Security gizmos, lost girlfriends and rain

The bank posted me this odd security calculator.

I'm supposed to use it as part of my online banking security.

How?

The deal is, if I want to do anything other than view my accounts, I need my bank card which slots into the security calculator.

A random number is generated online which is punched into the calculator.
This generates another random number on the calculator.
In your banking account type the number in to verify you are actually the account holder.

And?

It sucks.
It means I have to take the calculator with me just in case I need to do banking at the office, on holiday or stay over at friends or family.
There's no possibility of not using it, no choice in the matter.

If your a victim of card fraud, the bank has to refund your cash.
In other words, this is not a service designed to help the individual, but rather to help the bank.
Just like everything else they do, it's sold as being a benefit for the customer when in reality, it benefits the bank.

Don't you just hate these wunch of bankers?

------------

I lost Cathy this morning, she's at Hogwarts with Harry and chums. She's been gone since 6.30am this morning.
Her body is on the couch, but the mind certainly isn't.

I was given prior warning - come the weekend of the 21st July, a marathon reading session would commence.

Perhaps the smell of roasting chicken and a glass of wine may return her to this world?

------------

It's been raining, lots.

This year, it's a return to the British summer once so famous around the globe - unpredictable sun and showers.

For the last 8 weeks, it's been near impossible to gaurantee a fine day for outdoor events, barbeques, walking or gardening. In the last 48 hours, most of England and Wales have been the unlucky recipients of Julys average rainfall.
The misery of flooding continues.

When the sun is shining, it's warm and humid and a welcome relief - just don't forget the brolly.

Changes in direction, destiny, ramblings and love

It seems that uncertainty through change wills me to write more than I would normally, or possibly happiness makes the act of writing less immediate?

Who can say?

My life is far more busy than it was, leaving me little time to mull over the finer details or to question the path I'm following.

Cathy has bought more happiness than I knew I could feel, showing me an honesty and love that I was so cynical about before. Through her, I've found I can love and be loved, not that I ever doubted it, just that I'd never really appreciated it before. She has opened up the shell I denied I carried.

What I love the most, is how effortless it seems, how natural it feels.
It feels ... right.

I still wonder how this change in life came to pass.
A decision made to pack up and go?
How did I arrive here?
Fate?
Destiny?

To sell everything and leave a country that had been home for so many years, to arrive in a strange city, finally find a job and move into the countryside - how amazing.

To meet Cathy and for it to feel like it was supposed to happen?

I suppose, looking back, my life has been one of constant amazement.

I'm never really certain how things which have happened began. How a single decision can change the course of a life. How the decisions of others can impact the very core of your experiences.

I have no allusions that there's anything special about my story, but for the obvious - it's mine.

I start to feel the "connectedness" of life, I think of my brother and my friends in other countries far away, and I'm certain we'll all bump into each other constantly throughout life, often with years inbetween meetings.

I could never say for certain that events in a persons life happen for a reason, but sometimes...

... it really feels that way.

When I talk with Cathy about her life and how she ended up in this small town, I can only wonder at it all. How did it come to pass that we met?

Isn't that the very essense of love? Destiny?

These chance meetings which appear to happen randomly, the butterfly that dances upon one specific flower in a field of millions, are they really so random?

Cynisicm falls away, the derision I could pour upon such feelings, the jokes I would make about these thoughts, they become meaningless when I consider this amazing path of life.

Talking of which, I think it's time for another cider ...

The meeting of two worlds?

What on earth has happened to me?

This evening I found myself in the garden, planning a vegetable patch.
Not only planning it, but actually toiling in the garden, turning manure into the soil and building small pathways.

I'm now sporting two symmetrical blisters, one on each thumb, after chopping down a small forest on Saturday.

The sick thing is, I actually enjoyed it.

I went out at lunchtime with the idea of spending an hour in the garden drinking cider, but ended up 4 hours later obsessed with weeds.

As a teenager I would do anything to avoid working in the garden. This usually involved lying in bed until 4pm and ignoring Dad mowing the same patch of grass outside my window for hours.

Into early adulthood I never really got the urge or the chance to give it any thought. It has continued that way until recently.
I dabbled briefly with growing certain kinds of herbs, but that was thwarted by a moment of sheer paranoia.

I've now spent about £120 gathering together various gardening essentials, from which I hope to raise a crop of vege which would probably cost, hmm, £10 in the shops.

There I was with a tape measure and a pen, plotting out where I'd plant the beans, onions, peppers - someone take my temperature.

I've taken up other alarmingly "fogey" style habits lately. I like walking. I like walking across fields in green Wellington Boots.
I've gained more than a passing interest in photography. I no longer play an unhealthy amount of video games.

On the flipside - and this probably constitutes a mid-life crisis - I'm dressing like a teenager. It's sad, but I don't really care. I got myself some Converse all-stars and an iPod. Sure, fashion wise I'm probably 10 years out of date and shape wise, more than 20. Gravity has taken it's toll!

Is this the meeting of two worlds?
Is this the "mid life crisis?"

If so, I quite like it...

... Bring it on!


See my Butt.

The horrors of moving home

It's time again, it's arrived, those final two weeks before "The Big Move"

I'd promised myself to be more organised this time, to not spend the last few hours throwing the last remaining items unsorted into black plastic bags and stuffing them into the car while forcing the boot door closed with three heavy weights.

This time, however, I have my partner to assist in this painful process. She has been incredibly good at sorting out various things around our "soon to be old" home.

The lounge and kitchen now resemble a chinese laundry as Cathy starts "processing" the various curtains, towels and assorted items in order to get the full deposit back.

I've been handling the daunting financial aspects of the new rental, getting a temporary bank loan, making deals with the letting agent, changing the utilities. It's a painful process.

We have the inventory of the current rental at hand, a bulky set of papers cunningly crafted by an "independent organisation" when I first moved in. The detail of this inventory is indepth and often inventive.

A clock radio which has never worked is labelled as "in working order", a couch which is clearly beige, is noted as being "pink". I hope it wasn't pink when I moved in!
Some groups of items are referred to as "assorted books / various blankets", while others are so carefully described we can no longer find them.

The detail is as much a blessing as a curse. It's the realm of the Devil himself!

(The rental here is fully furnished, so we have to leave it exactly as it was when we moved in.)

Moving home in this manner is akin to taking apart a large jigsaw puzzle with your toes and reassembling it with your elbows.

What amazes me is that I arrived in England with two backpacks of possessions. Everything I owned in the world fitted into a single passenger sized car backseat, with room to spare. Heck, I hauled it around the tube for 8 hours.

In just one year I have at least three full car loads.

Cathy, on the other hand, has enough stuff to fill the hold of a 747 (bless her little cotton socks)
We're talking decades of collection here folks!

Not that I mind. We live an eclectic life and have decided our way of furnishing our new home will be "bohemian"
We shall continue to live with interesting clutter in our new abode.

May this move be over soon and celebrated with a steamy bubble bath and champers!

A year in review, 2006

2006 started well, with news that I had a permanent job in the town where I now live. It was welcome news, after months of slogging around London looking for a decent job.

I view it now as a "sliding doors" scenario, as my life has completely changed because of that job offer, for the better.

It could've gone so completely differently. The obvious scenario would've been returning to South Africa with my tail between my legs, beaten on my quest to start again in England. Moral support from my Brother in South Africa and some financial support and advise from my Mom over here saw me through the tough part.

The first month of January was pretty hellish, the only thing keeping me going was knowing that I was now employed. I commuted from Wimbledon to Odiham (Basingstoke). I was living in a shared house in Wimbledon with 5 other people, one bathroom and next to no privacy. I'd awake at 4.30am, be at the station for 5.30am and finally arrive at work at 8.30am. I'd arrive home around 9pm eat and just crash. Often I'd drink a few cans of cider on the train journey home, listening to my CD walkman. Very surreal - Gorillaz, Nick Cave and Green Day inside the vacuum of the train reflecting on itself in the windows.

It was dark when I left for work for the entire journey except the last half hour and dark all the way home. Winter in England can get very bleak at times.

My next break came when my Mom agreed to loan me the money to put a deposit down on the High Street flat where I now live with Cathy, so on the 27th of January, I finally had a place to call my own, four long months after arriving back in England.

To say I was in absolute heaven at the time of moving in would be an understatement. A picturesque little town, my own cool little pad right on the High Street and a great job - there was only one thing missing - friends!

The next five months were all a bit of a blur. I went up to London several times, up to Warwickshire to visit Mom and generally enjoyed the freedom of my own place again. I didn't really meet anyone, aside from a few nods here and there in the High Street and my work colleagues.

I suppose around April/May I was noticed by Cathy. I have no idea what she thought of me then, but she said she liked my bum. Not too long after, she discovered my Blog and I clocked on that the girl in Number 81 and Wine Rack was Cathy after discovering her Blog.

An interesting turn of events took place whereby Cathy was determined to get me to notice her. She invited me to a barbaque at 81. I got ready that evening but for some reason chickened out - I got all the way to the door, got stage fright, went home and Blogged about it. As luck would have it, Cathy and Garrett were online at the time, saw my Blog post and came around and knocked on the door to fetch me.

The Barbaque was fun. The next month or so, I kinda played "hard to get" and Cathy, bless her, was patient. I wanted to make sure I didn't rush in head first to a relationship.

Since then, Cathy (and Smodge cat) has moved in with me and life has been very interesting. Cathy's year has been really trying as has the life of her friends. With the loss of a business and the numerous upsets and issues that go along with it, 2006 was hardly a good year for her.

For me, it's been very interesting. Life changing in many ways, but then, that's what I set out to do when I left South Africa late 2005.

What 2007 will bring, I have no idea. One thing I do know, I'm back at work tomorrow and I'm starting to think a change on that front is due at some point this year.

Sliding doors - how strange that a simple phone call "you're hired" can so completely change things. Destiny?

Then again, I suppose leaving South Africa in the first place was opening a new door - a daunting and exciting action I'd heartily recommend to anyone!

Escape from Crumbley Castle

Get me out of here, this home of geriatric crumblies slowly revolving around the dancefloor to music played by balding men.

Breakfast at 8.30, on the coach at 9.30, trapped for 2 hours listening to people talk about operations and death, followed by a brief burst of excitement in some hokey little scottish town, then it's back on the coach. Arrive at 17.00, dinner at 19.00, 'entertainment' at 20.30 and then bed.

Rinse and Repeat.

All the time, the scottish glens entice me, the fact that out there is wildlife, whiskey, walks, boats, young people. Glasgow just 50 miles down the road with bars, clubs and night life. City of culture.

This is a hotel of culture, but it's the kind you find in a petri dish, otherwise known as mould.

I wonder down the corridors chanting "Red ruuuum" "Reeeddd Ruuuuum" - I'd take that scenario over normality. Perhaps someone will break down my door with an axe this evening. I'll leap out the window running naked screaming for the hills, clutching bottles of single malt whiskey to my chest, being pelted with shortbread and haggis.

This is Scotland for christs sake, it's NOT supposed to be like this, is it?

Perhaps it is, which is why most Scottish people leave as soon as they get the chance.
How many lochs, glens, castles and wee twee towns can you really take before you either leave, or hit the bottle? It's no wonder that the Scottish perfected the art of Whiskey, there's fuck all else to do up here!

It's either that or start a fight, or do both.

I protest too much, I do. This is fantastic scenery, it really is, if I could actually get to WALK on some of it, instead of sitting on the coach for bum numbing hours with people a million years older than me.

"oooh, look dear, there's a deer, dear."
"Yes love, Agnes had hers taken out last week, she's been ever so poorly you know"
"oooh, look dear, isn't that a castle?"
"Yes love, my legs ache and my face is falling off, is it far to go?, I need to pee myself again"
"What dear?"
"I said isn't it a luverley twee dee dear"
"yes, yes it is, what day is it? I had a nice fish supper last millenium, it was ever so good, except for the bones, they get stuck in my ears you know."


ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Train Spotters / Day Trippers - a day on the Watercress Line.

Alton, Ropley, Medstead, Alresford - the trains on the Watercress line go back and forth on a relaxed journey back in time.

Cathy and I boarded the 'Bodmin West Country Class' at Alton on a perfect summer's day; the only dark clouds in sight were the smoke plumes from the engine.

As the train pulled slowly away from the station we made for the windows, cameras in hand to get the obligatory face full of smoke and to try to snap some action shots. The rolling green landscape was picture-book perfect, the progress slow but steady.

We wound past old abandoned rolling stock, rusting away slowly in the heat of the day. A lone man with a metal detector in a field didn't notice our passing, lost in the dream of finding treasure no doubt. The cows paid no heed, resting under the trees to escape the heat.

Shaking hairfuls of soot all over the train tables and seats, we decided to clamber off the Bodmin at the first stop, Ropley, to view the train yard.

The attention to detail on this route is unique. At each station stop, the staff are dressed 1920's style, complete with pocket watches on chains. Somehow it doesn't feel out of place as it is done with carefully studied English understatement. There isn't any feeling that this is all just a big show. The staff you meet are genuine, the trains and stations restored with care.
It's an underlying passion mixed with everyday sensibility.

Our fellow travellers were a great bunch. We were mistaken for real train spotters by some, as we were taking the types of photos more associated with enthusiasts.
If truth be told, we were just having fun with cameras, neither of us really knowing that much about trains, but we didn't want to spoil the expectations of that special "train spotter" breed and we shared the enthusiasm anyway.

The next train from Ropley was an old diesel which took us past Medstead to Alresford for our "half way stop" and a much needed pint of cider and bite to eat.

Alresford is an old market town with a wide high street, aptly named 'Broad street'
It sports a pink Barclays bank, which was amusing.

We headed for 'The Globe on the Lake' and arrived early enough to get a table in the garden, overlooking the Ducks, Swans, Geese and occasional Coot in a feeding frenzy. Small children, wielding chunks of bread, were having a riot of fun throwing it at the Ducks.

Dodging the wasps and midges, we enjoyed a tasty chicken pie and cold cider and eventually dragged ourselves away for the return journey.

We misjudged the train times, after having a half pint at 'The Swan Hotel' and decided that another half at 'The Horse & Groom' was in order.

The next train back was a Diesel, so we decided to stop at Medstead and wait for the final steam train. Medstead wasn't that memorable, aside from some of the old restored adverts at the station, one in particular, advertising 'Nosegay Tobacco'

As we boarded the train back to Alton, sharing cool white wine in plastic cups, we had a chat with a fellow couple. The husband had worked on the railways before retiring, so he had a few interesting stories to tell.

The journey back was too short. Ahh but for a few more hours gently rolling through the lush English countryside, with great company, in a timeless place.


All in all, it was a perfect day.

The Green Hills of Home

It's been eight months back "home" and I'm no closer to really understanding my connection to this island of my birth.

I suppose I'm a colonial in some odd way, with the blood of Africa somehow entrenched into my Phyche, for I cannot shake the deep marks that Africa has left on my personality. Not that I would want to do that, I love that aspect of my history.

Life in Africa as shaped me as surely as my English heritage has, but does it really matter?

I'm not sure, I haven't figured that one out yet. As much as I'd love to claim to be beyond these aspects of life, I'm not.

A personal history matters a great deal, it defines your personality, your outlook and thus, in a generic sense, your future.

I'd given up England as being my Home many years ago, having assimilated myself into life in South Africa, but below the surface there was always the Englishman. The full extent of what that means may never return, because again we come back around to "what does it matter?"

It matters a lot, it really does. As much as I'd love to declare myself "a citizen of the planet", life doesn't work that way.

I have these deep stirrings, this ancestral memory perhaps? - Bollocks I hear you say - but I truly feel like I belong in this land, which I never really did in South Africa. This is the land of my ancestors.

Everywhere I go, I'm reminded that this is home - there's no alien feeling at all, but often there's mild confusion and amusement as I try to figure out the huge gaps I have missing in my personal history of England.

I can chat with my fellow work mates and friends I've met and have a connection, but England and the UK have changed dramatically in the years I've been in South Africa. We have the common ground of youth - the TV programs, the cultural icons of years past, but 20 years away is a long time.

Sometimes that gap means nothing, other times it's like a chasm which will never be crossed.

This is the fifth time I've shipped back "home" and in some ways it's been the most difficult.

The brief history?

1976 (aged 8) - Family moves from England to South Africa
1978 - Family moves back to England
1981 - Family moves back to South Africa
1984 - Parents divorce, Mother returns to England
1989 - I return to England
1990 - I return to South Africa
1993 - I spend two months back in England
1998/2004 - A few weeks back in England
2005 - I return to England

Am I English, am I South African?

Well, right now, I'm English - adopt or die...

Steaming Hot...

This country just isn't geared toward hot weather.

It's been pretty damn warm for a few days - in fact, it's been bloody hot. I've faced worse, but in places where they are used to temperatures hitting the "high sweats"

In England, when the heat goes above 30, the government issues warnings - yep, no kidding.
The "Nanny State" kicks into gear and tells everyone to drink more water, keep out of the sun - basically, they tell everyone how to live thier lives. Gee, thanks Government, if you hadn't told me, I'd be out there naked in the sun, without fluids, running a country mile!

Hey England, it's called "heat" - get over it!

I must admit, it has been very difficult to sleep at night for a while and I have had a whinge or two myself, heck, I've had nightmares during this heat wave. Perhaps that's the odd thing?

An English heat wave seems to be worse at night, as the heat of the day radiates outward from the streets and buildings and we all get sweaty and start to stick to our beds (ick)

My solution so far is to consume lots of cider, but that's my solution for most things, so I suppose it doesn't count.

Opening the window at night isn't an option, too many bugs, too much noise.

So, as we face yet another night of radiated heat, I've cracked my fifth cider and shall remain steadfast in my quest to beat this heatwave by remaining drunk.

If only I could convince my boss of my grand scheme ...

Summer Haze, Lazy Daze

Another hot weekend, a lazy saturday.
Life is timeless sometimes, isn't that odd? - how time ceases to mean anything for a space of it's length, somehow content to acknowledge how slowly things change, amidst the incessant rush of perception.

Perhaps it's when you decide to ignore the clock and just exist, locking yourself into a bubble of just being.

Today is like that, it could last forever or a second and I wouldn't notice.

Maybe it's the snake bite?
I aquired 4 lagers from helping out my boss for his Monday meeting, driving to his house to fix a problem on the laptop.
Mixed with cold cider on a hot day, it's a wonderfully relaxing way to bide away the time.

I got Q magazine on a shopping trip after meeting Paul and sat in the hot sun on the deck dreaming of rock stardom while listening to the free CD. I was lost to time for a long moment, slowly sipping on amber brew and turning the pages, as the sun beat down.

The ideas flow again, pointless meandering "what if's" and grand schemes to conquer the world, thier birth place invented while mopping the kitchen floor and doing the laundry.

How many ideas sow seeds during mundane tasks?
I don't know, but I've had a few today.

Last night I dreamt I won the lottery, but I didn't win big, just £1408, so today I did a single line on a lottery ticket.
Just a dreamer, with reality firmly in sight. I did the quick pick thing and amazingly enough, 4 of the numbers are the same as last nights dream.

Summer Haze, Lazy Daze, Dreaming fool.
This moment could last forever, or until 7pm when Doctor Who is on.

Winter to Spring

450 miles for good cider

There's good cider and then there's jaw droppingly awesome cider, more akin to wine.

I'm busy sipping on Knights Malvern Gold which I aquired, oddly enough, near Malvern.

For those who think that the alcopops they sell in South Africa (and here) are cider, you just have to get yourself some of the real stuff. It ranges from absolutely rancid to ludicrously fine.

Hereford is real Cider country, but you can find local brews all over England. Most farmers markets these days will sell real cider - the stuff that is flat, strong and bitter sweet.

Some of the mass produced stuff isn't bad - a cold pint of pub cider on a sunny day is sheer bliss - but nothing can touch the real stuff.

This weekend I had a solid grounding in English Driving, from Hampshire via Berkshire, Oxfordshire and Warwickshire, through to Shropshire, into Worcestershire and back again. Long distance driving here is truly tiring as there is no unbroken stretches of road more than 10 miles in length, but that does make for a very interesting experience.
You have to constantly adjust speed as you approach towns and negotiate the millions of traffic islands dotted everywhere.

It's easily possible to completely forget London and realise what so many visitors to England never do really grasp, that the vast majority of England and Britain is countryside of breathtaking soft beauty. For many, there's the misconception of England as one great expanse of concrete.

You can spend a day in a 20km radius and not get to see all there is to offer, for in that small circle, you'll find at least one major town and 20 to 30 hamlets and villages.

Another amazing aspect is the changing countryside and architecture from one place to the next, still very noticable in these modern times of Burger King and Tescos.

As I have another glass of Malvern Gold, I reflect on a fairly rushed drive through the English Countryside and realise just how much there is to see of it.

Six Months to Somewhere?

So, it's been six months has it?
Something like that - feels like years, or days whichever way it falls in my head.

What have I achieved?

I'd say the single most interesting aspect of this move is my chill quotient, which has reached new heights of childomity I never thought possible.

I always knew I was a soft soul at heart, relaxed and slightly hippyfied, now I realise that it's true - I am. Joburg had really bought the worst out in myself due to the horrible stress of living in mild fear for so much of my time there.

For the second time, the spagetti in my pot fell out when I was draining it, into the sink. For the second time I calmly decided to cook another pot without any anger at all. Six months back, I would've been cursing like a mad thing. That means something, it means I'm just simply more at ease. Those little things are what count. Anger? - heck, yeah, I get angry, but the wild boiling anger has gone to be replaced with a more logical, less stressed version.

I'm still no closer to figuring out why I exist, but then, that's something that not many people ever do quite get to grips with. Greater minds than mine have grappled with the unanswerable question - why?

Pay it no mind, that's the general idea.

These days I figure my existence is merely to learn and experience whatever is thrown my way and also to just be overawed at everything around.

Often I feel insignificant when I view the great achievements that others have made compared to my meager offerings, but it doesn't get me down. Keep striving on and generally enjoy life as much as possible. If your not happy with something, try to change it.

Easy words to say, in the up and down world of mood swings, bad days, good days and humdrum living.

What always freaks me out is how such small things can derive such sheer pleasure. How on earth could looking over green fields populated by sheep and birds stir the heart to such a large degree?

Who knows.

I'm really nowhere, but that's ok - I'm alive, summer is on its way and there's things to learn, to see, to experience - is there really anything else needed?

Hmmm, no.

English Driving and Winchester

I finally got mobile yesterday, the proud owner of a '96 Fiat Hairdryer, otherwise known as a Punto.
It's not that bad and perfect to start off with. £1095 (About R12000) will get you a reasonable Jammy.
It's a 1.2, but has enough oomph to prevent becoming a moving obstacle on the motorway.

I decided to use the morning out to test the hairdryer/car under some typical English driving conditions. Unfortunately, it wasn't raining, so I had to scrap that idea.

I set off at 8.30, bright and sunny, scraped a layer of frost from the windscreen and proceeded to get lost. I'd drawn out a cunningly simplistic map, compliments of www.multimap.com. As I don't have a printer and haven't got around to buying a map book, it was always possible that I would drive off my pencil scribbled route into the great unknown (or a hedge)

It was deceptively simple, head south from Odiham, through South Warnborough, down to Alton, then take a right onto the A31 toward Four Oaks, New Arlesford, Itchen Stoke, Itchen Abbas, Martr Worthy (I kid you not), under the M3 and into Winchester.

Somewhere near Alton, after a brief unplanned detour around the town centre, I took a wrong turn.
I spent the next 30 minutes having a glorious time bumbling down narrow country lanes and discovering the most remarkable little villages and hamlets. Revisting my route now, it seems I somehow went too far South, into Bordon, then headed in the right direction in a roundabout route. I have no idea how I managed it, but I ended up getting to Old Arlesford without passing through a single village that is on the map.

From there it was easy going to Winchester and the roads were just fantasic fun with loads of narrow windy bits through the heart of rural Hampshire.

It seems the English have a bit of a problem with narrow country lanes, they all seem to want to go as fast as possible. Perhaps it's because there's little to no chance of being caught speeding. I kept to a reasonably sedate pace simply to enjoy the scenery.

I arrived in Winchester to partake in another marvel of English engineering, the multi-storey carpark, built by idiots who somehow managed to get the scale entirely wrong. I suspect that whoever designed them, has never had to use one. Fortunately, my little Fiat was small enough to negotiate turns about wide enough for sparrows to fart in. I squeezed into a parking space, paid my tithe for the pleasure of visiting the worlds stinkiest stairwell and headed for the famous Cathederal.

It truly is an impressive sight, which is more than can be said for some of the hotels dotted around it. How any architect can build a square brick block next to such a marvel is anyones guess.

I entered the cathederal just before Palm Sunday mass and spent 20 minutes just soaking in the scale of the interior.

After being suitably inspired at the workmanship, although not the religion behind it, I went to view the outside again. I was in time to see the Palm Sunday procession enter the grounds from the town on the way to mass, complete with brass band, palm fronds, money gathering urchins and the Lord Mayor sporting a silly hat and a gold fire poker under his arm.

Time to take my leave.

I headed back into the town to the Hampshire Farmers market, bustling with people being sold produce by real Hampshire Farmers. I had to partake in the shopping frenzy and aquired a bunch of sausages, a bag of spuds and a plastic container of real rotgut cider. "Old Sheepdogs Arse, 50% proof" or something like that.

I decided that I needed to test my car on the motorway, but first I had to find it. After negotiating my way out of the carpark built by morons for midgets, I decided to completely ignore all detour road sings and made two infuriating loops around the town centre, before finally deciding to head for Southampton, the wrong direction.

The method in this madness is something I've finally learnt about road signs here, they make absolutely no logical sense at all. In fact, the road out of Winchester to Southampton, also leads to the M3 to Basingstoke and London. You learn these things over time. I suspect the same people responsible for the car parks also have a few fingers in the road sign pie.

Motorways in England are the same as Highways in South Africa, full of dickheads. The kind of mentality to whom a following distance of 2 inches is great. The type of fool who will overtake trucks at a leisurely place. I assume they must be admiring the truck as they slowly pass it. "ohh, that's a loverly one Beth, it's got 18 wheels, just look at that beauty!"

I regretted taking the motorway, because it's just so lifeless and boring. The car handled fine, the engine didn't fall out and I didn't end up entangled in a mass of tin and plastic wearing a windscreen on my head, so I suppose it was worth testing the hairdryer at prolonged speed.

A good Sunday drive and morning out, now it's time to fry up some organic sausages and drink my rot gut cider ! - ooooaaaaarrr !

Culture assimilation

I thought I was English, heck, I KNOW I'm English, but really, what does it take to assimilate culture?

I'm not talking about high brow culture here, but the culture of everyday - the hello, the good morning, the how are you.

I'm confused to a marginal degree. This confusion is not a bad thing, it's just a mild interest in trying to figure my place in the scheme of this everyday culture.

I've been a white boy in Africa so long, it's all over me like a pair of kaffir takkies.

It seems that my English "front" is slipping somewhat, deep seated africanisms squeeze out without warning - out of the great blue yonder, dripping into my conversational tone.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not hiding anything, rather trying to layer more of the Engelsman over the Pommie, it's a natural enough thing, considering I am actually a pommie.

The guys at work know I'm pretty much a Souf Fafrican, if not by birth, by assimilation, but they also know me as a Brummie - my roots are here too.

If they notice the odd slang word in a sentence, the ones which are born of habit, they pay no mind.

I've been here six months and still catch myself saying "ya" or "fully" and a hundred other little slangisms which I've soaked in over the years.

Other times, I naturally come across as the perfect English gentleman.
The cultural magpie? The mimick?

Certainly I have a portion of that ability, to lay on attitudes for the moment, to play up to situations - but this africanism is bugging me.

My accent is all over the place not really knowing where to settle, yet it's not a conscious decision either way, rather, it fits the moment.

Since I arrived, I've pronounced Berkshire as Barkshire which is the correct way - I didn't even think about it, but now I'm slipping into the africanism for no reason I can fathom.

I keep saying "berk" and not "bark"

Perhaps, over time, the accent will settle, but I think the odd slang words will be around forever.

What does irk me, is that in any culture, there are just so many "in jokes" and these are often seasonal - they may be around for six months, or a year or even 10 years. A silly South African example is "And anuffer fing Darren" - I often find myself a bit lost, because I'm missing all those connections here, that "every day culture"

Hmmm, could be worse, I could be living in France ...

Country walks, deers and hawks

The weather is starting to turn as spring arrives with much needed rain.
Here in South East England, it's been dry for two years. It's hard for people to imagine England as being a dry place, the picture always presented is a green land with far too much rain.

The truth is that England has never really been afflicted by too much of the wet drippy stuff and droughts are frequent.

During a break in the weather late this morning, I squeezed my boots on and ventured outside without a jacket for the first time in months. It was overcast but bright and wonderfully fresh. The clocks had moved an hour forwards, so I decided to celebrate with a country ramble.

Doing "my bit" for recycling, I took a collection of bottles and magazines down to the recycling bin by the canal as part of my ramble. Can't say whether it makes me feel like I'm being a good "green" lad or not, considering I've had the washing machine rumbling away all day. I guess every little bit helps, doesn't it?

Who knows - perhaps when they collect those large plastic recycling bins, they take them to a land fill to be dumped with the rest of the areas garbage.

As I walked down the Basingstoke canal, toward Farnborough way, the signs of spring were everywhere. A lone swan eyed me up and down, ready to accost me for bits of bread. Under a bridge a school of fish were hanging around. Perhaps they were hiding from the fishermen?

The sun broke through the clouds and all was good with the world, as the distant hum of traffic faded and the green fields of England rose up around the canal banks.

I decided to take a pathway off the beaten track and into the forest. The signs of spring were everywhere, the trees in bud and forest flowers blooming and - mud.

I aquired an extra foot in height during my tramp through the forest, wet sticky mud clinging to the underside of my boots. I was more interested in not getting it all over my backside, as I slipped about dangerously close to puddles. I eventually gave up caring and gleefully loped along the muddy forest tracks. Ahhh, this is the life.

And then I spotted her, in a clearing in the forest, a deer. She was there for just a few seconds before trotting into the forest, suddenly it felt like I could've been hundreds of years back in time, ready to hunt. The distant drone of an aircraft quickly broke the moment and I rambled on.

Out onto the edge of open fields, spotting rabbits bounding into the brambles alongside a country road, I followed it for a while passing mansions with twee names and fancy cars in thier driveways. To the manor born!

Back onto the forest path I met a few other ramblers, "good morning, nice day for a walk" and was followed for a time by a few terriers, snuffling about in the undergrowth, tails wagging.

They say that the English countryside is in danger of vanishing forever, as the land gets evermore poplulated.

Perhaps a good dose of pandemic flu could assist nature in ridding her of a few million humans, for the idea of these little patches of country forever lost beneath a sea of car parks and housing developments is too scary to contemplate, too much has been lost already.

London Trip

It's been a busy few weeks, things are really hotting up workload wise, with some overtime due tommorrow.

I decided to get out of this small Hampshire village for a few hours and headed into London.

It's the same route I used to commute and I so stopped over in Wimbledon to change a few address details at my bank.

I was last there over two weeks ago and it immediately struck me how damn busy London is, it seems like an age ago that I was living there. It made a nice change from the slow pace of rural life, however, I found myself feeling relieved I no longer lived amongst all the mad hustle and bustle.

Some of the rural life must've rubbed of on me, as I got marked by a charity worker who I decided to listen to. 10 minutes later of talk about funds for the deaf and blind and me nodding, I eventually had to butt in and cut to the chase. This isn't the "give a few quid" type thing, but rather, you put down your banking details and setup a debit. You can go as little as £5 a month, but something about it seemed troublesome to me. There's so much bank fraud over here, the thought of putting my bank details onto a piece of paper on the high street didn't seem logical. It was all above board, that much was true, but I want as few debits as possible. They don't accept cash donations, so I had to prise myself away. I'll give to charity in other ways.

On the train, I got marked by a very irritating and persistant "Big Issue" vendor who smelt bad and seemed just a little unhinged, in the course of a 10 minute train journey, he asked me 3 times to buy a Big Issue, I declined. Too damn pushy. I don't like the "hard sell" patter, it turns me away. I gave a quid to a beggar instead.

After a stop in Earlsfield to pick up some post, I headed to the market, had a venison burger, a few pints and got a bunch of great food - herbs, cheese, vege. I also got a potted rosemary bush, which I intend to attempt to not kill off in a week.

I took a few photos and vids with my new digicam and really enjoyed the crowds for a while, meandering in and out of the market, trying sample produce, buying some olives - great stuff.

Not a massively eventful day, but I've got a chicken roasting in the oven on the go, some wine chilling in the fridge and some movies to watch.

The chicken is being slowly roasted with bay leaves, roscoff pink onions, portobello mushrooms, fresh crushed garlic, fresh thyme, a fresh lemon and some tasty roast spuds. - YUM.

Ahhh, the life of a single person - sometimes it really is great. But only sometimes ...

Musings and plannings

I'm already getting that damn "itch" about being stable again, the need to get out and about, after only two weeks in Odiham.

Too damn bad, I'm here for at least 6 months, so I best get settled in.

I'm made two sets of tentative "settling in" plans.

The first is a contact with a rather expensive guitar tutor, 5 miles from here, in Farnham.
Howard Johnstone is the tutor (here he is)
I had a quick chat with him yesterday, indicating my eagerness to get back into guitar and also to gig again, lets hope it works out for me.

The second contact works along with that and is rather odd. Although I can drive, I've decided to take a few lessons - it's called a "refresher course" and is something that I feel I need.
I could easily get into a car and start driving, but I've always been somewhat of a nervous driver, never really enjoying it much. Driving in the UK and South Africa are entirely different beasts.
This is the land of narrow lanes, large complicated roundabouts and lots of parallel parking. South Africa, on the other hand, is the land of wide roads, insane drivers and lots of parking.
I learnt to drive in that environment.

I'm the type of driver that is just too hyper-aware, to my detriment. I get so involved with watching what goes on around me, it makes me more prone to make mistakes. I tend to watch for the wrong things. Don't get me wrong, on a scale of 1 to 10, I'm about a 6, which makes me above average. The problem is my imagination gets the better of me. I really do feel like I'm hurtling along in a tin can, one step away from being mashed in a pile of metal at any given time. Hmmm, I suppose that's a reasonably healthy way of looking at it.

My weak points I'm aware of, my tendency to want to shift into the left lane while observing everything around me except for that "blind spot", however, my reactions are quick and effective, which has saved me from certain death a few times.

I'm also not that good at parking. Hey, I can reverse well enough, I just can't park that well, so that sets me apart from the cliched "woman driver" syndrome.

As a side note, statistics from insurance agencies have proven that women are better drivers than men. I feel the need to defend males here for a moment and say that women are just better at lying. There, now I feel better.

God, it sounds like I'm the crappest driver in the world. Oh well. From what I've seen, I'll be in my elephant over here in the UK, this being the land of stupid drivers, rather than mad reckless and stupid ones in unroadworthy cars, pissed out of their minds.

So, und zo, and so, hmmm, and here I sit in The George, a drunken sparrows fart flight to my front door, simply to get out of the house on a rainy Sunday afternoon and have a pint. If truth be told, also to have a smoke while enjoying a pint, as I don't smoke in my apartment. I have to go outside to smoke - an enforced regime which I will never change.

I stopped smoking about 4 years ago and started again about 2 months back. Stupid.
I'm now a reluctant smoker who enjoys it very much, but need to pack it in (excuse the pun) real soon. I can't bring myself to smoke normal cigarettes and so I've been smoking rollups.

There's a story behind that which I don't mind getting into and it involves skunk and a bit of hash, which I've sinced kicked in for good.

I've smoked the old herbal ciggie for the better part of twenty years and smoked the stupid cigarette for about the same amount of time.

I gave up smoking before a dental operation and what aided me in this was wacky weed.
It allowed me to still imbibe in the smoking ritual, while giving up the addiction to tobbaco.

The ol' 'erb in South Africa, or Dagga as it is known, is as cheap as chips, so smoking it "raw" is an option.

Over here in blighty, it's so damn expensive and also so bloody strong, that mixing it with tobacco is essential. So it was that an aquaintance was a big doob smoker and thus, so it was that I obtained on a few occassions, some super skunk/hash from this smoker.

It was no great suprise that I soon got hooked on tobacco again. This was cemented by a month in a shared household of smokers.

The herbal smokes are a thing of the past as I've realised they really are not helping my mental state and never have. In fact, they don't help anyones mental state. I've been "two" people for damn years and never realised it until now. Now new evidence linking dope to schizophrenia is all but fact, there's no reason to continue to punish myself.

I've never been easy with the herb and from what I've read, very few people actually are. The escape from reality has always been accompanied by discomfort around people and sometimes downright paranoia.

So, yeah, another pint please barman !

... crazy talk ...

Out of the frying pan, into Odiham

The pace of life just slowed down, dramatically.
Hmmm, maybe 'dramatically' is the wrong word, damn cliches.

Life here isn't so much slow, as predictably mellow. The High street is full of life and like most places in the UK, has more than it's fair share of cars, people and dogs.

It's a really quaint traditional English Town.

It sports a traditional butcher, with burly balding old gits manning the meat in white overalls and blue stripey bibs. There's the High Street pub, The George. A small Deli serves as one of the best places for a lunchtime sarnie and all the essentials of modern British life can be had at a slow pace with early closing times.

Tuesday lunchtime, I got a ridiculous amount of vege from the Tuesday market place for £5, some keys cut, 2lb of steak mince and a broom. It should be noted that the market is literally on my doorstep. I step out the front door onto the pavement and there it is.

It isn't exactly a massive affair, but rather a local farm produce setup of a few stalls which enjoys a brisk trade. This makes it all the more authentic, as it's clear that the locals get much of their fruit, vege and fish here each week. It felt more than a little odd and exciting to be able to buy my goods and in front of the market itself, unlock my front door and drop my goods just inside.

The ingredients for my supper tonight, a bolognaise, were all purchased within 2 minutes of my front door. Damn delicious it was too ! (more than enough left over for lunch tommorrow)

It's hard to explain this little piece of perfect England, because it really doesn't actually exist in perfection, it just feels like it should. Modern life is never far away and as I'm so fond of recalling, modern life is rubbish. Luckily it just about escapes the general horrors of British town life, being a very affluent place.

Last Sunday, I took a hike down to the canal to Odiham castle. The canal had a thin film of ice on the surface, which didn't deter the swans or the walkers from enjoying a bright sunny day. It was a good day out and I retired to the pub for a few pints before walking the 30 seconds to my front door.

It's all really rather bizarre. From the mad hustle and bustle of London, the dread worry of not finding work, sharing a house with five other people, to this.

A two bedroom two level apartment with all mod cons, a fantastic job, in a historically amazing Georgian town.

Please don't wake me up ...

... some days later ...

It's now been a week since I moved in here, getting used to village life. I took the bus into Camberley today, another very non-descript town, don't think I'll bother to return. Basingstoke will remain my main town to visit for shopping. Camberley is a bit grotty by the standards of the immediate area, or rather, boring and fugly.

Got talking to the Manager, Sean, at "The George" across the road from my apartment.
He's just taken over the place. Him and his wife have only been in England for 2 weeks, fresh from South Africa. Will definately visit more often for a chat, seems like a really good bloke. My curiosity is already getting the better of me, as I only managed a 5 minute chat (busy in here)

Sitting in the pub still, quaffing a pint of Courage Best. Think I'll try a pint of T.E.A next, I like the idea of an Ale with that name.

Still not missing South Africa, not even slightly, but I am missing family and friends, big time.
I'm sure in a few months, I'll get a twinge of the old homesick feelings for Joburg, maybe ?
Depends how things pan out here, but from the way it feels now, I'm in for the long haul.

Permanent job, six month apartment lease, a 12 month broadband contract and will most likely buy a cheap car as soon as I can get credit. The idea of buying a £500 car isn't attractive at all any more, it doesn't make a great deal of sense now I'm permanently employed. I'd rather opt for a cheap fairly modern second hand car and pay it off as quickly as possible. I need something that can do the mileage as I really want to get out and about travelling around the country on weekends, not to mention a hop into Europe every now and then.

So, there we go then, "yeah yeah yeah yeah", really fast, as they say here. (yeh-yeh-yeh-yeh)
It's kinda like the equivalent of "ya nee", my only problem, is I keep saying "yeh-yeh-yeh-no", like a saffa, or Vicky Pollard, "yeah but no but yeah but no but yeah"

Last night in Wimbledon

On the 18:01 back to Wimbledon for the final time listening to the Artic Monkeys, like much of Britain it seems. So far, it sounds good - first listen.

I've been battling with the dreaded UK credit system, where absolutely everything has to be backed up with "previous residence" and "credit history" - not easy when you've only been in the country 4 months. It's a total catch 22. If you've just arrived, how the hell can you have a credit history and a previous residence ?

Then again, not much makes sense over here, just like back in South Africa. I often wonder how anything ever gets done, until I realise it doesn't. Just go with the flow and keep your sense of humour. it's the first line of offense.

I finally convinced the credit check company that South Africa works a little differently to the UK and that I don't actually have any proof of residence on me. What irks me is that the banking institutions shift their fraud problems onto the consumer, under the guise of "protecting us"

I ended up with 60p in my wallet on Tuesday evening and a few thousand quid in the bank the next day, which was rather alarming. Talk about a close call.

Tommorrow I will be a resident of Odiham, Hook, Hampshire. I will probably go out of my mind after a few weeks of living in a tiny village, having spent the last four months in London. I've also realised that in such a small place, I will become known even if I don't realise it. I'm fairly certain that there is already word out that there's someone new moving into the vacant apartment on the High Street.

I'm looking forward to living there anyway. The idea of once again having my own space is wonderful.
I may become an eccentric, or rather, finally go over the edge after years of teetering on the brink. Perhaps I'll take on the roll of the village drunk/idiot. Every village needs one, perhaps they'll pay me if I dress the part. Then again, they may already have one. There's a bloke in the village who looks a lot like Keith Richards. He wears a fake leopard skin skull cap.

This is Britain, land of the eccentric anyone. I must admit, I do like that, although unfortunately it is tempered by Yob culture. Amidst the eccentric nuttery, there's the bland dimwit dickhead sheep, but that's another story.

I've applied for a phone and will soon apply for broadband. I was under the impression that this would be easy in a "1st world country", however, I ran into the same old bollocks as South Africa.

The first time I called to apply, I was told that the line in the apartment had been disconnected and an engineer would only be available in a month. Having learnt from experience in South Africa, I said "don't worry then", phoned again and got a different date for the engineer, 3 weeks from now.
Third time lucky then - I call again and this time, my line should be installed in 3 days.

Go figure, it's like a damn lottery.

Then again, It's entirely possible that I'll be shunted from phone pillar to phone post anyway and end up getting the line the day before I move out.

I was never under the impression that the UK would be wonderfully easy to get things done, but I didn't expect the problems I've encountered so far. There's red tape on the red tape.

A bit of money in the bank, however, seems to work wonders. Previous residence and credit history takes a backseat to the filthy lucre.

"No problem sir, I'm sure we can process your application"

"Yes, but I'm actually an evil terrorist with a long white scraggly santa beard and a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook in my 'bomb laden' backpack"

"Excuse me sir ?"

"I said 'can we fast track ?'"

"Certainly sir"