The Red Army

I cycle to work every day. The route takes me along a bridle path that snakes through a housing estate – one of these modern, soulless affairs, where it’s all very nice, but the houses are small and it’s miles from a shop. The bridle path is popular amongst dog walkers and shortcut enthusiasts. Naturally, I tend to see the same people on my route, and am on nodding terms with most of them.

One thing I see regularly – every morning, in fact – is a horde of elderly Chinese people on a bracing constitutional. Their leader is a short man, who is prone to wearing one of those rather scruffy grey anoraks that Chinese men in Western countries tend to wear. He looks tired, but has a glint of steely determination in his eye.

He is followed by a coterie of shuffling Chinese ladies. They wear fur coats and make up, and they huddle in clusters of twos and threes along the length of the route – but always behind the leader. There are a few man/wife couples who walk together, but mainly it’s women. I’d say there are about fifteen in total. They all look slightly resentful. I (a bit racistly) call them The Red Army.

The group is usually spread quite widely along the path, which is probably about a two-mile circuit, and they go in either direction, depending on the time. I’ve recently taken to saying “good morning” as I go past and they respond in kind.

There isn’t much point to this, but I like seeing them every day (I miss them when I don’t) and I like the fact that people still go for a daily walk – gentle exercise for the elderly is a beautiful, sad thing. I like the fact that they say good morning and I like the fact that the man marches and the women shuffle. I hope it isn’t a symptom of overly patriarchal family dynamics – perhaps he’s just a fast walker.

Some things are better left unknown.

I Am Back

Following a delightful weekend in the country, I have decided that I don’t do enough writing. It’s something that brings me pleasure and moreover, is good practice. I like to keep my chops up and have amassed a number of topics which I’d like to expound upon without imposing on anyone. As soon as I’ve decided what to write about, I’ll post it up. Not that I expect there’s anyone out there anymore, but then, I’m not necessarily after a discussion, so am doing this primarily for the exercise. Exercise is important.

Last Night’s Dream

I was in a strange city that had the cosmopolitan feel of a London or Paris, although with definite Eastern Europe vibes. It was hot, so my friend (Chris T. – from Sage) and I ducked into a museum, where the air conditioning was on full whack.

We ended up in a large central hall, containing what appeared to be the anthropology collection. There were lots of glass-fronted cabinets with live humans of various cultures in them. Chris and I went for a drink at the island bar in the middle. This was near the zombie exhibit, which contained examples of the traditional green-skinned, dead-eyed type, bumbling around behind the glass.

That’s when I noticed that one of them was talking on his mobile phone and two were having a normal, animated conversation. I became incensed by this and looked around for an attendant.

We then found ourselves walking alongside a wide river (still in the city), looking for a bridge to cross to get to the curator of the exhibition. Chris was annoyed and said: “You said there’d be real zombies – liar” and pushed me in the river. That’s when I woke up.

Hi, Chums

I haven’t written anything for a while – it’s all kicking off again in my life. Job interview tomorrow; a couple of exciting new music projects to embark upon, plus project Mendel to finish; and a business to get rolling (as soon as I can figure out how to make the website – www.mercurywriting.co.uk – good). All this, combined with the usual rigours of life, has taken its toll and subsequently I have nothing whimsically amusing to write, nor the time to do it. But I’ll be back.

It was Hallowe’en the other day. One good thing to have emerged out of the media-driven hysteria about paedophiles, is that we hardly ever get ‘trick or treated’ anymore. Presumably, knocking on a stranger’s door now carries a greater risk of being bummed (or at least meddled with), than just encountering a mildly irritated adult. Suits me fine; when I was a kid, I had to abuse myself…

The other branch

Last night was grocery night. We normally go to ASDA in Gosforth, which is nearby and open 24 hours. I like to go as late as possible, to try and get bargains on the ‘Whoops’ stand (reduced price food that is soon to go out of date).

But last night was no ordinary night. We decided to have a little adventure and go to a different ASDA. It was exciting and I was looking forward to seeing what they had in their ‘whoops’ stand.

But oh my. It was really weird. Frankly, it was horrible. Everyone looked like they were inbred or on smack. Most of the females over the age of eight had a child in tow and the neanderthal males had acne and bumfluff moustaches. The majority wore baseball caps (which failed to obscure their massive oversized foreheads) and they all spoke a strange language.

So there is a lesson to be learned here. Messing with the format is not always a good thing. I am not a snob, but was thrown out of my comfort zone. Sometimes this is useful, but in this case, it was frightening and weird. Don’t do it.

The Lazy Button

The Lazy Button

Where I work, in a large software company’s headquarters (Greenhouse of the damned, it’s been called), there are many obese people. I have no problem with this, except for the laughable trait they have of scoffing plates of chips, but washing these down with a diet Coke (I first noticed this when I worked in bars and still don’t understand it).

Anyway, many of them actually take the lift to the first floor of the building. This is lazy. Worse still, they hold their head up high as they stride out, in an attempt to imply: “I’m very busy and important and do not have time to take the stairs, or worry about your opinion.” Yes, but you’re still fat and it’s your own fault.

So, someone (I have no idea who) has taken it upon themself to label button number one in the lift ‘LAZY’. This is both appropriate and amusing. I’m told this is a form of ‘micro graffiti’, although see no mention of it on Wikipedia, so in my Borgesian world, it does not exist.

Red Socks

Red is the best sock colour for the following reasons:

• Not too many people wear them.
• Although not my favourite, red is obviously the best colour.
• Whilst noticeable, they aren’t a novelty sock and can thus be worn in a professional context.
• They demonstrate vaguely socialist leanings without actually saying anything.
• They aren’t white.
• My girlfriend doesn’t have any, so we don’t get mixed up.
• They go really well with fluorescent bicycle clips.
• They provide a splash of much-needed colour to the average suit.
• They feel warmer.

They are, however, very difficult to get hold of. I find this strange, particularly given that mustard coloured socks are widely available.

Not a good start

This morning, after cleaning my teeth, I decided to treat myself to some mouthwash. It happened to be the end of the bottle so, mouth still full, I took the empty receptacle straight out to the recycling bin, which is outside our front door.

Unfortunately, the postman was there (the postman never arrives this early and sometimes never arrives at all, but today, he actually turned up – with post). He bade me a cheery “Good Morning”, to which I obviously couldn’t respond. I tried to puff out my cheeks, to indicate that I was mid-ablution, but that just made it worse and looked like I was doing some sort of hamster impression. When I started dribbling, he just handed me the post with a raised eyebrow and beat a hasty retreat.

Stupid mouthwash. Stupid postman. Stupid recycling. No amount of minty-freshness will fix this. He’ll probably steal my birthday cards.

A boring dilemma

Recently, Newcastle City Council ‘upgraded’ the lampposts in the street where I live, placing a brand new and extremely bright one right outside our house. This would be fine, except that our bedroom is at the front and the light shines through our curtains at night, making it too bright to easily drift off to sleep.

So, having seen these in  other areas, I wrote to the streetlighting department to ask if they could perhaps place some sort of shield behind the bulb, just to obscure the window. I received no response and so wrote again, but still, no response. I wrote a third time and once again, heard nothing. The fourth time, I resolved that it would be my final correspondence and also used slightly stronger terms. Again, they didn’t acknowledge me, so I dropped the issue. I’ve read Kafka; I know better than to waste my time with the council.

Two days later, the light went out. It is now the only light on the street that doesn’t come on at night and our bedroom is lovely and dark once again. The problem is: I don’t know whether they read my letters and switched off the light, or if it’s just that our lamp is broken. If it’s the former, then I’d like to thank them; if the latter, then I don’t want to alert them to a broken streetlight in case they fix it and I end up back where I started.

What to do? I hate feeling like an ingrate.