Christmas Eve

Well well well. Ho Ho Ho.

How nice of MIG to pop in and say happy Christmas.
It's been a pretty rotten year really, so hopefully this Christmas marks an end and a beginning too, as we cross from the bad old into the unknown but hopefully good new year

Mostly I am to be found on Twitter - @redantiques. Thursday is there but doesn't follow me back for some reason, and Fran too, but no one else I met here, so far, that I know of. I'd love anyone, everyone, to pop over there and say hello. I'm sure you'll enjoy it, and if you are a bit apprehensive - don't be. It's a laugh.

I'm on Facebook too, as me.

I feel good about 2011 and hope you all can share a great year with me. I sense huge personal changes. As for now, we are in yr 1 of the sixth form after a good crop of O levels, sorry, GCSEs, and anx-ing about university and what to read. Or whether to even apply.

Home life is back to single status again after a brutal dumping earlier in the year. Not kowing why is cruel, but there you go. I never will.

So, even though I am in year three of avoidance of the drop (other than in the odd tiramisu), I raise my glass of Ribena to each an every one of you. And with my red cheeks, grey hair and ruddy smile, I feel well qualified to wish you a very hearty and extraordinarily happy Christmas

I'm not laughing anymore

Because its not funny. £800 per week's worth of not funny. Having to sell everything that you treasured as a kid growing up to fund the £800 a week kind of not funny. Seeing family things go under the hammer, not funny. I feel like I am stealing from my son to sell things of my Mums to fund her £800 a week needs.
I've sold her home. I'm selling her furniture, her car. Where do I stop? What do I get to keep to remember my mum by? I have the husk of my mum, but I don't have my mum anymore. What does her only grandson get? He's only 16, but he's going to end up with nothing from her life, because the public guardian says I have to sell it all because the bloodyfucking government won't see dmentia as an illness and fund care.
She worked her whle working life after I was born in the NHS as an OT. And what does she have to show for it? She has dementia. She doesn't know her only son. She's only 82 (last Saturday).
And actually, its a very long way from being funny.

I only

have to slip away for a minute and everyone goes. All my blog-roll is dead as far as eye can see.

If you drop by again, do lead me easily to your new address

ta x

There's never a thing on

"Come on Mum, let's see what's on Telly"
"Oh I hate that stupid telly. It's always the same programme. They just stand there waving there arms and not saying anything"
I try to look concerned and intelligent. It isn't easy.
"Oh dear, that sounds a bit odd. What programme is that"
"Oh I don't know what programme it is, it's called Mute"

Suits her

My mum has a new friend. He's called James. they met in the queue. I don't know what they were in a line for: nothing in her life requires a queue, anyway, apparently he tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned:
"I know you. I experimented on you when you were 6 or 8" He said.
"Gosh, so you did" She replied. How splendid that she had instantly recognised him, she told me. He is a most educated man and has the most marvellous facility with language. He helps people get to grips with new ones so quickly.
"How interesting Mum, how does he do that?"
And when she tells me I realise that of course this is the way forward. Its so simple I don't know why you, or I, haven't already thought of it.
The technique is to drill a small hole in the back of the person's head, and that allows the language to flow in easily.
Got it.
Only flaw I can see in the plan is that a mm or so to the left and you might end up with Portugese when you were hoping for Spanish.
"He's asked me if he can experiment on me again soon"
"What did you say?"
"that I'd think about it"
Gulp.
"Shall we see what's on Telly, Mum?"

Nothing here

Nothing new. Nothing to say. Am twittering away (RedAntiques) and getting the hang of it. Time remains a premium. Life remains something I don't find as easy as others seem to. So, no change there and no change that I have little to say. So I'm not saying it.

Rather well I think you'll agree


(But I was right about Gordon)

Lets all hate Ebay

I am contemplating murder.

I loathe Ebay and I want to destroy it completely. Simple murder is too kind. A horrid painful death involving boils and rottingness seems mild, really. Ebay's death should be quick (as in soon) but extremely horrid. really nasty, just so it finds out what it feels like to be an Ebay customer, even if only for a few minutes. That'll learn it.

Ebay seems to stand for so much that is horrible, especially in this dawning new day and age. With the CC crunching away, we seem to be entering a new era. Ebay will take years to catch on, if it ever does. It stands for so much that is vile. Presumption, rudeness, restrictive trading practices and so on. It perceives itself above the law, continuing, for example, to make knives and alcohol available to the under-aged. Ebay - their word is law, even if that word is actually outside the law. And Ebay fails to service its sellers. I know you are not interested in my Ebay ranting, but it is a vile monopoly and, PLEASE, can someone rich start up a meaningful alternative. Like, NOW? It would 't need to do much, just offer a decent customer service along with the one thing Ebay doesn't understand and that's choice.

It feels like going back a century going onto Ebay. Which begs the question, where is the 21stc alternative? And why has it taken so damn long?

And then along came 'Anon' and showed me Bonanzle - never heard of it; it looks great. There must be other places, not Amazon and not Craig, but different places that are starting to get going and that deserve to drain Ebay of its life blood. Let's make a list:

Bonanzle.com
SpecialistAuctions.com which is UK based
ebid also UK based

Do you Twitter?
I'm trying it as "RedAntiquesMan"

It's a lot quicker than this, and I rarely have the time for this now.

See you there?

Me Miss, please Miss, me Miss

I saw it Miss.

The first one of the Spring

Honest Miss.

Here, look Miss, I took a photo. I took it on Jan 12th 2009.

The first mower of spring. Honest Miss.



He must be Cuckoo, Miss

And can I just say

to all the king morons who sell on ebay its is BROOCH ok? Not broach but BROOCH.
It isn't hard. And while I'm on it, it is Jewellery rather than Jewlry. And Century rather than Centuary.

But broach? Please.

I'm sorry I had to bring this up.

PS. I knew you wouldn't believe me, so here's today's Ebay stunner:

Edwardian air loom treaured old unit (sic &, er sic)

Greetings

Happy Christmas everyone (both of you).

Have a great time and I hope to be back in the new year with ruminations on .... nothing of any interest, I can promise you that. So more of the same then.

x

telegram

also known as a cable.

and that's what I got. A 5m usb cable and so far, everything crossed, my internet speed has risen from dead stop to satisfactory because I can hang my dongle out the window (insert own joke here).

yesterday for example, between 10am and 5pm I managed to upload two books to ebay for sale (check out The Name of the Rose, or Magellan to find my shop). Today, since 5:15 and now (about 6pm) I'm already on my second book.

hoorah.

it looks like I may be able to bore you with my self-pity again soon.

happy holidays to all

And A Very..

... Happy Christmas to you.

Struggling with a very fickle internet connection. I have to use a dongle these days and the connection is, to say the least, a little hit and miss. It is also slow.

Like me, you may just be old enough to remember dial-up connection. Well hello, that's what I have, in terms of speed anyway. Conducive to blogging it is not.

One day I will get sort, but that will take something I don't have: money.

Plenty of changes to report, one day, when I have the item and the connections.

Thanks for stopping by

zzzzzzzzz

Having a rest.
Sleeping on the job.

May be some time.
Maybe sometime?

Rien a dire

Not a lot to report here:

Currently listening to Elbow, The Seldom Seen Kid, which I can highly recommend. Not least because the elder teenagers in our house give a snort of derision when the name Elbow comes up. Always to be recommended - causing the teenagers to deride one's 'old' taste. We are not teenagers, after all. A certain degree of sophistication must have stuck after all these years.

And reading/read Tracey Chevalier's Burning Bright. Why does she write as though English is about her third language? Is she really French? She takes interesting ideas, then dilutes them to within a whimsy of being dull, and expresses these diluted ideas in tortured English. How can a book about Blake, even is he is vestigial to the story, be dull? I don't know, but Chevalier has managed it. Weakened initial premise, poor writing and dull denouement. Absolute certain proof that critics and awards/film script writers are poor judges.

Curiously, as Chevalier is let down by her use of words, they are one of the intriguing thing about the Elbow album (another horse snort from teenagers whenever I say Album. I had to translate it once into Yoof speak). The opener, Sparrows, is a stonking great love song "you are the only thing in it when you are in a room" delivered in a broad northern accent. And all hail to the band for sticking to their roots and especially the singer for not affecting a mid-Atlantic non-accent. Mind you, the words don't always work that well. He, the lyricist, obviously has spent far too long in betting shops: "a horse fit for glue" is not great, but the idiosyncrasies of their lyrics and rhythms make for an intriguing and rewarding listen. Not first time, but there was enough here to make me come back and back and now I think its one of the albums of the year.


If you've got this far you may as well indulge me with my recommendation for Nick Lowe too. At My Age is a good album, as is the oddness of the lyrical direction in some of the songs; I Trained Her To Love Me as one example, gives pause. Makes me laugh. Which is why I'm delighted he's at Cornbury this year as I've got my tickets and will be there. Other people seem pleased it's Paul Simon on top of the bill. Me, I'm pleased it's Nick Lowe.

There you go, nothing to say, said in several hundred words.

Taking a break

Taking a few days away. Had a death to deal with, and need a break

See you in a week or so if you're still here.

Arnie.

God is in the ... detail?

They say that real men cry at football (I'm real, then).

But really real men cry at confirmation services.

Amid a lot of grunting and protestation the fruit of my loins agreed to be consecrated or something. His mum wanted it, I didn't. But hey, I'm not really bothered one way or the other as long as Mr Fruit was OK with it. Thus, eventually, after months of moaning about the weekly lessons, it happened last Sunday.

It all took me a bit by surprise. No, no, obviously I knew it was coming, and the date and time and so on some time ago. No the actual thing.

As you know, and I didn't, the service is taken by a Bish, in a big hat. White because it's Lent. No, not borrowed... but Lent, you know, Easter and no chocolate ... oh I give up.

Anyway, Bish asked us, the audience, er, congregation, to stand when the person we were supporting was called up for the laying on of the hands.

There were several; a veritable production line of candidates. We were due to be stood for about No 5 or 6, I forget, but he was the last of the 'young persons'. So the first one goes up and a number of people stand up, perhaps ten. Then next one and a similar number creaked onto their feet.

Then the next and no one stood up. Not in my vision anyway. I turned to look, and eventually saw just one woman standing.

I felt my eyes itch.

Next up; a really geeky enthusiatic boy with a huge smile nearly as bug as his NHS glasses and full of crooked teeth. He was wearing a cream shirt, and a tie.

And he had a beam that was illuminating the whole church. HE was so happy to be there and doing this thing.

I looked for his supporting family, and again there was no one. Not a sausage. Someone told me later his gradfather was there, but I didn't see him.

I twitched, I wanted to stand, but I don't know them from, er , Adam. But I did support them, silently.

And I developed a strong cold that required the immediate and urgent application of tissue.

Mr Fruit came and about a gazillion of us stood up.

And that was kind of worse because it reinfirced how loved and supported he is despite his (verbal) reluctance to do this, and yet those two little waifs before him ...

There was something deeply admirable (and thought provoking) in their strength and determination to get to this point in their lives as Christians. I may not share their faith, but bloody hell, I was moved.



For your elucidation, this is the actual hat referred to above (no ersatz substitutes here on EL):

How do you spell that again?

My teenager turned 14 last month and this seems to have propelled him into the age of the 'grunt'. Trouble is he's dragged me along too, kicking and screaming.

It's an amazing change in him. He's taken non-communication to new levels. Even when texting,
For two days a week, he is with his mum, and thus we text quite a lot. But nothing prepared me for the 'teen grunt-speak' by text.

The other day I got one that just read "Yh". Now if that isn't how you spell a teenage grunt, I don't know what is.

Thursday

Thought that would get you attention Thursday. I am quite convinced there are a lot of slightly risque and definitely cringe making puns to be had about my Thursday activities, but I'll leave you, oh gentle four readers, to make your own jokes.

For, actually, it's Mig who I need to tell something to. I know you're not going anymore Mig, but you have competition. There is a photographer selling photos. There seemed to be of pretty flowers and so on.

She's an amazingly grumpy woman.

She drives a Subaru. She leaves her car wherever she pleases, blocking the aisles and making life difficult for those around her.

Well, she did yesterday. Perhaps under her gruff exterior beats a heart of gold. Perhaps she'll learn the ways, whys and wherefores of the market.

But her prescence was not appreciated yesterday by the nearby stall-holders (that's not me, luckily). I have no information as to whether she was appreciated by the 'punters' of Oxford. However, I had another good day, selling all but one chair (and those two rotten lights) of the furniture you see above.

My guess is the recession is really beginning to bite now.

And that's got to be good news.

Bronzed, but no six pack

The light and the mirror in our little loo at work conspire to make one's reflection look bronzed. I always feel better after a quick look at the healthy looking , if not quite God-like unless god is an overweight middle-aged salt and pepper ol' git, face that stares back at me.

I leave the loo and pale into insignificance