Following considerable and
relentless encouragement from a friend to start writing again, I have put
fingertip to key once again. Actually Luke just asked why I don’t write
anymore, and I said that I don’t have the time. This led me to think about what
is keeping me so busy. I’m working much longer hours having swapped my
part-time work and part-time child care with spouse, who now knows first-hand
that, actually, I could have done a lot more housework over the last eight
years than I claimed was humanly possible. This is, however, unspoken. If he
accuses me of previously being a lazy arse, I can point the finger back firmly,
and probably quite pointedly, in his direction about the continued scruffy
state of the house since he took over the reins. Fortunately becoming part-time
child carer, mixing with the yummy mummies at the school gate and making the
lunch boxes has not lead to an increase in his desire to purchase shoes. That remains
firmly my department.
When I’m not working, or
supervising homework which generally amounts to not being able to answer the
twins’ questions about algebra and feeling stupid, or chasing boychild around
the house, and then forging his handwriting, what am I doing?. Sometimes I pay
him to do homework; my rationale being that I am teaching the crucial message
that there is no such thing as a free lunch. In prison psychological
psychobabble is the term “permission giving”, for example, starting a row so
one can justify storming off to the pub with your mates. If I had more self-awareness
I would recognise that I am a master in the art of giving myself permission to
behave badly. Frequently. But I don’t that all important self-awareness
fortunately.
So on weekdays, those activities
probably account for on average nine hours a day. The rest of the time, I seem
to spend in my hobbies of trying to make smart arse comments on Faceache,
watching and often screaming at the TV, smoking and drinking wine, not
necessarily in that order. Tonight I am undertaking an experiment – an hour’s
less online poker or property porn TV (actually Kristy is on in the background)
and alternately see what I can muster for the old blog.
There have been so many issues on
the TV of late, particularly so called news programmes that I’m struggling to
choose from at this late stage in my post. Probably the most pertinent today is
the Police Commissioner (what a load of fucking nonsense) elections. At a time
of austerity cuts, we, the people of England and Wales (and possibly Scotland
and Northern Ireland, but I really couldn’t be less interested in the detail
and can’t now be bothered to research it) will have a say in how our police
forces are managed, for an up-front cost of between £80 and £100k in salaries
per constabulary per annum. I could bang on about the ethics of politicising
the police force but I’ll leave that to serious bloggers. I could equally harp
on about this being a further example of the Condems cynically suggesting that
we, the people of England and Wales (and possibly et al), actually have any
influence in the way our towns and cities are policed, but I don’t think the
Government has pulled the wool over the eyes of any more than the 5% that are
expected to vote, and let’s face it, more people read the Sun and Daily Mail.
I am proud, however, to report
that I used both my franchise and my spare time wisely in casting my vote (or
not, as it happened). I spent the best part of ten minutes pencilling a
rendition of an erect penis and hairy testicles on my ballot paper. Childish?
Certainly. A waste of time? Almost certainly. Satisfying? Probably more so than
the cheeky bottle of Chardonnay Viogner that I’m about to start supping until
bedtime.
