted.<br /><br />When I passed my test, I was suddenly introduced to a wonderful world of relative freedom. The year I passed my test, I started dating a girl I'd shared an entire secondary school career with but with whom I didn't hook up until after we'd left school. We drove to places like Edinburgh, Aberfoyle and Aberdeen within the first 18 months of me having my licence (and being able to persuade my mother to let me use the car). Anyway, the day after my first dalliance with the "demon drink", it dawned on me that I would have to be extremely careful if I was going to experiment with alcohol now that I had a driving licence, which posed no problem whatsoever.<br /><br />A few months later I was given tablets for some medical condition or other, although I don't remember what that was. When the doctor gave me the prescription, I asked him what I was allowed to consume in the way of alcohol since I'd got into the habit of going out for a few drinks on a Friday night. The doctor's response was to limit me to a single pint of cider per day. With this in mind, my next visit was to the police to find out what the legal limit was for alcohol and driving. The police gave me a few generalities about quantities and strengths and so forth, but the message that I left with was that I shouldn't consume any more than a pint and a half of lager before getting behind the wheel. So far, so good.<br /><br />I've now had my licence for 19 years, during which time I've had 1 speeding ticket. I've been stopped a few times, and I've had the odd accident here and there but that's about it. One thing I can definitely say is that I've always managed to be extremely careful not to exceed the legal alcohol limit. I frequently go out "for a pint" and take the car with me. Mostly that's because I'm on-call for work, but very often it'll be because I've got stuff to do the following day, or because I just don't want to need to rely on public transport. Either way, I don't mix drink and cars.<br /><br />Now, I'm going to go completely off-piste here folks but please stick with me - it'll make sense when you get to the end of it.<br /><br />On 27th of June 2003, I was going out for the evening with a girl I worked with. You could call it a date if you wanted but you'd be wrong - it was just two mates having a night out at a gig. The gig in question was a former colleague of mine who has formed a number of bands in his time and who was playing in Glasgow. I'd been talking about the gig for a while and had managed to persuade this girl to come with me. Because I was living in Helensburgh at the time, I'd opted to drive which meant I couldn't drink but that was fine with me. <br /><br />When we left work that evening, we went into a pub just round the corner from work and had a single drink with another colleague who was waiting for his girlfriend to pick him up. We shared a drink, and then Suzanne and I went our way, and Stuart went his. We saw Mark's band playing that night and I then ran Suzanne home to the house she was sharing with her sister. We watched some of the coverage of that year's Glastonbury festival and then I drove home to Helensburgh.<br /><br />To cut a long story short, after the weekend I walked into work on the Monday morning. After depositing my jacket at my desk, I walked into the canteen where one of my colleagues turned round and uttered words that I'll never forget - "Hi Ian, how's things? Bad news about Stuart eh?". As he turned around to walk out of the canteen I grabbed him and demanded to know what had happened. As Ross was about to explain, the Operations Manager walked in and asked me to accompany her to her office. When we got there, Mary closed the door and told me that she'd been trying to reach me all weekend but didn't have my mobile number. Now, the reason for this is because I was fed up of getting calls when I was off sick or on holiday, so I had my number removed from my record but that's by the way. Anyway, it turned out that on the Saturday morning, Mary had been in the office preparing to attend the funeral of one of our call-centre workers who had been killed in a house-fire. Just as she and the rest of the staff had been preparing to leave for the funeral, the police had arrived and asked if Mary could help them with their enquiries. They had presented her with an employee badge that had been recovered from the scene of an accident, and asked her to confirm that the owner of the badge was one of our employees. It transpired that the badge had belonged to Stuart whom Suzanne and I had shared that drink with the previous night. Mary had been trying to reach me to let me know what had happened.<br /><br />What I later found out has made my blood boil ever since, because in my opinion this represents one of the major failings of the Scottish and indeed British criminal justice system. Stuart had indeed been meeting his girlfriend, but it was much later so he was fairly well oiled when he was picked up. However, on the journey home they were involved in a collision with another driver who was under the influence of alcohol, to the extent that when the police attended the scene and pulled the other driver from his car, he was so drunk he was unable to stand unaided. To make matters worse, it later transpired that he had already had his licence revoked for driving whilst drunk, and yet this particular night he had had about a dozen cans of Stella Artois (familiarly known in this part of the world as wife-beater) and had also had spirits, to the extent that by the time he left his boss's house he was heavily over the limit.<br /><br />Stuart Campbell was one of the funniest and cheeriest men I knew. He had nothing bad to say about anyone, and could lift anyone's spirits with his cheeky grin and vibrating banter. He was also the same age as I was (30) when he was killed. To my mind, he didn't die that night but was killed. Perhaps worse was the fact that his girlfriend had two children who were robbed of their mother. <br /><br />Now, you could argue that because he was so inebriated, the police had no problem pressing charges and the man in question did indeed receive a custodial sentence. And here comes the injustice of it all: for the manslaughter of two people, and the driving of a motor vehicle whilst over the legal alcohol limit, this man got four years in prison. Unfortunately, he also got time off for good behaviour which means that for taking 2 lives, he served less than 3 years in jail.<br /><br />I don't want to get too much onto my soapbox right now, but I honestly believe that the criminal justice system needs to be seriously overhauled, so that people who go to prison for a set period actually spend that time in jail, with extra time being added on for any bad behaviour that merits it. Perhaps if that did happen, my friend would still be here today and those two children would still have a mother.<br /><br />As a small aside, Stuart's funeral took place on Friday 4th July, a tremendously warm day across most of Scotland. Afterwards we all returned to work but after we'd finished we moved across the road to the bar in which Stuart and I had had that drink just 7 days before. The manageress of the bar had heard what happened to Stuart and had provided a full buffet for those that wanted it. I will never forget that night, of looking up at a bar full of my friends and colleagues, all of us united in our grief over the loss of Stuart, all of us telling funny stories about him and remembering all of the good times. It was karaoke night that night, and I almost broke down in tears as I sang "Wish You Were Here" and "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" by Pink Floyd. I count myself lucky to have known Stuart, and still mark the 28th of June privately. <br /><br />To Stuart: you were and always will be one in a million and you'll never be forgotten. Sleep well my friend.Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-22090052587480240282010-06-15T14:06:00.000-07:002010-06-15T14:57:04.874-07:00MusicWhen I was growing up, I was largely unaware of music. I mean, I watched Top of the Pops the same as every other kid, but I can't say that I really grew up in a musical house. Most of the vinyl in the house was from the 50s and 60s, although some of dad's cassettes were newer - I still have childhood memories of mum and dad listening to Johnny Cash.<br /><br />When I was about 15 or 16, I had some friends who were in a band, and they were playing one Saturday night in Helensburgh. It was my first experience of live music outside school, and I loved it. It was made even better by the fact that I knew the boys playing.<br /><br />A couple of years later, I was at a friend's house. It sounds quite old-fashioned, but it was basically four or five of us just sitting listening to records. The friend in question had a taste in music that was firmly rooted in the blues, especially blues from the American deep south. This particular evening though, the artist of choice was Eric Clapton (the Backtrackin' album if memory serves). When I left his house at the end of the night, it was armed with a copy of the album on cassette.<br /><br />About seven years ago, I was chatting with a passenger in the taxi one evening, and we got around to the subject of music. By now my musical tastes had diversified quite radically, and I now boasted a CD collection containing such greats as Queen, Pink Floyd, Eric Clapton (obviously) and REM, as well as Robert Cray, Carlos Santana and Kylie Minogue. The passenger I was talking to turned around and told me that I had a very Catholic taste in music - it was a long time before I found out that it wasn't an insult but never mind.<br /><br />Nowadays the collection now also contains The Killers, Matchbox Twenty, Train and the Foo Fighters. By comparison to my taxi-driving days, I don't spend a huge amount of time listening to the radio but if I hear an artist that I like, I'll at least download the album. If I really like it, I'll buy it!<br /><br />One thing that hasn't changed over the years is my love of live music. A few years ago my sister introduced me to her boyfriend's brother's band, a really talented 3-piece covers band and I never tire of hearing them play. In the past few years I've seen Matchbox Twenty and Nickelback playing in Glasgow, and just recently saw Train playing in London. I still get a real kick out of the vibe that you get at a live gig and just wish I could afford to do it more often.<br /><br />Having said all of this, there is nothing that pisses me off more than the kind of drivel being pumped by Simon Cowell on X-Factor or Pop Idol. Yes, I get that it's giving a leg-up to people who otherwise wouldn't make it. The thing is though, if those bands and artists wouldn't have made it without Pop Idol, is that not just because they were sub-standard in the first place? The problem with X-Factor and Pop Idol is that they push their "winners" in our faces. As well as hearing their songs 24/7, they open our supermarkets. In fact, they'd probably show up for the opening of a packet of crisps if it involved some sort of media exposure.<br /><br />As far as I'm concerned, long live original music. But most of all, long live the original music that comes of a bunch of guys (or girls) fooling with instruments and chords and putting their own talent out there, and succeeding through their own hard work rather than being swept to fame on a wave of television-induced teenaged hysteria.Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-19462287170497951232010-06-14T08:36:00.000-07:002010-06-14T09:14:27.924-07:00Helensburgh and taxisMy sister and I grew up 25 miles from Helensburgh, in the quiet seaside town of Helensburgh. Helensburgh's nothing special, if you overlook the fact that John Logie Baird was born and lived there. It used to be perceived as a place that retired people moved to and to a certain extent it still is. However, it's also the nearest town to Faslane Naval Base which means that the town is an interesting mix of locals and naval families.<br /><br />If you tell someone who lives in Glasgow that you come from Helensburgh, you can pretty much guarantee that their reaction will fall into one of three categories:<br /><ol><li>They have great childhood memories of being taken to Helensburgh on the train during those long hot summers that we don't seem to get anymore. Whilst there they played on the sand, and ate chips and icecream. Most of the people in this category were children during the 60s which means that they're dangerously close to being old enough to retire there. As a matter of interest, I used to work with a couple of ladies who have retired and are actually buying a house in Helensburgh to live out their "golden" years, so that does still happen; </li><li>They know someone who lives there, or who lives in Dumbarton (the next town after Helensburgh as you're heading for Glasgow); </li><li>They've never heard of the place but have heard of John Logie Baird and are therefore able to connect the dots; </li></ol><p>Both my sister and I were born in the Maternity Unit of the Vale of Leven Hospital, which is about 8 miles from Helensburgh. We were both educated in Helensburgh and I went on to find work in the area, whilst my sister (the clever one) got the hell out and studied at the RSAMD in Glasgow. As well as living in Helensburgh I also socialised there and believe me when I tell you that it gets very old very quickly. Helensburgh has a population of approximately 26,000 people and it used to be that on a Saturday night, you'd see the same faces week in week out. That's pretty impressive considering the numbers of people who go through Faslane.<br /><br />Me living in Glasgow now is a second attempt at getting out. Fourteen years ago my then fiancee and I bought a flat in Glasgow's south side and ALMOST managed to sever ties with the town. I'm not going to bore with the details but in 1998 we moved back, and I spent another 8 years trying to dig myself back out of the place. In the eleven years between buying that flat, and moving back OUT of Helensburgh again, I married the fiancee and had two children before separating and finally getting divorced.</p><p>At various points in my blogging, I'm going to try and share the odd bit of wisdom with you. Today's wisdom slice is this: if you live in a small town, and you don't want to dislike it any more than you already do, do NOT take a job that involves dealing with a large number of the town's inhabitants while they're under the influence of alcohol. The reason I mention this is because, whilst facing certain near-future unemployment, I applied for a got a licence to drive a taxi in Helensburgh. Oddly enough, before the badge had even arrived I had managed to get another job but because the job I found was temporary, I still drove the taxi as a safety net. So, I worked five days a week in Glasgow and then a full day shift in the taxi on a Saturday.</p><p>In those days, a Saturday dayshift in the taxi wasn't that bad. I would start at 7 o'clock in the morning, at which point you'll get the occasional person who needs to either get to work, or get home from a heavy night out. Then you've got a slump because lets face it, who's out and about at 9am on a Saturday for choice? I was a smoker in those days, and worked for someone who was violently anti-smoking so if I wanted to have a smoke, I needed to get out of the car. Mid-morning would pick up again as people would start targetting the local supermarket before it got busy and you'd find yourself spending a couple of hours running between the town centre shops and the various housing estates. During that time you could be sure that you would get plenty of comments about how the weather was really good or bad. You might even get a casual enquiry about how your shift has been, when you started and when you'll be finishing. The weather comment tends to get a bit old towards the end of your shift, especially if the sun is splitting the sky or it's throwing down rain. You might get the occasional run back to Faslane with someone who had perhaps come into town to watch the football in one of Helensburgh's many pubs and was going home for dinner before doing it all again that night. I was always happy to get these runs just because it got me out of the town-centre-to-housing-estate loop but I almost never ranked at the base unless there was a lot of activity there.</p><p>Teatime could be fun. When I started driving the taxis, I heard a lot of calls over the radio for delivery cars. I volunteered for a lot of these. Deliveries in Helensburgh were a double-edged sword: if you having a slow afternoon and both ranks were at a standstill, deliveries were a useful way of getting moving and making money - chippy deliveries generally came one at a time but the Chinese restaurants usually gave you three or four to do at a time, and you charged a flat rate for each one. The flip side was that if the ranks were going like a fairground and the controller knew you, the chances were you would end up delivering fish and chips while the guy that had been behind you five minutes ago got a lucrative run somewhere way out of town. Mostly though, deliveries were easy money-makers and the tips could be quite good too. </p><p>Nightshift is a completely different ballgame. When I worked an evening shift, I would start at 6pm so I could still get on the end of the delivery business if I wanted it, but I would then drive straight into that period between people getting food delivered to them, and going out and hitting the pubs. There would then be another slump around 11pm where the folks that were going out had already gone, and people weren't yet drunk enough to be heading for home. Whatever time of day I drove, I always made sure I had a good book in the car that I could dip into between hires. A warning about this incidentally: don't pick an author you can't put down or you'll get very annoyed very quickly!</p><p>After I'd been driving taxis for about 18 months, the woman whose car I drove most regularly was attacked as she drove someone to Glasgow late one Saturday night. Luckily for her there was a Glasgow taxi driver on hand to come to her rescue but the experience left her very shaken, and very nervous about working a Saturday night. The problem is, if a taxi driver is going to make money, a Saturday night is the night to do it. So I volunteered to run her car from the beginning of the evening shift until the end of the night shift. Theoretically I could have finished anytime after the streets were cleared (about 4-ish) but you could get quite a bit of passing trade between 4 and 6 and it made it worthwhile. Besides, the company employed two nightshift drivers and if both of them were busy, I would sometimes be asked to assist. In those days, I was probably making about 50% of my money after midnight so I was happy to do it. </p><p>I could go on about the taxi driving for hours, because it was a lot of fun and in those days very lucrative. However after my ex-wife and I split up, I started working two shifts a week as well as holding down the full-time job that I still do. Eventually, something had to give and about five years ago, I finally quit the taxis. I can honestly say that if I won the lottery tomorrow, I'd probably go back to it and I don't regret any of the time I spent driving taxis. Wouldn't do it in Helensburgh though!</p>Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2076412449485983971.post-66701199987567148692010-06-14T08:03:00.000-07:002010-06-14T08:33:15.318-07:00Why I'm doing thisOk, so why am I doing this? I've been toying with the idea of blogging for a while, but to be honest was never that sure that I had anything worthwhile to say.<br /><br />I just realised though: I do have stuff to say and some of it's even worthwhile. So, I'm going to say what I have to say and hope that it gives the next guy (i.e. you) some sense that you haven't wasted your precious time with reading it.<br /><br />So, a wee bit about my life so far: At the time of writing, I am 37 years old, and live in Glasgow with my gorgeous and talented girlfriend. I have two children from a previous marriage who I see roughly every other week.<br /><br />Work's a big thing for me. I'm not a workaholic or anything like that, and I'm not at the cutting edge of anyting either. What I mean by that is that I've been in pretty much constant employment since 1994. There have been very short periods of unemployment since then but believe me when I tell you that I find it difficult to cope with being unemployed. Anyway, my next blog will be a little bit about the town I grew up in.Hendohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09640494320410630512noreply@blogger.com2