Today I drive out to the farm to buy my Christmas Tree. They have several different types and I get a really bushy one which looks perfect, exactly the right shape, even if it is going to drop enough needles to hide my carpet for the next year.

“Merry Christmas!” says the man who sells me the tree. He actually sounds sincere. I am the lone buyer today. “Merry Christmas,” I reply.

On the way home I stop at Waitrose. Waitrose is an expensive supermarket where the food is always excellent. I hardly ever shop there but when I do, it really gives me a good appetite. And a large hole in my wallet.

The car park is packed and people are parking along the roadside but everyone in the shop is actually polite and considerate and it’s a totally refreshing change from shopping at the budget superstore where I usually go where I everyone is crazy and rude and jostles your trolley to get the last lump of cheap cheese or priced right pizza or bargain beers. I start to mellow out.

I’m cooking Christmas dinner for mum so I’ve stopped to buy a chicken. I think turkey is too dry and, hey, I’m cooking so my choice. I also pick up four different kinds of dessert and some decent vegetables. Then it’s off home to fight the tree into a pot, outside where I’ll shed less needles. Ha. A futile hope.

Nosey neighbour, Witchypoo, hears me hammering wedges in around the tree base and comes out to investigate. “Oh,” she says, “I thought you were taking care of that one!” pointing to the large conifer by my front door.

“It will have to come down you know. You should get someone. The roots grow out horizontally you know, under the house.” She pauses to peer over the fence and inspect my handiwork. “Are you sure that pot’s big enough?”

“Yes. It has legs that attach to it to keep it stable.” I crack the plastic ring that helps the tree support system and it veers to one side. Inwardly I groan but it’s not completely split apart and looks like it should hold.

“Well, Mr Postman left this for you,” says Witchypoo and hands me a parcel the size of a water bottle. “Merry Christmas!” and she disappears. I look at the label and see it’s ‘from Santa’. My bestest friend has sent me something! Ooo! I quickly come up with a cunning plan to get the tree wedged in using the trusty standby of brute force and ignorance, then I take it upstairs to my living room.

What’s in the parcel? I thought I’d agreed with my friend not to get anything else having already given each other gifts earlier in the month. ‘Oh’ and ‘but’ and ‘oh dear’ and I haven’t sent them anything else!

I cut open the parcel and find… a red and white Christmas Stocking with my name on it and with gifts and candies inside. And the presents are just so really exactly just right. This person clearly knows me. I am so touched I actually shed a tear. How beautiful!

I don’t have a stocking any more having given mine to my niece years ago. This is totally perfect. I hang it up on my bedroom door, pause for a moment, then go back to fighting the tree.

It takes no time at all to discover that a five foot tree is too tall to stand on my table so I put together a platform for it. The excess of cardboard cartons from the attic comes into it’s own, covered in wrapping paper. A mere ninety minutes later the tree is vertical from every angle, various furniture is up in the attic and I can rest.

I plomp down in my armchair and admire this newcomer to my home, hypnotically beautiful, defeated in its pot. I notice the random ways in which the branches have grown and sprouted buds and things like that. Restful fragant pine essence fills the room and relaxes me. Ahhhh….

You actually can’t beat a real tree, even if you do find yourself fighting it for a couple of hours. I smile. And I sit.

And as I sit there, the observation turns into contemplation, almost meditative. I think of the dear kind person who sent me the parcel and give a silent prayer of thanks for having such a wonderful and thoughtful friend.

And I think of how lucky I am that I have a very good life and many many good friends, who have done so many many nice things for me this year. The film making and dentist and mad neighbours fade into the background and I remember again what’s important. The people I love.

Bless you all and Merry Christmas!

It’s eleven minutes after midnight and my neighbours have been having a screaming match in the street for the past hour and a half. The police have been. Twice. The second time they blocked the road and spent a lot of time with the mad couple. I’d just got back from work and had to drive across the kerb to get to my house.

The police calmed everyone down and left. Soon after, just now in fact, I heard a car rev up and then a loud crumping thump–the kind a vehicle collision makes. I look out of the window and see the silly bitch who’s been screaming–and I mean screaming liking a mental patient–get out of the car she’s just reversed at high speed into someone’s front door. Both the back of the car and the old lady’s porch are smashed up pretty bad.

Drivergirl’s friend/sister was outside going, “What the fcuk are you trying to do?” Mad bitch replied, “I’m trying to kill myself. I don’t want to live with you any more. I’m going to kill myself.” Then she ran off towards the field at the end of the street repeating, “I’m going to kill myself.”

The sister stood there in tears and various neighbours are now standing in the street phoning emergency services. I know exactly who they’re calling and what they’re saying because they are doing it at the tops of their voices. No one seems able to talk in a normal voice. The self-absorbed suicidal bitch looked to me like an attention seeking spoilt brat. Now the blue flashing lights are here again so I’m off to have another look.

00:13 hrs:
No less than four police cars this time blocking the whole road. She’s going down, I guess. If they find her. Shouldn’t be too hard the amount of hysterical shouting she does.

00:21:
We’ve got an ambulance too.

God I hate these people. The stupid neighbours, that is. Anyone who screams hysterically like that should have just been sectioned–taken off to the loony bin and kept in a straightjacket. Now they’re wasting valuable police time–those are probably the only three cars in this area–and the ambulance crew’s night.

For perspective, one ambulance covers a population of around 120,000 in this area. So while they’re dealing with this silly little twit, someone in serious trouble might be dying. It makes me really mad.

Sheesh.

00:24:
I hear sirens in town, so maybe there are other police cars on duty tonight after all. It’s that crazy time of year.

Sheesh again.

00:30:
We’re down to two police cars now and no ambulance. Plus they’ve got the SUV out of the neigbour’s front door and off their garden. You already knew it was an SUV didn’t you? (Rhetorical question.)

She was thinking that she’d fcuk with her boyfriend’s/family’s head/s and get some attention. I suspect she’s on something. And it’s not decaff.

00:45:
They all need to mellow out. They set fire to the stolen truck that was parked here last week and the fire brigage had to come and put it out.

We’re down to three police cars again and the neighbours can’t open their shed door because the wall is buckled inwards. Charming.

No sign of loonytunes herself yet though. Her cat’s around somewhere, going through trashcans, ripping binliners and strewing rubbish around the street. Nice. They say owners grow to look like their pets, but tonight is a step beyond.

00:58:
We’re down to zero police cars and a group of old women standing around the neighbour’s broken front wall, gossiping and tutting. The neighbourhood witches. They’re probably passing the eye from one to another so they can scry it all out better. The SUV hasn’t moved, so I presume it’s fcukd. I’d laugh but it’s probably not the mad bich’s and no doubt belongs to someone else.

It’s started raining. End of excitement. Bed time for the sane people.

*****

Next day (December 19th, morning):
The builders came at the crack of dawn, fixed the neighbour’s door and cleared away the rubble. The SUV has vanished and all that remains is some broken (tail light) glass and a rather short wall. Plus some tutting old women.

*****

Two days later (December 21st):
I saw the aforementioned SUV today, parked in the loony neighbour’s drive. The rear is all smashed in with the window smashed and the driver’s door is buckled in too. It seems they successfully drove diagonally sideways into a low wall while they were reversing into someone else’s front door. Their insurance is going to be so extortionate that they may never drive again.

It is right to laugh now. In fact, it’s unavoidable.

*****

Three days later (December 22nd):
Today I drove out to get a Christmas tree. I took a shortcut through a nearby council estate (read ‘housing project’ for the US, although the houses are actually pretty decent). I drove past the run down shops and, lo and behold, there was the wrecked SUV–dumped there with ‘Police Aware’ stickers all over it.

The useless bags of siht who live near me have driven it a mile down the road and walked away from it, or more likely driven away in one of their other cars. No doubt they’ll claim the damage was done by joyriders and at some point they’ll torch it for the insurance. The fire brigade will be called out at the expense of local taxpayers (eg. me).

The police will do nothing–I seriously doubt they’ll have even cross-checked their records to bother seeing whose car it is and how the damage occured. The fiasco the other night will have been written up as ‘a domestic disturbance’ and buried in a file.

The council will tow away the wreck, again at the local taxpayers’ expense. I doubt those responsible actually pay any local council taxes with four adults living in a one bedroom apartment, all of whom seem to own a car (four in the drive).

Moron woman will not only continue to scream at her boyfriend in the street and threaten suicide but also she’ll continue driving. Worse, having wasted a night of police time and caused considerable trouble and expense to the whole community, she’ll collect a big fat check from the insurance company.

I doubt her insurance will be affected except for an annual increment. Meanwhile honest people’s local taxes and insurance premiums will go up to pay for thousands of similar scams across the country.

These parasites make me sick. It’s not so much the damage and the insurance scamming. It’s the screaming at each other because they can’t communicate. It’s the way they involve a whole street because no one matters except them. It’s the inability to behave like adults; to take responsibility for their actions and respect other people.

End of rant.

I bought a pumpkin yesterday. Nothing huge. Just an ittle biddy pumpkin so I can carve a grin into it and light a candle and have that Hallowe’en experience.

While I’m driving home I have to avoid two guys who think it’s better to walk in the street than on the pavement/sidewalk. Why do people do this, I think to myself? Where’s the excitement? Lucky for them I’ve just had my brakes fixed and can slow down or they’d be street pizza.

Oh, yes. The brakes. I bit the bullet after using my car as little as possible for a month and had them done. I’ve got to say, it’s quite pleasant to slow down without a squeaking grating noise. It’s also a bonus to pull away from the drive without a back wheel sticking to a wornout brake, not turning and in the process pulling a chunk of gravel along. Very pleasant indeed.

So I think about the guys in the street. And I think, what’s wrong with this bloody country where people think they can walk in the street? And then I think, hang on, at least we don’t have shell-shocked army vets on every street corner begging. Although we do have beggars. Whatever. I conclude it’s not the country.

My mind wanders and I think about communication and how we live our lives trying to get our messages across and struggling to understand what’s said to us and to make sense of it all. I installed some cheap video editing software on my PC the other day. The idea was to upload some title sequences and other material I’ve made in the past from my video recorder on to the web. It hasn’t quite worked. The software is full of bugs.

Next thing, I got this free webcam so I installed that as well. Now the webcam and the video editing stuff don’t talk to each other properly at all. The result is that instead of showing a jerky poorly lit picture of my unshaven face working at my computer, I actually transmit jerky live TV via my video recorder through the webcam. I have no idea why or how.

I think about uninstalling the whole lot and know that it will take hours. I think through the linear steps of linear logic I’ll have to go through to achieve this and wonder if anyone else would bother. Do men think differently from women about these things? Is that comparison valid? Aren’t we just simply all unique individuals?

While I’m thinking of all that, I think about what it is that builds our characters and give us a sense of self. I’ve been having a conversation with a close friend about this and my mind is wandering, thinking about role models and suchlike. The guys walking in the street remind me of something.

Life is about risk. Risk is what gives us our inner strength, builds our characters and gives us a feel for what we are capable of. I remember I used to walk down the white lines in the centre of the road when I was a kid doing a paper round in the early winter mornings. I’d try to see how far I could get before a car came then move at the last minute.

Has this made me a better person? Who knows. I know that there are other risks I’ve taken which definitely have been for the best. Risks which have given me deep inner strength and taught me that there are all kinds of situations I can not only survive but learn and grow from. I can’t blame those guys for wanting to walk down the street and take that risk. In a limited way, they’re doing what is necessary to assert and strengthen themselves.

In a society where so much is legislated, frowned upon and tutted at, it’s good to be able walk in the traffic sometimes. By walking in the traffic, of course I mean that as a metaphor for challenging our own inner demons. I carve my pumpkin and challenge the ghosts, goblins and ghouls to get me.

Oh, God. I just remembered that back in March I was standing in the bookshop on the ground floor of one of the Trade Center towers and I think of those people there, the people behind the counter and shopping for a book and today someone wants to kill them. Because they are different. Because they have something they don’t. For whatever reason, someone wants to take their lives.

Someone hates them so much that they would knowingly kill themselves in a fireball rather than allow those ordinary men and women to go on living their lives. And I hear the word ‘cowardly’ bandied about as though this wasn’t some coldly calculated attack. Maybe there are cowards, people who sent the hijackers out to their deaths. Maybe they held the hijackers’ families and children hostages to make them comply. Whatever. The cold immorality is numbing. Beyond comprehension.

I can only wrap my mind around it in an abstract ‘is this war?’ way and a ‘what will happen next?’ way. I cannot deal with those abstracts though–they are beyond my influence. The only reality I can touch is in my heart when I think of my friends, real people–Pat and Danielle, out there in Manhattan. I worry for them and their wellbeing and am glad to find they have both been online. I send a prayer for their families and friends and loved ones and hope they are safe.

And I think too of all my friends in the USA and I touch base with some of them and share this time, this impossible reality, these feelings of shock and nausea with them. I also try to share that they are loved and cared about…

And then I remember that I ordered another couple of books via the internet from the nice bookshop in the World Trade Center and I think of them. I go to my email and I find the receipt and think of those books… those wonderful books which gave me so much pleasure. I open up the email and go to send a reply so I can say… something… and I look at it… blank… and words won’t come… and I just start crying…

I arranged for a visit with my 12 year old niece to the magical world of the children’s television studios today. We met a furry gremlin, saw a famous character’s body suit laying in a bin and hung out so she could see how programmes are made. I think she came away saturated with information and will have plenty to tell her friends at school after the holidays.

She starts chosing what subjects to specialise in at school this year. I hope today plants a seed of inspiration for her.

On a tour of brand new studio facilities during their construction at a production company you are expecting to work for, I wonder if it is appropriate to exclaim, “Oh, wow! This is a deja-vu! It was a dream I had about a year ago and this was already built and I was working here, directing and showing a group of friends around. Cool!”

ps. I didn’t get the job, in case you were wondering.

pps. The company went out of business a few months after I wrote this.

If the aliens landed would you get in the spaceship? Would I?

I wonder if I might stop and think, and say “Oh, I’d love to come but I can’t come now because…” and then start with my excuses.

Because… I found this small red tap a couple of months ago on the floor next to my washing machine. And I thought to myself, “That’s odd, I fixed the taps to the leaky washing machine and replaced them months ago. So how come this spare red plastic tap has appeared? Is it the old one?” And both new taps had their plastic turny things, one red and one blue, so I moved this spare one to the kitchen so I could think about it later. As you do. And then I threw it away without solving the mystery. I think I did. I was tidying up for the person coming to value the property and… anyway it’s gone.

Would the aliens wonder if that was worth worrying about?

Would they wonder if I told them that a couple of weeks ago I checked the water pressure in the central heating boiler and it was a little low but still within tolerance levels at around one atmosphere pressure in the system but I thought I’d top it up with a little more water from the mains. So I went to turn the tap underneath it that I always turn. And there was no tap there. I looked and it was gone. Just pipework. I scratched my head and looked around and down at the washing machine underneath, but no tap.

Would the aliens think it strange I had thrown away that little red tap that allows me to add water to the central heating to stop the whole system blowing up? Would they scratch their glowing heads and communicate the telepathic thought that I should get a plumber? Even though the pressure in the central heating system is actually fine?

“I can’t get in the spaceship today,” I would have said earlier, “because I’ve still not solved the incipient central heating problem that I created and the flat could be reduced to a smouldering pile of rubble.”

“Are you insured?” they’d ask using a music chiming language.

“Not for stupidity,” I’d reply by strumming my guitar really badly.

“Then solve it!” they’d insist with a sound like bursting bagpipes.

And I would have to tell them about today when I tried a different little red turny thing that didn’t quite fit on the knobbly bit of the pipe and it would only turn partway. Then it got mangled. Then I tried a pair of pliers but they were too big and I couldn’t turn them because they hit the wall so I used some smaller pliers. Then I tried a plumber’s wrench because that seemed the ideal tool to use on water pipes and somehow I stabbed my finger with it and made it bleed. Then I realised I was merely removing the flat bits from the knobbly bit that fits in the tap bit and to no avail.

“Call the plumber!” the glowing alien faces would implacably and unmistakably communicate. Then they’d get straight back in the spaceship and take off to report no signs of intelligent life on Earth.

I wonder if I’d wave?

…

Some time later…

I go out and buy a set of spanners that fit on the various parts of the central heating system. I find one that fits where that red tap once lived. I turn it all the way. No water comes through. I turn it back to its original position and I re-examine the pipework under the boiler. And there, right there, is a small black tap exactly where there has always been a small black tap. I turn it and water flows into the system topping the pressure back up. I turn it off.

There was no little red tap on the boiler. It was black, always black. The red one came from somewhere else–one of two taps on the washing machine plumbing (under the boiler) that I replaced earlier in the year. The red tap’s existence on my boiler was a mirage, an illusion, a thing that never was. I think the aliens would have pointed that out…

My head goes / boom boody-boom boody / boom boody-boom boody / boom boody-boom boody / boom boom boom!

Or more accurately, it goes bang bang bang thud saw saw thud. BANG! Yes, me old mate and new neighbour has been laying his hardwood flooring again. He has opted for a subtle approach to this. Subtle like a ton of bricks raining from the sky, that is. bang bang. Two o’clock in the morning, 7am… there’s no guessing when I’m going to be woken up. BANG bang bang bang. And the trouble with that is that it’s too hot to go straight back to sleep. So when dark rings start appearing around my eyes, don’t be surprised if some shortsighted zookeeper locks me up mistaking me for a panda.

Boom boody-boom boody…

I console myself with a vision of my other neighbours all building a wicker man out on the field next to our homes and dancing (naked probably–they’re all mental) around a huge bonfire at two in the morning tomorrow when more hammering starts. They are chanting, “Trepan the floor man! Release the evil spirits!” Then they drill a hole in his head and his stupidity escapes with a hiss. Maybe he turns out to be a helium balloon and he deflates when this happens. As the air rushes out, he whizzes round and round before finally drifting into the bin in his garden.

Boom boody-boom boody…

Incidentally, after my success at weeding and digging my own garden, the neighbourhood cats have decided that it now resembles the largest litter tray they’ve ever seen. They must just be purring with delight as they empty their bowels there. The orange peel I put out to prevent this dried out in the sun after five minutes and is now having absolutely no effect. Well, other than attracting ants. I’ve put out fresh chunks of citrus peel which cats are supposed to hate but they seem immune now and an abundance of cat crap continues to appear.

One of the people I work with has suggested that if I pee on the garden the cats will detect that I’ve marked my own territory and stay off. Somehow this prospect seems less than appealing, even if I do take it out in a jug for the Christening ceremony. On the other hand, it’s getting pretty disgusting out there anyway. Damn. I ought to be saving that pee to take the varnish off Gary’s flooring.

Boom boody-boom boody…

Hmmm… Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. You know, “Oops, oh sorry mate! I was keeping this jug of pee for my garden to keep the cats off but I appear to have spilt it over your floor instead. Here, let me do my hobnail boot dance now as that will increase the surface area to volume ratio. This simple application of the Laws of Thermodynamics will ensure that it evaporates faster.” I’m not sure he’ll get that last bit. In fact, I’m not sure he’d be able to add two plus two as I strongly suspect the only thing he’s ever got on an IQ test is drool.

Boom boom boom!

Well, goodness gracious me!

Yes, I know this is the ongoing soap opera you really want to know about. Well, I spotted Gary doing his garden last Sunday and then he went out, leaving his garbage can full of gardening crap on my patch of garden. So I went out to move it into his bin shed, but that was full of plants he’d chopped down. So I moved said bin over to the far side of his drive then–and you’re not going to believe this–I resolved to weed and dig over my garden. Yes.

Two and a half hours this took. Witchypoo came out and helped by talking to me a lot about everyone else in the street (boo)–“Oo, him over there has the police round all the time…”–and lending me her fork and trowel (hooray). I think she was secretly pleased to see me doing anything with the jungle that was taking root. It was so hot out there, the ground was baked solid so I had to take out several buckets of water to soak the earth before I could dig. But it is now done and it just doesn’t look like suitable for anyone else’s garbage can.

I went downstairs later that evening to join my new neighbour for a cup of tea and think Gary was frankly amazed at how much neater it all looked as well as the fact I’d done it. Ha. I’ve also put small bits of orange peel all over the place to keep the cats off. So I think my neighbour’s bin won’t be a problem any more.

…

Anything else? Well, have I achieved anything else this week? Yes. I went for a health check on Monday and my blood pressure is down on last year (now 140/90 from 150/94) presumably thanks to karate and cutting down caffeine. I can count the number of cups of tea and coffee I drink in a week on one hand now. So, full of this healthy resolve I did the almost unthinkable and joined the gym at the studios where I’m working.

I know, I know. This could be a recipe for more procrastinating–and there is the danger that it’s right next to the bar (!)–but it’s a monthly membership so if I do fail to go, then I can cancel with minimum loss of cash. Now I need someone to help me work out a CV circuit based on my current fitness level. I can use the equipment whenever I want but meanwhile it’s three weeks before I can get hold of a trainer there to help me develop a workout.

Life moves forwards!

Hey, I have a new neighbour. Just went down and introduced myself. Gary is there, with his kids and the landlord has stripped the flat completely bare before he’s moved in so I can hear them echoing around. The first thing I notice is that Gary has a shaved head in complete contrast to yours truly but that’s cool. He’s a big bloke, tubby, shorter than me, with more tattoos than bare flesh on his big arms. He grins and tells me he fits doors for a living.

He wants to install loads of home security devices, like a new door with a spyhole and one of those 500Watt floodlights that comes on when you approach. I think I’ve managed to put him off that last one because it acts like a flag telling the whole street when you’re in or out. He showed me the huge padlock he’s got for his shed and I said it will make it look as if he’s got something to steal. Why does anyone need a ton of security here? I dunno.

So, yes, he is divorced after I think it was 18 years he just told me. And we’ll meet up for a few beers soon. I said I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking. He said he isn’t a big drinker either, “only eight or nine pints”. Good grief. Well, at least there isn’t far to stumble home! Oh, and yes, I did explain about the bin thing, but not in a blatant “empty your freaking bin and get it off my garden!” way. As I say, he’s a big bloke with big arms who worries about security.

And there you have it. I’m sure I shall see more of security conscious Gary. I hope I don’t wind up with a load of tattoos.

…

So, anyway, I’ve invited Gary over for beers when he’s around next. I doubt it will be intellectually stimulating, but who knows? At least he’s about the same age as me and he might have a huge DVD collection I can raid. I know he’s into big screen TV and satellite. Mind you, witchypoo isn’t so bad in small doses. No one is really, are they? Hmmm…

Okay, so I’m having a beer right now and mellowing about the lot of them. The bin/garbage can is still on my garden meanwhile. That’s my overgrown garden full of weeds. If it wasn’t for the roses growing around my door (ahhhh!) then the outside of my place would be a complete disgrace. I think my whole life really does need a woman’s touch.

…

He grins and tells me he fits doors for a living…

On reflection, he must have said he works on doors. I was trying to figure out why he was off to work at 8.30pm and comes home at 3am if he works in the building trade. And why does he wear a suit to work? Doh. He doesn’t fit doors. He’s a doorman.