DUMBO

Didn't I say that Spring in New York would be freakin gorgeous?
It's doing all it can to make us stay

Cor bloody 'ell

It's Saturday night, The wee fella has been playing up all afternoon.
The missus has gone out with her brothers and I'm wearing my new football boots around the place to wear them in a bit.
I just found an open bottle of Chardonnay in the back of the fridge.
There's a nice new couple living upstairs.
This is turing into an episode of Spaced, with me as Marsha.

Probably my final sentimental wankfest entry.

There are two books that I would probably need if I were to be stuck on a desert Island. One is Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby, The other is the Collected Poems of Primo Levi.

As my last offical day of school is about to begin I want to share with you one of my favourite Levi poems. Please indulge me.

Unfinished Business

Sir, starting next month,
Please accept my resignation
And, if necessary, find a replacement for me.
I leave alot of uncompleted work,
Either from laziness or practical problems.
I should have said something to someone,
But no longer know what or to whom. I have forgotten.
I should have given something away, too:
A word of wisdom, a gift, a kiss.
I've put it off from one day to the next. Forgive me.
I'll take care of it in the short time that's left.
I have, I fear, neglected important clients.
I should have visited
Faraway cities, islands, deserted lands;
You'll have to cross them off the program
Or entrust them to my successor's care.
I should have planted trees and haven't done it,
Built myself a house,
Perhaps not beautiful but conforming to a plan.
Above all, dear sir, I had in mind
A marvellous book that would have
Revealed innumerable secrets,
Alleviated pain and fear,
Dissolved doubts, given to many people
The boon of tears and laughter.
You'll find the outline in my drawer,
In back, with the unfinished business.
I haven't had time to see it through. Too bad.
It would have been a fundamental work.

Primo Levi.

Final days of the Nixon White House

I'm moving on to a new job, a new country (well, OK technically not a completely new country but it seems different everytime I go back and Gordon will be running the place by the time we arrive)and a new home (as above but it needs a lick of paint and the interior decor will consist of something more inviting than empty bottles and ashtrays).

Which of course leads me to reflect upon the leaving of this place.

The end of any school year is a time for reflection, indeed it should be or would be were but there any time for such luxury. We are all so frantically trying to get rid of the children, tear down wall displays, get the right stuff home and not send the wrong stuff home that it's normally August before we get a chance to think about the year gone by.
This year is no different.

I suspect that towards the end of next week it will hit me a bit. But by then I'll probably be so busy getting the move going that well, you get the idea.

Job.

No, not the fellow from the old testament (although moving across the Atlantic would try his patience I'm sure) I mean the paying money for services rendered variety.

I just got one!

Still teaching, but teaching my all time favourite age group, not a thousand miles from where we'll be living (although let's just say that my five years of having a 12 minute commute are certainly over. There's something distinctly karmic about that).

A telephone interview this morning and yeah! Stable Employment beckons.

Today I shook hands with a 101 year old man.

It had been a busy day spent trying to find kitten a loving home. I went to the barbers for a trim. There was the usual banter and one of the bantees was an old guy talking about Canada.

Barber. "But Mac, you need a passport to visit Canada now, they changed the law."

Really old man. "I don't need a passport, I'm 101. I got a letter from the President."

I shook his hand, "I never met anyone 101 years old".

"You have now kid".

For the record he was a spiffily dressed gentleman who is chauffered about by his 94 year old wife. The barber told me and I saw them myself.

Tenants super.

A lot of us renters bitch about our landlords and often it's completely justified.
Well I'd like to turn that all around and applaud my UK tenant.
He lived in my house for the last five years, paid on the nail each month and apart from a small hole in the roof and a broken shower, caused no problems at all.

And this, this my friends, is the best bit.

Mr Tenant left things as he found them. by this I mean that my old bike 'The Lady' was discovered by my sister (who very kindly took the picture of the interior of my shed) hanging in EXACTLY the same place where I left it OVER FIVE YEARS AGO!!
If you look you can also see the blue plastic box of bike bits what I will attempt to use to restore it with!
I have a project!!!! the restoration of 'The Lady'!!

OHMYGAWDWE"REREALLYMOVING..

Another subtle view of our future home.
Looking towards the living room.
No cats.
Thanks to my sister for the pictures.

Talking of babies....

Some of you get to have sex and have a baby, For the rest of us...
there's this
I'm not normally so open and personal on this blog but hey, There are countless couples with male fertility issues.
I certainly think it's time us men with laughable sperm counts stood together.

Jeremy does a great job of talking up the issues and even raises a smile through a highly stressful experience. You can follow his exploits via the link at the bottom.

And if anyone is in any doubt about the value of it all, just ask my boy.

It's a baby!

Shit the bed!
The weasels of Maine have had a baby!!!

New Weaselkind

All our love and onesies in a northernly 9 hour drive direction!

Final Days

One of the best students ever (a Fourth Grader who used to be a Third Grader who used to sweat a lot) just came up to me and said.

" These are your final days".

"But FGWUTBATGWUTSAL, These are YOUR final days too".

He grinned.

Running scared, leaving on a jetplane.

On Saturday I spent some time and money mailing a box to England. Inside the box was an assortment of old clothes for fixing up the house, heavier clothes for the cooler climate and running gear.
I hate running outside in the heat and humidity of the New York Summer and seeing how I'll be ending my job, moving, homeless,visiting family and sitting on the beach for the next few weeks there doesn't seem to be too much opportunity for the old stretch. So the shoes and PE gear have gone east. Running career to be resumed in cooler, more rural climes.

Book Learning # 34

Warriors. Portraits from the battlefield By Max Hastings.

I was unable to find a picture of the title to my liking so I've included a picture of a younger Mr Hastings, probably from his Falklands War "I counted them all out and I counted them all in" days. Except that that quote belongs to TV journalist Brian Hanrahan.
I was browsing the Community Bookstore on 7th Avenue looking for a suitable birthday gift for Neice Flighty-Bat (books are so easy to mail and encourage intellectual stimulation in the tween generation). Of course I ended up with nothing for the neice but found this slight gem for myself.

And a slight gem it was. A dozen or more vignettes concerning different warriors from a range of conflicts over the last two hundred years. The brave, the stubborn, the foolish and the lucky. Oh, the dead also feature.

The compact chapter style suits my life right now, will probably suit my life for the next twenty years. It seems that Hastings is one of those authors I return to every couple of years, just when I thought I wouldn't read a military history.

On a selfish note it's also heartening to see that though my pace has slowed my enjoyment of reading has not diminished.
Now I just need to get my running shoes back on.

Queer Lodgings

Behold our future backyard complete with mystery ginger cat.

Party time!

It's that time of year again!
listmaker and I (and some other foolhardy teacher types) are throwing a party for our classes this evening.
This year it will involve us invoking the spirit of Harry Truman by nuking Japan (no, that's wrong). We'll be wearing delightful Hawian shirts to amuse and entertain.

I told you I had it in
me.

Cultural differences.

From Sunday's New York Times.

"To be an ugly tourist is to miss the fundamental truth in Mr. Martin’s statement. “It is to have an overall lack of understanding that there is such a thing as cultural difference,” wrote Prof. Inga Treitler, the secretary for the National Association for the Practice of Anthropology, in an e-mail message."

Food for thought for those of us moving to another culture.

Reasons to move to England.

I think the coffee machine is about to die and I cant be bothered to spend $30 on a new one. looks like it's coffee to go from now on.

Frau Random Doubt just got her UK visa.

YES!

That's right!

His Majesty St Tony of Blair just sealed the deal and has offically invited the missus to go and live in the green and pleasant land.

Offical like.

By the way it took less than a week for all the visa stuff to be worked out.

LESS THAN A WEEK.

This just in...

Gordon Brown is be the next Prime Minister.

Oh.

That's a shock.

Conversations in a deli.

I live in the heart of a fiercely Italian American neigborhood. Perhaps the last great blue collar Italian neighborhood this close to Manhattan. Every day you see the old guys hanging out on the stoops with their cigars and their hand gestures.

Last night I pop into the deli to buy some milk and beer. As ususal I have a quick chat with the deli guy who just happens to be a Chelsea fan. It goes a little like this.

Deli Guy " So you gonna be a Chelsea fan on Saturday?"

He's referring to this weekend's FA Cup Final between Chelsea and Man Utd.
This game has little interest for me, I'll dvr it and watch it Sunday night. Cockney billionaires versus Northern scum billionaires. I spose I'll support Chelsea then.

Me " Yeah, I guess. You guys put us out this year so that counts for something and you know I hate Man Utd, unless they're playing Italians or something".

I'm referring to Utd's recent defeat in the Champions league semis against Milan. Almost all Englishemen will support Utd against a foreign foe.

At this a point cigar chewing lottery guy picks up his ears and joins in our conversation.

CCLG "And what the fuck is wrong with Italians? What you got against Italians?"

Guess you had to be there.

busted!

Noo!

The one time (well OK, perhaps the tenth or eleventh but we're talking five years)I use the maintenance elevator because I'm exhausted from the five flights of stairs.

Whose standing right in the hallway as I jimmy open the door on my floor?

My Boss!

Third Grade writing.

There was once a mad scientist who wanted to make a robot. He worked and worked and he made a robot. He programmed it to do house cleaning. It did house cleaning pretty good.

One day the robot was really tired of working for the mad scientist so the robot went mad. The robot invaded the city with lightning swords, machine guns, blaster rifles and more. Eventually the robot killed everyone so he went to the lab and made more robots.

The robots invaded the earth and even you, Mr. Mondale unfortunately died. One of the robots made a blaster hose and accidentally killed several of the robots. And the first robot grabbed the blaster hose from the other robot and shot him.

The first robot was the only one left so he went on and invaded Venus. Earth and Venus clashed together and formed Venearth. Venearth was so much more awesome than the Earth. He made a city and robots ruled the galaxy.

By the blonde kid who loves Star Wars.

Yet another blog.

Following the demise of Blighty Blog and all that peace stuff in Ulster I thought I'd link to a real life Irish blog.

I give you!

The arse end of Ireland.

really bad sailing mistakes. (group writing project).

Did you like the one about the idiot who got stuck on a sticky log at the start of a really big sailing race in front of hundreds of people?

Did you?

Well my friends you can liven up your Monday morning by reading more!
The Obi Wan Kenobi of sailing blogging Tillerman has linked to all the stories contributed from around the sailing blogosphere.

Enjoy!

Friday

MUST

GO

TO

PUB.

Tony's gone.(well, going)

You don't need me to tell you the news but I can't let him go quietly.It's really the biggest non story of the year but the changing of the guard is always interesting to a political junkie like myself. Perhaps all the more fascinating when it's done without an election or tanks on the streets.
Check out the Guardian's gallery of today's events.
I'll probably get around to my thoughts about Blair during the next 6 weeks. he actually leaves office on June 27th.
For the full story check today's Guardian.

Happy uplifting Aussie music

Dammit if it aint a Go Betweens kind of a day!

Light airs suck.

The top person's sailing blog Proper Course has offered up a challenge for any bloggers who have ever set foot (on the middle of the foredeck please) in a boat.

1. Write a post on your blog about the worst mistake or most embarrassing moment you had while sailing. It could be while racing or cruising or day-sailing. It might be funny or disastrous. If you have pictures or video we'd love to see them. The idea is for us to create a collection of our sailing screw-ups that will serve as terrible warnings to fellow sailors, especially beginners. After all, the best way to learn is from other people's mistakes.

It's a beautiful May afternoon, I really should be working but what better than open up the vaults and retrieve one of my most hideously embarrassing sailing moments? I should add that I have plenty of sailing memories that have caused pain; some even caused real physical damage to boat or limb but none perhaps caused such a very public amount of embarrassment.

In the County of Norfolk in the UK there is an annual event hosted by Horning Sailing club. The Three Rivers Race is an endurance event with a 24-hour time limit.

I had entered the race for the second time as a helm (having also completed the race with my dad in the eighties) but had yet to complete the course. My crew (and the motivation behind entering this brutal and most ungentlemanly event) had bailed at the last moment thus forcing me to search for a new one. I happened upon the most marvelous Harris, an old school chum, neighbor and sailor of experience and pluck. He brought enthusiasm, knowledge of the treacherous waters and cheese and pickle sandwiches.

The start of the race is difficult even in perfect conditions. Horning Sailing club generally does a top rate job of staggering the different classes of boats along a stretch of the River Bure so that the faster dinghies can nip off out of the way of the slower boats and sailing cruisers that follow on throughout an hour or two of starts. This particular year the air was rarified. This was all very well during the tacking to and fro prior to the start, slightly uncomfortable during the final moments as the Wayfarers slipped back and forth within the narrow confines of the river. Even in stronger winds it's a bit of a bugger sailing in narrow rivers, I've done most of my sailing on Hickling Broad or out on the wider reaches of the River Thurne where there's plenty of room to make mistakes. I am distinctly uncomfortable on the itsy bitsy bits of the Bure with all its trees and buildings and crowds of onlookers enjoying their pints and pub lunches and the start of the sailing event of the year.

We set ourselves up for the start and the old girl was feeling good, getting a nice windward position wasn't as hard as we'd thought, the race is so long that the immediacy of getting the very best start is somewhat forsaken as everyone would generally rather just get away and over the line, in some ways it's a bit like the start of a marathon, lots of shuffling and most people are just trying not to trip over each other. We get an OK start and slip gently downriver away from the melee behind us and into our adventure.

We must have gone about 6o yards down the river past the start line when we stopped. The reason was fairly simple, we'd lost the wind, become calmed by some trees or slightly large bushes. We drifted gently toward the bank and did what we could to retain any momentum that might possibly just perhaps carry us around the bend into some air. Both of us were and are reasonably experienced Broads sailors so our fate was not yet sealed. Add to this Harris's insatiable enthusiasm that countered my furrowed brow and exhaustive queries about the wind. We were shortly confounded by the arrival up our aft of a fleet of large sailing cruisers. These boats, many of traditional design are in possession of much bigger sail area, taller masts, better-dressed crews and a bigger wine cellar than us mere Wayfarer types. They also take up a lot more of the river and are slightly scary. We were faced with a choice, a very immediate choice that requires some quick thinking and some action right now.

We could either take our chances where we were, get nudged and butted by the oncoming fleet and possibly damaged but hold our course or we could maneuver slightly out of their way and allow them to pass. Their taller rigs would allow them to catch what wind may be drifting over the treetops and push them down river. The Wayfarer is probably closer to 40 years old than I’d care to ask and as with any lady of breeding one doesn't enquire. I just didn’t fancy our chances of getting carved up by bowsprits and the upper middle classes. We rolled gently closer over to the riverbank and decided that for the time being we would just see what would happen, we'd not worry about actively pursuing any wind until the behemoths have passed us by. Shouldn’t take long, the cruisers are always the final couple of starts so in about 20 minutes we should be on our way. The plan worked quite nicely, it was a gorgeous day (no bloody wind but hey?) The cruisers passed and the river cleared and it’s time to pump us off the bank where we had gently nestled and seek glory. We got ready to go, hauled in some mainsheet, rearranged the tiller and we’re off!

Except we’re not.

We were stuck. We were stuck hard and we were stuck fast and we were not going anywhere. Allow me to stress that we were not stuck in reeds or on a mud bank or with rigging in the branches nearby or due to lack of wind or by a stray fishing line or anything that we could possibly fathom but we were stuck. An act of god sprung to mind. The centreboard was raised and lowered, as was the rudder fin. Several times. Nothing. We rocked the hull gently from side to side, from bow to stern. Gently, oh so ever so gently, we weren’t going anywhere. The indoutable Harris even considered getting into the water to investigate what thing it is that is blocking our progress. Nothing.

Of course this is embarrassing. This is the start of the Three Rivers Race. The start of the Three Rivers Race and we were sitting 60 feet from the start line directly across from the back lawn of the Swan inn at Horning which is full of pleasure seekers and sailing spectators.
There is one gentleman who watched carefully from the opposite bank. A gently graying figure with a slight stoop, a veteran of this race who had completed it many times with a variety of able crews and more than once in this very boat. My dad is watching us with a quiet mixture of pity, shame and embarrassment. Later I did ask him what was going through his head but either I’ve blanked it from my memory or he never told me. I would guess it’s along the lines of “But it always seems to happen to you”.

Eventually a couple of nice old gentlemen in a beautiful wooden motor launch (with a case of wine in the back) came over to lend a hand. By this time we had both bailed out of the boat and were moored on the bank looking at the mast, the hull, each other, the viewing public, the little baby Jesus. We were eventually rocked off whatever it was that had us in its grip. The motor launch ever so gently tugged us this way as we pulled in alternate directions. Even with all this technical support and varied expertise it still took half an hour to get us free. And when we are freed? A six foot long log about 8 inches in diameter popped up from under us, covered in sweet smelling river mud and weed. We had somehow managed to become jammed against this kraken, which, once it had us in its grasp simply refused to let us go.

We had of course accepted assistance from outside sources. Unless we sailed back over the start line and start again we faced disqualification from the race. We could have done that, the start line was only 60 yards away, the river was now clear and the race committee accommodating but we retired. The moment had passed and the lure of a cold beer after such a farce was too strong. We have not been beaten by gear failure, by strong winds or by the kind of incompetence sometimes bought on by either or both of those two combined. This was not a high paced embarrassment but a slow inexorable slide into a very sticky submerged log. We had been on full public display and even made a line on the back page of Monday’s Eastern Daily Press. We had been defeated by a gentle summer’s afternoon, zero wind and an uneasy drifting sensation. I say ‘we’ I should say ‘I’. Harris remained and remains to this day one of life's natural enthusiasts

My lessons from this experience? There are a few.

Prevail. Don’t worry about the bigger boats you’ve got every right to be there and it doesn’t really matter if you take a few knocks.

Light airs suck.

If you’re going to get stuck on a submerged log try not to do it in front of a crowded riverside pub.

Sunday, Sunday.

The 'block'.

Excellent next door neighbor grilling up on the fire escape.

It's been one of those brilliantly half arsed weekends.
The type of weekend where instead of taking 10 minutes to empty the dishwasher you place dirty dishes in the sink, remove clean items from the dishwasher as you need them and just work around the problem rather than make any attempt at finding a solution.
I sense this may be spring fever. This may also be the moving disease, the 'why bother with the here and now' mentality. We leave Brooklyn in less than two months, we leave the USA in under three. It's really beginning to sink in that we will be leaving.Our apartment has been leased to two bright young things who popped round on Saturday morning. The excitement reached the next stage last week when we actually booked our flight and London car hire for the journey back to Norfolk.
And didn't I tell you the weather would be delightful?

10 Years of My Little Tony.

This Steve Bell retrospective sums it all up quite nicely.

For the slightly more interactive amongst you.

Alan Ball. 1945-2007

Bloody Hell? Bally's Dead (and in the type of pseudo bizarro circumstances as befits an English sporting legend)

Go Mets!

A few years ago a certain blogger/coworker/maker of lists took me to Shea. I saw Mike Piazza hit a home run and began to fall ever so slowly in love with the Mets. There's still a lot to learn and a lot of fun and heartbreak to be had.
Last weekend I started the dynastic tradition of Mets fans in the family.

Book Learning #33

Perfect from Now on. By John Sellers.

It's strange that I was waiting for a book to rescue me from the perma-fatigue of new dadness/reading deprivation. I knew that such a book would not be found by browsing a bookstore or Amazon. This one came to me via my indie obsessed boss, dropped on my desk one day while I was out watching the kids at yard.

I'm still not sure I enjoyed this. I mean, I read it through and found parts of it fascinating, parts of it highly amusing and parts of it intensely annoying.
Sellers has a habit of completely overdoing footnotes. Half the book is footnotes and it derails your rhythm, at least it derailed mine. Having said that, many of the footnotes were great, amusing and interesting. The whole Joy Division/Ian Curtis footnote (which ran to something like 10 pages)woulda,coulda,shoulda been a chapter in it's own right (as promised by the author earlier in the book).

I understood his outlook, the pop kid who becomes an indie kid as those mildly tortuous teenage/college years progress. I guess I had the benefit of an older brother who was able to drag me to gigs, as well as said gigs being played in the safe(ish) environment of the local University. This put my Indie experiences at an earlier age than Sellers. Also, my brother was pretty hardcore in his tastes when I was 14, If he wanted to go and see That Petrol Emotion then I went too. The best kind of babysitting. If I recall correctly Sellers didn't go to his first indie gig until he was 18?

And he writes about falling out of love with U2 after the album 'The Joshua tree'. By my indie reckoning U2 were never anything indie whatsoever. It's by virtue of timing but by the time I was going to gigs U2 were already pretty global super rock. Even their better albums (achtung baby?) were enjoyed but enjoyed on the understanding that they were never going to be anything other than stadium fillers.

Then there is Guided by Voices.

It has been pointed out to me that I should have heard GBV. But I havent, not until this morning.
So I'm not obsessed with them. John Sellers clearly is. That's great, he should write a book about them. Oh, look, he did already.
The second half of this book is almost entirely devoted to GBV. Which, as I have said is fine. It's just that his devotion to this band then overruns all other consideration of the rest of indie music and the rest of the book is a homage to his #1 all time fave band. This would have mattered more to me if he'd written about one of my #1 all time fave bands rather than some blokes I'd not heard until 8.15 this morning.

Sure, it's an amusing read but I know that Nick Hornby did this better in High Fidelity.

In many respects this book got to me the way a heated conversation about music should get to you. Sellers has his taste and for the most part it's not mine, or at least what he has chosen to write about is not wholly compatible with my ideas about indie music. I like the fact that he provoked me to listen to some old stuff, ask friends to borrow some new stuff and, in short gave me a bit of a kick up the arse.

But no mention of The Wedding Present?

Object of desire

Once we return to blighty, away from all this godawful rain, I want one of these. It's a Bakfiets. that's Dutch for "amazin set of wheels".

Random roundup

The home computer (does anyone use that term anymore?) broke down last week. We had a nice time thinking about googling things and then realising that we couldont. I learned how to text message. Henry is huge and I am now back at work.

Up on the roof.

Trawling throught the archives I discovered some shots from last summer.

Liberty in the evening. Taken from the roof at 7th Ave and 15th St in Park Slope.
Midtown Manhattan (with Downtown Brooklyn in the foreground). 7th ave/15th st.
My beloved Williamsburg bank building. Listmaker and I used to have a dentist on the 20th floor overlooking the harbor. The best view from a dentist's chair anywhere in the world. Again, 7th/15th
Ooh? crazy effects of Manhattan at night! 7th/15th.

My street.

Once the home of the mafia, now a strict observer of alternate side parking regulations.

Rhode Island Road trip. (geddit?)

It's a play on words.
Rhode, sounds the same as road.
yeah?

Anyway, Frau Random Doubt, Henry and myself took to the Eastern Seaboard's favourite stretch of the interstate we love to call 95 and headed north to the tiny state with the motto 'Hope' and the motley yet charming bunch that is Frau Random Doubt's roots and origins.
We spent the weekend in the charming and hospitable environs of Frau Random Doubt's oldest Third grade school chum of French extraction, actually she lives in Boston so we all made camp with her fragrant Mom and the mildy frightening Malcolm.



The awful, awful beaches of Narragansett. Yeah, the whole place sucked.
Obviously, that was sarcasm.
J'mapelle and Frau Random Doubt ignore Henry while trying to remember who kissed who on what part of the beach in 1987. It was just another wonderful weekend of reminiscence and ice cream. And then it happened.
We spotted the ginger surfer.
Look closely in the rearview mirror. Ginger surfer is trying to drive away from his ginger surfing paradise. J'mapelle was quite catagorical. This was not stalking. Just looking at a stranger without his permission and taking photos.
Oh my god? Henry has gone to bed, we are both awake and are able to enjoy someone else's booze and supremely comfy leather armchairs.
See? there it is again! Proof that we did indeed spend Saturday night drinking it up and being almost like grown ups again!

Of course, Sunday morning was a different story. I feed the boy whilst 50% of our hosts does what has to be done on a Sunday morning.
It gently dawns on 50% of our hosts that there's a baby* on the road in his living room.

Back to the paper.


*Attention breast feeding purists: The boy is drinking breastmilk from a bottle. No formula. Thank you.

Don't do this.

Amble in a nochalant manner into the classroom of an esteemed colleague.

Notice that a child has a nametag on.

Make a daft comment about that child's nametag.

Look up and notice a panel of very important observers and a teacher you don't know in the middle of a demo lesson.

You don't write, you don't call...

... and then you go and get 4 (Four) blogs without telling any of us what time you would be coming home, if indeed you would be coming home. And on top of all that you have a lovely wife who I have yet to meet and probably a pet or a child or something.

Well blood and sand if Mark hasn't got himself a blog, 4 of them actually. I'm as delighted and amused as our very mutual friend Weasel is. You can find Mark's main blog (complete with subsiduary links )at the links bar.

Three of my favourite 'Mark' anecdotes.

1. He once cycled from Ware in Hertfordshire to Norwich for a pint. He had the pint (I was there) and then went to his mum's for a shower. He needed the shower, it was a warm day and the distance was 80 niles. For this he was awarded the Market Cross, the highest award Norfolk can award and one of only two ever awarded.

2. He cleaned a badly trashed boat during a friend's stag weekend. He swabbed the decks ridding it of all remnants of flour and eggs that had been used in a traditional quasi-naval trashing of the groom to be. He worked his balls off so that others may drink beer and belch. He in turn joined in the drinking and belching but only after thoroughly tidying up. A bit like some of the Swiss characters in Asterix in Switzerland.

3. His nickname is Trotter. Always has been and noone really knows why. Once, he was due at my brother's house for a meal. My young neice asked who we were expecting. "Mark" I replied. "Who is Mark?" said she. "Oh you know, always comes round for lunch, rides a bike, always smiling, goes to the football with Uncle Mondale".
"Oh, you mean Uncle Trotter".

The beginning of the end.

And so, as spring comes in with a whimper or whatever it is folk say, we begin our slow descent into London, Heathrow, England, Norfolk. Rural strangeness, financial obscurity, solid breakfasts and mud.

A few pointers have recently pointed towards the reality of our move.

We are seeking a home for our elderly and misanthropic cat. We would love to take her with us but it's just not practical. We would spend $$$$ to get her injected and certified and more $$$$ for a place in the plane knowing that for all intents and purposes she could die in a week. She could also live for another 5 years. Bloody cats, there's just no knowing. And before you all kick me over this one, we are all about being romantic and allowing her to live out her remaining days in the beautiful Norfolk countryside but it's cruel and simple math. She comes with us or we buy a dishwasher and a new fridge at the other end.



We have also just cancelled two long standing and much appreciated subscriptions.

Our weekend delivery of the New York Times. Since Henry was born we have simply moved the paper from 'gonna read' pile next to the sofa to'recycle' pile by the door. Neither of us has had the time or inclination to do anything more than glance at the magazine section over a bowl of cereal. Don't worry New York Times. We'll buy you when we need you on an Ad Hoc basis fom now on.



As well as the Times we have had to say adieu to our old friend Netflix. It's been a wonderful ride since a hip cousin gave us a month's subscription for a Christmas gift a few years ago when it was all shiny and new. He let the month lapse on his credit card and I had to meet him for lunch with a check for the rest of the year. That was in August. We've loved the endless episodes of The West Wing and Frau random Doubt particularly enjoyed watching every episode of Upstairs Downstairs. It was also a useful way of catching up with some of the wierdness that is Listmaker's annual movie list. Today it's the same problem as the Times. The discs have sat there since Henry was born and we watch very little TV beyond The Daily Show and a few assorted dvr'd treats. We haven't been able to settle down and watch a movie or devote ourselves to something whilst also allowing for inconsistent fatigue and Lil'un's demands. I watched a movie on the plane last week and had kinda forgotten what to do.

It's not all bad, we have become whizzes at dvr'ing lots of shows and have got into some pretty good stuff through that.



I should add that I find the value of an organisation in the ease of leaving it. When calling or emailing both the New York Times and Netflix I was met with brevity and understanding. No harrassing me with special offers (although Netflix did ask me if I was going over to Blockbuster and I'm not and I don't mind them asking). As a result of their very grown up approach I would heartily recommend either to anyone.

Book Learning #32

The Likes of Us. A biography of the White Working class. By Michael Collins.

I picked this off my mum's shelves during my recent trip to Norfolk. I had been working through Lincoln's Melancholy by Joshua Shenk but had managed to leave it down the back of the sofa. I found this in my carry on during the flight home.
Collins begins with a reference to the racist murder of the black teenager Stephen Lawrence in 1993 and traces the cultural history of his own family's neighborhood in South (pron: Sarf) London back through the last two centuries. It wasn't a real gripper but did prove interesting in a number of ways. Also, living in New York, race is the big deal whereas in Britain it's still (i think) class, no matter how much some will try and deny it or pretend that it's gone the way of the empire and smoking in pubs.

Collins traces the story of his own family and how the social upheavals of the last 150 years affected them. It's an interesting approach but I would have preferred a bit more depth.

My Brother was right.

When Henry was born my brother Busydad told me that I'd not be doing very much reading from now on.
I bumped into a parent at the eye doctor's the other day who told me that she didn't read for two years after the birth of her kids. She told me that this had really upset her.
Since the boy arrived on the scene I've changed masses of diapers, been on some cool father and son strolls, fed him a few bottles, got scared by his crying once or twice but have actually read very little. Perhaps a page a week. Henry is now almost sleeping through the night and is a delightful baby, the truth is that I no longer need to read to get to sleep at the end of the day, I'm already exhausted. I did read a bit on the trip to Blighty last week, much of that was British newspapers which I adore but of course I went and left the book I was halfway through at my parent's house. By the time they send it over here I'll have lost the impetus.

I'm not yet too upset by this, I've been reading like a crazy dude on fire for the last three or four years, Maybe it's time to get my head out of a book, wait for the right one to come along. I've just taken the first of the Lord of the Rings trilogy out of the school library. I think it might take a while.

Sorry.

Sorry I missed your party.



But thanks for the lovely picture.

A wanderer returns.

I'm back in the arms of my family after a week of being in the arms of the other bit of my family. That and visiting lots of schools and drinking gallons of Norfolk County Council tea.
I didn't get the job I went for but felt pretty good about my performance.I turned up, gave a good showing of myself but a better candidate got the position. I compared it to that of West Ham in the 2006 FA Cup Final
The Silver Fox expressed a hope that the next 12 months in my life didn't in any way reflect the fortunes of East London's finest

Here are some of the other highlights of a fine few days in Norfolk.

Yellow is a major food group in Britain. And it's not always so bad.

Norfolk is very pretty, especially in early spring and especially a bit off the beaten path.

The family are all good and well. Kids growing like weeds, everyone busy.

Norwich is a fine city.

Wymondham has a daily traffic jam. Who would have thought? I got stuck in it twice.

I met the English version of Listmaker. He was located in a school faculty room muttering dark mutterings about the poor fortunes of Norwich City. He was ginger.

Tea can be drunk in abundance and have very little detrimental effect upon the soul.

Located a churchyard with about 15 Mondales buried in it dating from the mid 1700's to the mid 1800's.

The Silver Fox is convinced that the Mondales are related to Abraham Lincoln. He claims to have evidence.

You really can't beat a Friday night down the pub with a good crowd. Lovely.

Wherever you go in Norfolk you can stumble across a discreet spot of outstandingly beautiful countryside. It lifts the very soul it does.

So buy me beer and whiskey...

Last night Frau Random Doubt went to dinner with her business partner.
She told her of our plan.

That's it, it's official.

We will be leaving these shores come the summertime.

We'll be returning to my hometown Wymondham.
For Frau Random Doubt and the boy it will be a whole new adventure in the gently lit plains of Eastern England. For me it will be a return to the old stamping grounds of a happily confused youth.

It all feels a bit like we're stepping into the lyrics of a Cowboy Junkies song. Car rides to lonely beaches, sunsets over cornfields and lazy summer evenings wafting over the larger than real blue skies. Then of course the season will shift and we'll spend October to May ducking the rain, freezing our toes and getting splattered with mud.

I have spent most of my life romanticising the place so now it's the fun part, we are actually going to live there. I will introduce my family to some of the finer points of Norfolk life, country walks, winter tea, navigating massively overweight farm animals on muddy footpaths and strolling along the beach in January. There will also be more up to date pursuits such as watching Norwich City slide down the league table, learning the bizarre and incomprehensible local dialect and watching Julie Reinger present the Weather on Look East.

Next week I fly off to find myself a suitably paid position within one of the County's fine primary schools.

Whatever happens we'll forever have Brooklyn etched into our souls, the birthplace of Henry and our first phase of life together. We'll be back often to drink in the disgusting heat of August in New York and complain about the apalling standards of customer service in the UK.

We've got the next few months to lap up our remaining days and weeks in the U.S. What generally tends to happen when you relocate is that the final weeks are a blissful experience, the hassles of moving loom very real, very large and rather costly. The weather turns gorgeous (trust me, New York we are about to have the best springtime ever) and friendships blossom as never before. In short, everything conspires against your decision to ever leave this sceptered corner of God's green Earth.

UGGGGHHH!!!!!!!

a sightly obnoxious child just spat on me!!!
(by mistake but not quite)

Peckish

Because 6am is the new 11am.

Because I was quite hungry when I arrived at work this morning.

Because there are many wonderful reasons to work in an elementary school.

Because one of them is a sometimes endless supply of corn muffins and cookies delivered by hand to your desk by small, smiling children.

DVR

I know I'm behind the times ( in fact as any one who knows me will relate, I still think it's 1962).
But along with the baby we got ourselves that dvr thingy! Yeah!! TV revolution here we come!

Carmonyewyelloooos!!!!!!

FA Cup 5th Round.

City v Chelsea.

Championship also rans v Premiership champions twice in a row, glory billionaires of world footy.

I doubt it'll be pretty but it might just be interesting.

Then again.

We're gonna get shat on.

Field trip

Over the Verrazano Narrows to Staten Island.

Cup run?

Can it be true? Are we to entertain the possibility of a giant killing?

Norfolk Dumpling seems to think it might happen.

My phone rang with the NYCanaries on the other end. They are watching it in a bar on Saturday. I'll find it on the telly somewhere. America's obsession with Chelsea is proving quite useful.
Also, the bloke who works in my deli is a Yemenite Chelsea fan, we have drunk chats sometimes (when I'm drunk that is).


FA Cup Fifth Round.Chelsea v Norwich 15.00 GMT Saturday.

Snow

I have snow whistling in through the air conditioner unit behind my desk.
I am being given, quite literally, the cold shoulder.

Because I found out some stuff and felt betrayed (Happy Birthday Mr Lincoln).

I just found out that LBJ was not 6'4" but was in fact 6'3".
I have spent the last 10 years pretending to be LBJ.
America, Can you forgive me?

Thanks to Listmaker for the pic.

Book Learning #31

Mr Nice. An Autobiography. By Howard Marks.

Upon the birth of Henry I was advised by my brother to get into some good airport reading. He told me that I wouldn't get much time or energy for anything too taxing or too interesting. He was mostly right.
I'd seen my mum read this a few years ago, It was very much a must read for the New Lad brigade back in the UK in the Nineties.
Alright, I'll give it a try.

Marks can tell a good story and he's clearly an intelligent guy. The drawback occurs when it soon becomes obvious that it's variations on the same story over a number of years. I'm also such a book-slut that if the book doesn't hold me well enough me from start to finish I'm soon pondering my next read.
An entertaining read, I guess that's why so many stoners have managed to plough through it. A romantic read with a bunch of fascinating underworld characters getting into scrapes involving the smuggling of massive ammounts of marajuana and hash around the world.

And nobody really got hurt.

Yeah?

I wonder about that. This isn't the place for my views on drugs but Marks does a superb job on glossing over his criminal activities. For him it's a life's adventure in a foggy cloud of false passports and close calls with The Man.

By the end I was getting quite excited about his ineviatble 'bust'.
By the end it was rather like listening to that lovable yet repetitive stoner friend who cannot quite remember the punchline to the story they were telling you.

Extras

I've been making the mistake of trying to watch Extras whilst comforting the boy Henry.
Trouble is, he keeps getting woken up by me laughing at Stephen Merchant.