Ok, I’m sorry. But to be quite frank, and despite all your desperate pleadings, I really couldn’t be arsed doing a February news report. And in any case, nothing much happened that month.
Oh, apart from Bethy turning 14 that is.
Scary to think I’ve now been a step dad for seven years, and the once small and squeaky little girl is now all grown up and mature(ish). I mean, where’s the bloody time gone? Some of you are in for a big shock when you meet her again this summer. She’s grown up, in all directions, two of which she is inordinately proud of.
Her school work continues to be a great source of pride to us, and she’s still one of her basketball team’s star players. She’s also become a voracious reader, something which gives me great pleasure to relate. She’s knocking off two or more books a week, mainly vampire and fantasy novels, ones with lots of snogging in them.
We got her a new “bells and whistles” mobile phone for her birthday, which means I can have her old one. The old one is fairly natty, as it has Arabic numerals on it, due to me buying it (cheap) in Dubai.
After seven years of living here, and passing 50 in January, I finally gave into my urges and bought a “mid-life crisis” motorbike.
I’ve wanted a bike again for many years, but never got round to buying one. I haven’t ridden one regularly for maybe twenty years or more. Our car was on its last legs, and we’d agreed to take out a loan and buy a decent car to drive about in, for a change. While we were in discussions about this, my absolute darling wife said I should get a bike for commuting to work and back, as she knew I had been wanting one. So I started looking about for something suitable. We’d agreed how much I could spend, and she had this idea that I should get a learner capacity bike, even though I have my full ticket, as I’m too old, fat, rusty, and stupid for anything bigger or faster.
Nothing much was coming up in the free ads, so we decided to spend the day looking about the motorbike garages, see what second hand / trade-in’s they had on offer. What a dismal day that was! The only things on offer in our price range, and suitable, were nasty looking “Retro style” bikes, knackered 1000 cc old nails, thrashed ex-learner 250’s, and of course the odd Harley Davidson. I was tempted to get a big Harley, but then I remembered that I prefer motorbikes.
Disheartened, I was going to give up. Then I browsed the ads online again. In the next suburb a bike was for sale, the image leaped off the page at me. I rang the guy up, “Yes, still available.”
I drove around. I sold myself the bike within 2 seconds of setting eyes on it.
Lee-Anne, bless her, wasn’t surprised when I turned back up on the doorstep, minus a car, plus a bike. (I was going to tell her I’d done a swap, our car for the bike, but I think she may just have stabbed me.)
I told her I was negotiating with the owner of it; “But it’s your money too darling, you have to have a say in it”. She contemplated for a minute; “You were going to get a learner spec 250, and you’ve come home with a full spec Suzuki 650 sports?”
I gave her my best smile; “Errrrmmm.. Yup! I’ve got him down to within our price range, if that helps?”
She allowed me to buy it, on the condition I got full leathers, I rode it like the old man I am, (ie slowly,) and I took the “cornering and braking” course on offer at the local motorcycle school.
Sorted. I named her “Cochyn” as she is bright red. (Welshies will understand) Lee-Anne and Bethy call her the “Big red knob”
As I do a fair bit of riding on unlit roads, the massive amount of light on main beam is great for spotting Skippy before he decides to cross the road. It’s not a hazard which Brit riding prepares you for really. Bloody Skippy hopping into the middle of the road, then just sitting there, waiting in vain for another thought to cross his pea brain, while wondering where the harmonious screaming of Welshman and brakes is coming from. That sort of thing just isn’t a frequent occurrence in Llanelli.
The best thing I’ve noticed is that here in Aus, unlike South Wales, Devon and Cornwall, places I previously lived, the weather out here is inspiring to ride. I’ve commuted to and from work on her, or been out for a spin on her, every day since I bought her, and it’s been a dream.
Just to show how old I’m getting; I went out for a pleasure spin the other day, headed down the road to the coast. I found a long stretch of road, one with no obvious obstacles or cops on it, and opened it up a bit; 130 kmph in a 110 kmph area. Go me! Barry Sheene eat your heart out! I was a bit disappointed on returning home to find out I’d only managed to hit 80 mph in real money.
I was in the local mall, when I noticed the pawn shop (Cash Converters) had a couple of pairs of leather trousers. I went in and had a look, one pair, though shabby, looked like they’d fit. “Can I try these on mate?” Only to be told they had no changing rooms. “I’ll be back in a mo.”
I went back to the office and informed the girls “I’m just about to drop my trousers in the middle of Cash Converters, if you want to come watch!” Funnily enough none of them did.
I got the trousers, I look quite fetching in them. Boots to be bought next. (And yes I did drop my kecks in public.)
One of the reasons (apart from the sheer joy of riding) I bought the bike was to use to get back and fore to work, a commuter bike. The run to work in my car takes me about 18-24 minutes depending on traffic. So the bike should be quicker, no?
Well yes and no.
The car journey.
Change into work clothes at home, jump into car, drive to work, park car in onstreet parking, hit work.
The bike journey.
Change into leathers, unlock bike, remove bike from garage, warm up bike whilst putting work clothes into bike bag, put on helmet, gloves, ride to work, park bike in safe area of underground car park, remove helmet and gloves, lock bike, remove clothes and lunch from bike bag, walk to work (4 mins) carrying everything, get into work, go to staff changing rooms, change out of leathers, stow leathers and helmet etc in locker, change into work clothes, go to office.
The actual time from breakfast table to desk is about 6-10 minutes longer on the bike!
Hmmm…..
The journey in is so much more fun on the bike though. Even if I cannot have a cuppa on the bike, nor listen to the radio, it is so much more fun. Trust me on this, would I lie to you?
Coincidentally enough, a couple of days after buying the bike I was picking up the mother in law’s dog to take it for a walk, when our car went “B*A*N*G” outside her house.
Ok, no worries, I got the local mobile repair unit out to see what was wrong with it. Petrol pump given up the ghost.
We totted up the repairs it needed;
Petrol pump $500 New windscreen $340 Drivers door $300 Rear off side window $200 New radiator $600Total $1940
Aprox value of car (after being repaired) $600.
Not really worth it then.
So we took out a loan. This wasn’t as easy as you may think.
In the current financial climate you’d think the banks would be only too glad to give obvious suckers some cash up front at extortionate fees. But it was a case of “Fill in these forms, then fill in some more, then bring us proof of ID, then more proof, then bank statements going back to 1978, and more proof, and sign here in your mothers blood, and list every purchase over $50 but under $111 you have ever made where the item starts with the letter G, and let us know what your mother in law has for breakfast every alternate Thursday, and then wait for ages, and then we may give you a loan, if we’re not feeling too blue that day.”
We eventually got a loan. The choice of cars we had in mind was limited by the dog factor. Basically we wanted an estate car/ station wagon so we could lob the dogs in the boot for trips, and not have the whole car stink of dog saliva, as the back seat our old one did.
I saw a Subaru Liberty station wagon in the small adds. As soon as I saw it I knew we were having it. We went and looked at a few others just to have a comparison. One of the ones we saw, the owner was so ineptly devious (putting it politely), that while he was selling it to us we didn’t dare look at each other for fear of laughing;
“Yeah, it’s never been off road” (Opens bonnet to reveal and engine covered in dust and dirt) “It’s sound mechanically” ( “Oh, but it may need a new clutch soon”) “It’s got some minor body scratches” (Minor? The rear hatch had a dent so big I could fit my fist in it, one which had nearly rusted through.) We didn’t make an offer.
We saw the Liberty and bought it. Bloody good car. It’s now known as “Old Greg” because it’s green and shiny and has a “Mangina”. (Fans of “The Mighty Boosh” will get that.)
I then had the sad task of getting the wreckers to come and tow the old car away. I was very sad to see it go, it had been a trouper, and we’d had good service out of it. I didn’t cry though. Then the geezer gave my $50 scrap value for it, which cheered me up no end.
For Xmas, my good lady wife bought me as one of my treats, a couple of vouchers for “Foot and Thai massage parlour”. Due to circumstance, it wasn’t until mid March I had a chance to have one. It was an eye opener to say the least. The place was unprepossessing to look at, but once I got inside it was a whole different matter.
The reception staff were welcoming and accommodating, and very tasty, which made me wonder if going there was such a clever idea. (Though I had taken the precaution of giving myself a “helping hand” before going, just to help avoid any embarrassment.) The reception area itself was smart and clean, very minimalist, very oriental. I was soon called in by the masseur, a short stout lady with a big beaming smile. (And, as I was soon to find out, a fucking sadist to boot.)
I had opted to use my voucher for the “Traditional Thai massage,” and was praying she wouldn’t ask me if I wanted; “a happy ending.” I was shown along a row of cubicles, very smartly laid out, and warm, to and into one with a standard massage table. There were scents in the air, nothing too overbearing, and some peripheral ambient music, which may not have been so peripheral to anyone else. I was allowed to strip off, on my own thankfully, then the masseur came back in, and for the next hour I was wrung out like a damp cloth. It was fantastic. From the soles of my feet to the hair on my scalp, (almost) every part of me got squeezed and pummelled and kneaded.
I cannot say that it was consistently pleasant, some of it, a reasonable amount of it in fact was bordering on “ouch”, but it was all-relevant, and, once she had moved on to the next bit, and my body had relaxed, it felt heavenly.
By god I’ve never;
a) Been so intimate with someone I don’t know.
b) Met a woman with such a strong grip.
c) Felt my muscles be compressed, stretched, prodded, squeezed and probed so before.
I was on the table for just over an hour, and then had a half-hour sauna to finish off. Extremely good value, highly relaxing and tonic, and an unfaultable experience. (I left a hefty tip!)
The best thing is I still have another voucher to use! Then I’ll have to pay for them myself, which I fully intend to do.
Unfortunately, like a twat, I had arranged to go to the climbing wall with my mate Lewis that night, which soon put some kinks back into me. Arriving at the wall half an hour late, after getting lost and tearing around the industrial estate at high speed on my bike, didn’t help matters. (This is a new wall, not my usual one.)
But fortunately Lewis had kindly waited for me. (He thought it may have been 7.30 not 7.00 we had arranged to meet.) We had a good, fun and physically knackering, night. The new wall is great, but unfortunately all of it is vertical or overhanging, so it’s hard work.
Lewis, being built like a brick shithouse, just powers his way up everything. Me, being a more delicate, balanced, technique orientated climber, tended to fall off a lot. It’s a bloody good work out on a climbing wall, and hopefully Lewis and I will make it a regular event. We’re just two old farts who haven’t quite given up on themselves yet. I’m hoping to get Lewis out on the rocks too, there’s a fellow offering to guide (for a fee) people up some of the 300 meter high faces here about, I wonder if there’s any climbs graded low enough though?
The next morning at the gym, I looked at my hand and damn near crapped myself. No, I hadn’t lost a finger at the wall, but I had lost my wedding ring! I’ve never had a sentimental attachment to any jewelery, I’ve never worn any jewelery, apart from a few earrings as a “webellious teenager”. But I was devastated to think I’d lost it.
I didn’t say a word to Lee-Anne.
I tried to think when I had last seen it, as this was 5.55 am in the morning my thinking wasn’t at its best. On the way back from the gym, I had a revelation. The last time I had seen it was at the wall! I’d taken it off and stuck it in my boot for safe keeping. Believe me, NO-ONE would voluntarily stick their hand in my hiking boot after I’d been wearing it for a couple of hours, so it’s an amazingly safe place to keep things. When I got home, I upturned the left boot, the one I was convinced I’d left the ring in. And nothing dropped out. Quite a laxative that was.
Luckily the ring dropped out of the right boot. Phew!
I’d walked about, and ridden my bike home, with a wedding ring in my boot and not felt a thing.
Only then I told Lee-Anne. She seemed quite touched that it means so much to me.
Oh, while I’m on the subject of gym related matters. We turned up for our regular Thursday 6.00 am pump class the other day, not having been for a week due to circumstance. “New instructor today, “ I said to Lee-Anne, ” someone called Gail.”
So there was, and surprisingly the class had gone from the usual 40+ attendees, to seven. Not looking good. The bird up front was hopeless, really not good at all. I don’t know where to start. It may have been her squeaky voice, it wasn’t her relentless clichés (Come on guys, let’s all go for the burn!), all the instructors use them, but more the total lack of any conviction when she spouted them. (Triceps? That is where I say, “Don’t give up now, work through the pain.”) It also wasn’t helped by the fact that she was using less than half the weights Lee-Anne uses. (Just a bit more than me then.) It may have been the fact that she let each track over run, then fannied about with the CD player. It may have been that she was dolled up to the nines, and had full slap on. I felt sorry for her, she was obviously new to it and rather naive.
So the next week, we dragged ourselves down there, even though, as I said I’d buggered myself out on the climbing wall the previous night. I only went as I felt if only four people turned up for the class she’d have been devastated.
Ok, there was actually a reasonable turn out of about twenty people. So she’s sat on stage looking as gormless as my dog Barnum. Come the class start time she gets up and goes over to the sound system, which doesn’t work. (There’d been a power failure due to a lighting strike the night before, which may have had something to do with it.) So she stares at it for ten minutes. Then prods a few buttons. Then she goes downstairs and gets the reception totty up to have a look at it. They stare at it in unison for another ten minutes, both absolutely radiating fucktarditude. They prod it a bit more. One of the class members has a look at it. Nothing happens. Gail trots off down stairs, still having not said a bloody word to the class!
I say to Lee-Anne; “Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’m off on the weights!” I exit, the rest of the class follow. Getting downstairs we see Gail stood at reception, literally sucking her thumb, and gazing into space.
We went to see the finals of the Women’s national basketball league the other night. Our local sude “The Capitals” were playing “The Boomers”. We’re big fans of the Capitals, and they are a big inspiration to Bethy. The match was a sell-out (even standing tickets ended up being sold to accommodate fans.) Some silly buggers were there stilt walking and banging drums, to entertain the screaming crowd.
The Caps downed the Boomers by 61-58 to grab their 6th WNBL title.
The lead see-sawed, sickeningly if you ask me between the Caps and Boomers, 11 times throughout the four quarters, including ending the first half with scores dead even. (Others might say the crowd certainly got their money’s worth for a thrilling match-up.) There was no certainty of victory until the final siren went – and then the celebrations began!
Excellent match, and the best team won by a narrow margin.
The Caps were not as dominant as I would have expected, and the Booomers played their hearts out. One Boomers player (No.4 ) a small, dark-skinned, lass, was on the pitch for the whole of the match, and ran like a demon the whole time, one fit girl! The usual suspects lifted the Caps game, including 6′ 7″ tall (yes six feet seven inches tall,) Tracy Beatty. Bethy’s fave player, Nat Hurst, (tiny at 5’4″) was deservedly awarded player of the match.
A fine nights sporting entertainment.
We’re off to see Steve Coogan next week, and then Dylan Moran next month, both should be a hoot. Expect reviews next month. Oh, I’m also going to go for an hours foot massage sometime soon, that should be interesting…
Love to almost all.
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