Uses for animal entrails

For 7% of my life I've been a Ford Cougar driver. Well not exclusively I have driven a considerable amount of other vehicles in the 7% period of Cougar ownership, often for many miles and in other countries. Anyway I'm now not sure what to do next, how likely am I to stretch that unexpected 7% up and into double figures? I suppose I could by simply doing nothing and working out some rough calculations. I check my red top horoscopes, flayed animal entrails, tea leaf markings and Autotrader pages but the bright light of imparted wisdom still fails to shine on me.

Life makes sense

She was thinking of it as now (well not today because it was in the past right now) and how it had been the best day of her life. A simple, an easy and a best ever day. No love, no romance, no flowers, no proper sunshine, singsongs or chattering but just the best day. A day spent on her own, on her own terms, in her her own time. In fact it was less than a day because that was the way it worked out. Less than a day, mere hours and still the best day of her life. Not even twelve hours come to think of it, just a perfect flurry of the preening and pictures, reflections and glimpses squashed up like a crazy slide show and compressed into a wonderful presentation, only for her eyes. So short, so long, so parallel to everything and yet so out of step. Metaphysically magical. She stopped and caught that thought, the best thing ever but somehow short (in time) but so deep in experience. Really all the measures we use here are wrong. Stupid priests, scientists and explorers who fail to catch the reality of reality. We see through the wrong end of some cosmic telescope, trained on silly and unimportant things that we have been badly educated to value, all magnified by a cruel emphasis on time. But take that time element out and just see things for what they are, running, crawling, lumbering along and onwards outside of time's boundary. What a strange and open freedom that is. Life makes more sense, eternity is far less of a pressure to plan to fill and all lifetimes however rich or barren are removed from disappointment. Time is over. “Now”, she said to herself, “I can relax and simply await that next moment.”

Happy Christmas and don't drink...

...and drive, well not very much anyway, a better Christmas for all concerned will be the likely result. Currently I've been driving on the opposite side of the road and not in a Cougar, that won't last however because in a few days I won't be here in sunny/cloudy/warm/nice Portugal, I'll be back in the UK. Anyway if you've stumbled upon this, fair enough, seasons greetings to you and I'll try to do better next year.

Watching TV

Sometimes I'll watch a film or a football match on TV not because I'm particularly interested in it but because I know that my son is watching it and he's not here. Maybe that seems like an odd thing to do, maybe it is, it just feels good. TV pulls things apart, corrupts and makes folks lazy or so they say, at other times it also makes you feel less alone.

Moonlight

After we had eaten the pheasant the farmer's wife wife produced a warm, home baked sponge that was topped with fresh peaches, sliced and juicy. It was a glowing, delicious moment and none of us could believe our luck. Here we were, rescued from the wilderness and now dining in some style. Our fatigue, minor injuries and the disappointment of our failure to find the passage was temporarily suspended. I sat back in the old wooden Captain's chair and couldn't help but grin across the table at my fellow travellers. The farmer's wife then began to clear the table, we all began to help, chatting, laughing and satisfied.

There was a full moon that night and I glanced out of the dining room window. I could see right across the fields and there in the near distance I could now make out a figure, it looked like the farmer. The moonlight was picking him out like a searchlight, he was standing over something, a shape on the ground. As my eyes grew accustomed to the scene and distance it became clear that he was bending down examining the carcass of a red deer.

Bad light stops play

Not much is more maddening than the twist and turn clips on the Cougar rear light clusters. Bulbs regularly turn and fail of their own accord rendering you without rear lighting and up for a blue light stop from the police. It has happened to me. Perhaps it's wear and tear, poor fitting or just a GM based gremlin. I'll never know but the overall effect is the loss of winter driving confidence and a lot of time spent fiddling with the three plastic screws that hold the thing together and then trying to persuade the bulbs to remain in place and just peacefully cooperate with the light switch, how hard can that be?

Demon of Scribes

In my sleep I was visited by the spirit of Titivillus; the demon who ensures that errors and omissions are made in sacred writings thus frustrating the writer and confusing the reader. He was in a philosophical mood and wanted to talk about the past, the “good old days” when life for such a specialised demon was straightforward. He/she did his/her* best work (he says) in the days of heavy calligraphy and quill pen use when monks ruled. Those guys must have hated him, now he's almost redundant, straightened out and thwarted by the spell and grammar checkers that run in everything these days. Anyway the “patron demon of scribes” told me that nowadays he's kept busy by collecting all the idle chat that occurs during church services, in mosques, in temples and in ashrams everywhere (he has no real boundary issues – any gathering will do). His mission now being to take these remarks, hold them tight in labeled bundles and bring them to Hell where they will counted and used against the offenders – nice that they're all going to Hell you may say. When I showed him Twitter, a few tweets and what was trending his little face lit up – fun times ahead and you will hear his/her name again.

*bored with the gender change.

Many long miles

Here we are resting up halfway to Aberdeen; coffee and cake time in between dodging the speed cameras and a blinding sun that seems to come from everywhere at every possible angle. The traffic was pretty light and we made good time, all set for a spa afternoon, party drinks in the evening and an early rise to get back home for football and family. I'm pretty sure that none of this is fiction unlike most other things here, the line between truth and fantasy does blur on some days, much more than others. Anyway sliding between those contradictory places, sleep and wakefulness, I enjoyed the drive. A Cougar is a machine for travelling in.

Mirrors of the soul

“What happens if a cat eats a poisoned mouse, a mouse poisoned in a mouse trap?” she thought about the possibility as she leaned on the supermarket cart and placed the cat foot carton on the metal grill of the base. She looked at her fingernails and paused; pillar-box red and not a chip, nice shape, she congratulated herself. Really she was just ambling around the shop, there was a purpose and a to do list but they were buried deep in other thoughts. She much preferred to think about how she was looking, how she felt, what clothes would do for her, how her hair could be coloured. She was thinking in that sea of swirling thought, nice warm imaginings, far away from the aisles and offers.

She tightened her grip around the cart's handle and heading out of pet foods passed the pasta and pulses and into soft drinks. She admired the fizzy, shiny can packages, shrink wraps and shapes but concentration was tough, how was her make up now? She could feel herself inside her clothes, as if she was a product, held in by this superfluous packaging; superfluous but it gave her a shape, held her in, helped to move and be an object, a discernible object in this shop, in this space, in this place. Her colours were all the separated her from the candy background, her shape made her distinct in these parallel shelves and piles of boxes. Her appearance defined her even if her thoughts contradicted, as they always did. “These contradictions are the breath of my life, these contradictions rise in my nostrils, rise and tickle the cortex of my brain, away hidden from drapes and appearance.” She moved across to the bakery, hot loaves were shoved into those open ended bags, she imagined flies and insects landing on the bread tips, she imagined but she could not see. Her shoes were now uncomfortable, she lifted her feet in them, let air move on her heels, the air that was bathing the bread, supermarket bread not real. Her heels, the heels of her shoes were not for this floor or this posture. She picket up a baguette, some pastries and felt the warmth as odours oozed out. “Must keep it away from the milk and the fruit – no warm contamination allowed in this cart.” At the deli pieces of cheese were lined up on the counter top on paper plates, you could try before you would buy. She picked up a piece, ignored the thoughts of the other foreign fingers that had dwelt on the plate and plopped it into her mouth, there was a slight lipstick mix moment which the cheese won.

“Three words, three words, three words I never hear him say, three words.” she was heading into the wine and spirits, offers running past with meaningless labels, red, rose and white. Three words. Bottles clinked in the cart against some cans and hard edges. “I love you”. These are the words I never hear him say. Toilet rolls and paper products, silly cosmetics, wasteful packaging repeated across items designed by graduates in marketing, applications and synthetic materials. She was feeling bullied by the shop, the whole shop was a bully, a bully experience. She decided just to let the cart spin slowly, on some invisible middle axis, around the columns of super wipe up super sucking super absorbent towels with hidden pockets of moisture gathering material that are designed to save your face, carpet, couch or floor in that awful embarrassing moment when someone spills a liquid nearby. Reach out and touch the answer, the answer to an embarrassing problem is the towel that gulps it all up or down. “And me I'm not young anymore, I'm not so pretty, I need these clothes, make up, to make me make up.” Swallowed by the mainstream, too much to lose by telling the truth.

She walked across to the coffee shop, she didn't quite recall the till or paying but the groceries were all bagged, almost neat in the trolley, ready to be transferred to the car, to the house, to the cupboard or fridge, to a plate, the mysterious dishwasher, the silver bin, the stomach or gut, the drain, the big black bag, the wheelie bin, the landfill. History buried under clay and plastic. Coffee made her feel better and she twiddled with her nails. Still perfect, still shiny after the shop, so different from inside her head. That place seemed ravaged by externals, eaten up by wolves. Words eaten by wolves, chewed and spat out as if never said. I love you is so hard. The coffee was good however and she was aware that she could study herself in a well placed cafe mirror, her reflection looked out the other way, looked at her nails and into her coffee, there in that other place, in that so separate place, untouchable from here and as backwards as a reflection in a puddle. That girl in there had other things on her mind, somewhere, earlier today she had heard the words “I love you”, across a pillow and through a mist of sleep. She turned, their eyes met, they both stared and picked up the coffee cup, they looked through, pupil to pupil over the white rims. The moment of recognition was in slow motion but over and done in a flash.

There are somethings you should do, there are some things you should never do, then there are other things. What could you say about looking straight into your own soul and what would you say? I love you?

Drive thru - drive by

If you happen to be hungry during your next visit to the USA this handy map may help. Often a peckish soul caught out on a quiet drive can't easily find a restful oasis in which to put up and enjoy some nourishment and a long cool drink. Even in the States it is possible to stray anything up to 400yds without the reassuring sight of a yellow bun and a brown burger, you can't be too careful. You can't be too hungry - you can however be too fat and unhealthy. Have you tried the new breakfast wrap?

Wondering

Apart from wondering when the timing belt might snap, the exhaust will collapse or a tyre will shred I do wonder about the power of the comic strip to entertain, influence and change popular culture. That's about it.

Nasty muscle

It was touch and go, a snip at £1299 but as a wise man once said, “if it seems too good to be true then boy it is too good to be true.” A 2002 Saab 9-5 2.0 manual Arc in bright red with all the toys and coming in at a mere 69k on the clock. A private seller not trade so the possibility of waving a wad of cash to a desperate man could get it for maybe £1100 or less. Always one for a bargain and the opportunity to make a quick buck I was sorely tempted. So tempted that the pain was physical but I knew that I had to play a waiting game, had to bide my time, this was my chance to make money and timing was everything. After the requisite number of days the advert remained live, hook in the water I thought. My palms were sweating as I made the phone call, 12 miles away I'd be quick, punchy, decisive and out there with the cash and the signed owners slip in moments and on for a resale and nice weekend profit. I'd expected a gruff middle aged male to answer the phone or maybe an Asian accent, maybe some early haggling, then maybe it'd be gone.

What I got was a prim, pretty, Edinburgh, Morningside female, better than ever, an ignorant rich bitch selling an unloved shopping cart to a charming man like me. Candy and babies sprang to mind as she gave me her address; “Yes, I've had a number of calls, quite a bit of interest but nothing has come of any of them, I'm rather frustrated, I'm due to take delivery of another vehicle quite soon and there isn't much space in the driveway and I've no wish to leave it on the street.”

“Well madam, I'll be over in about 30 minutes if that's ok with you?” “Fine”, she said and passed across her address details. I finished my coffee and looked quickly over the A to Z, easier than sat nav no matter what the geeks might say and don't start me on those stupid thumb bursting smart phones.

As it was the middle of the day the traffic was relatively light and I made good time across town. I found the address and the car, gleaming in the driveway it sat proudly outside the house. Somebody has spent time polishing it up and there was a “4 sale” sign on the windscreen. I couldn't understand how it hadn't been snapped up, was business really that bad, why had the sharks dipped out on this little honey? I rang the door bell and looked at my shoes, clean enough.

There was a pause and then a shadowy figure came up to glass and unlocked two locks and drew back a chain. The lady from the phone call pulled the door open and smiled, her eyes had a definite sparkle, we were away. “I'm here about the car that's for sale” I said in a fairly obvious and awkward tone, shrugging slightly and trying to hide a little of my enthusiasm. “Of course” she said, “I'll just get you the keys”. A few seconds later she handed me the keys, “take a look yourself, I'll just get my coat.” I took the keys and checked the car, clean as a whistle, sweet as a nut and tidy as a brushed hamster. Of course I'd have to find a few niggles to focus on so I could argue her price down a bit which I duly did. She seemed a little put out when I mentioned the miss-fire, the tracking and the discoloured oil but we agreed on a final price of £1050, as good as I'd hoped.

“I don't like to see cash being handed over outside or in the street” she said, “you'll have to come into the house”. I followed her in through the glass door, it closed behind me. “To the kitchen” she trilled. I followed on thinking about the denominations of notes in my wallet, I didn't want her to see how much money I actually had, that was a bit vulgar and in these circumstances when I'd negotiated downwards by a decent margin, pretty inappropriate.

When I awoke I was sore and damp, tied up and sitting in a puddle in a derelict warehouse of some kind. “You're lucky son” said the policeman looking down at me as I looked up at him. I felt sick and disorientated and stuck in some kind of numb shock, my face was sore. “You're the tenth one they got with that scam, must've taken £25k in cash, a few cards, your own cars and the contents of all your wallets, then away they go. All you need is a mobile phone number, a posh squat and a little bit of nasty muscle, a little bit of nasty muscle, does it every time.”