Murder Mystery Party

Nine of us turned up. One of us was a killer with a heart of stone, who if left unchecked would go on to kill and kill again (alright, it’s more like Cluedo – one off screen corpse and one of us was guilty).
There were four courses: soup, chicken in white-wine source, angel delight, cheese and biscuits.
There was a ridiculously over the top voice over tape.
There was some similarly silly over acting from all concerned.
There was champagne.
There were wine critics, actors, gangsters and their molls, very camp photographers, dead rock stars and their girlfriends, ex and present and members of right wing death squads. That was just us.
There were crazed evil genii, betrayls, shoddy alibis, and a number of implausible motives.
We had a whale of a time and five hours later here I am.
Guilty as charged.

Picture diary to follow once the film is developed.

Another Proper Update

Last night I got home from being away.
I’d been visiting The Chaplain and his family, down in Swindon. It was great to see them all again, how the kids were now (from youngest to oldest) walking as opposed to crawling, talking a whole lot better and generally being themself more. It was also great to just get away from everything for a bit. The scenery was magnificent; I’d open the curtains in the morning and be able to see for miles. The weather was great. I got up early, ate decent food, spent time with folks I love and became a hugging post for the youngest.

Anyway, this morning I woke up and had to go and care-take all morning, it was alright, but tiring – a load of kids running around and being kids, between setting up and putting away everything they needed for the session.
I got home and the exhaustion from the last few weeks hit me again. The diference between being totally in demand hugged and played with by the kids and my current situation was thrown into to sharp relief. On top of that all the depression that had been kept mostly away for the week also ganged up on me. Needless to say I wasn’t feeling too hot.
I was talking via IM with a good friend, trying to keep myself together because I was waiting for somebody else to come online – somebody I’d arranged to talk to yesterday. (Thank you so much, reallylikesj, you achieved miracles this morning.) Many thanks also to blackbirdshaq the conversation we’ve been having has been completely worth struggling through the morning to get to.

The previous chunk was merely intended to set the scene as to my state of mind when the phone rang. I almost didn’t answer it. But I’m so very happy that I did:
“Hello, Tim. This is Ahud.

I just got an international SoapBox meet-up phone call!
The good monkeys from DC are having a get together/meetup today.
Now, I don’t inhabit the meetup forum, other than to check up on the Newcastle thread, so I was mosty unaware of this (Ahud had told me was going on a meetup this weekend, but it didn’t “click” the way it should have. So it was a complete surprise when he said, “Hi, I’m at the meetup, and I’ve got a bunch of people who’d like to have a word with you.” A big grin-inducing, blues-banishing, happy-inside-making surprise.

Anne, Ahud, Deni, Lucia and Pupdog were at the Natural History Museum. They seem to be having a lot of fun. They said something about going to see giant elephants, and then Pupdog sniffed Deni’s feet. I hope he recovers. I got to talk to some of my favourite Monkeys (almost) in the flesh, and altough, even now, my memory’s fading of the actual conversations the event itself is carved into my mind as a marvellous chunk of my life.

Thank you guys, you made my day!

Thank you, Sonnii

A demi Cerberus is very similar to Cerberus in
appearence but the difference is that a
Demi-Cerberus only has two heads. You are
cruel and inhumane. You lack the food
intentions and sense of being that Cerberus
has. You like to play with peoples emotions
and torture them to the last. You have few
friends because many are scared of you and you
are also prone to violence.

What Mythological Creature Are You (Many Results and Beautiful Pics)
brought to you by Quizilla

Going away for a bit, again.

Just visiting friends in the deep south until Friday.
In the mean time I’ll leave you all with this heartwarming little poem (Again, by Steve Turner)

First lessons in living
These are your first lesson in living.
To begin we drag you head-first from your shelter,
awat from your food, from your warmth.
We cut you apart from your only known friend.
We take you out and beat you until strange gases
rush your lungs and pain jerks your frame.
These are your first lessons in living.
They will stand you in good stead.

And another from Spike Milligan:
The New rose
The new rose
…….trembles with early beauty
The babe sees the beckoning carmine
…….the tiny hand
…….clutches the cruel sten
The babe screams
The rose is silent –
Life is already telling lies.

Actually I’m feeling quite chipper. Have a great week folks.

My week in ‘Net Limbo

I was going to visit a couple friends I’ve known for something like eight years now, but don’t get to see since they moved away.

I arrived on the Monday evening. The plan was to terrace the garden which had previously been a slope covered in gravel. They’d ordered five sleepers from some builders’ merchant somewhere, which were due to arrive in the morning. What follows is a quick (and, very probably, confused) summary of how the week went.

Sleepers arrived, went shopping for stuff that we’d need. Played snooker. I was a spawny git. Snooker and alcohol don’t mix quite as well as alcohol and pool.

Ordered hardcore (to build up the terraces to a level suitable for walking over – throughout the week much childish humour was found in talking about the vast amounts of hardcore we needed), cleared gravel from bottom terrace, treated the sleepers (we’d expected old railway sleepers covered in tar and suchlike, instead we got these huge chunks of untreated pine, so we had to buy some creosote substitute and drown them in it), and layed them out.

A gravelly slope a couple of sleepers:

Stunning, high speed reverse angle:

All sleepers laid out nicely:

(Three tons of hardcore was delivered in a tipper truck that couldn’t fit down the back alley, straight onto the path in front of the house.) Shifted hardcore from footpath into the terraces (Three tons wasn’t enough, we ordered another two, but they couldn’t be delivered until Saturday), more shopping for stuff. Watched Paycheck on DVD.

Three tons is quite a lot of hardcore:

Mostly had the day off. Watched TV. Friends of my hosts turned up

Picked up whacker from tool hire shop (a whacker is a power tool somewhat similar to the Dufflepuds in The Voyage of the Dawntreader in construction – basically on large metal foot which, propelled by a petrol motor stomps the hardcore down and compacts it – again, the opportunities for childish comments were made the most of), bought steeping stones (it’s fiendishly difficult to find plain white stepping stones. We had to buy ugly patterened ones and turn them upside down), plum slate and plants, whacked away, shifted more hardcore, spread gravel, slate and more gravel, laid stepping stones, potted plants, had barbeque, went to pub.

Never seen so much damned h’whacking:

Awaiting another truck load of hardcore:

Two tons is less than three:

Final preparations for the last bit of whacking:

Almost done, time for a BBQ:

Went to B&Q to get final bits and pieces, raised brush-screen set out plants.

Like I said, a screen made of brush:

It look the same, but diferent:

See the stepping stones and water feature:

A plant!:


Yet another!:

Ended up at a bike show in Halifax on Sunday afternoon, got the train home, was talked at by a friendly drunk whilst I was on the platform and halfway home, got picked up by Dad at the station, had a shower, went to see HP&PoA

Bummed around in the house, went for a quick walk on the hills, frantically tried to plan a bible study (which it turned out I had no need to worry about) for the following night. Made a start on the second chunk of Discworld books I’d borrowed from my gracious hosts.

Was taken around Matalan and bought some trousers and shorts by Mum. The situation had been getting desperate, not a pair of trousers did I possess that Spike Milligan wouldn’t have described as “raggeddy-arsed”.
Then got on a train and travelled home. I can’t remember which journey it was that the air conditioning broke down for and the train baked and broke down on. It’s all blurred into one horrible rail nightmare.
Eventually I returned home to my brick.