In which I stop traffic.

I wish to relate, dear reader, the events of some nights ago which characterise nicely that emotional roller-coaster I will charitably call 'my life'. It was a cold and windy night. I say this not just as a cliched story opener, but because it fucking was, O.K.? There was one of those southerly winds you get here that both chill you to your giblets¹ and remind you that winter is a-comin'. Did my poor mitten-less hands freeze solid, I hear you ask in a tone con notating the deepest of concern? While I am touched by your evident worry, dear reader, it is my happy charge to inform you that no, they did not. I have, in short, been re-united with my mittens, and in the subsequent reveling I have, I am ashamed to admit, failed to inform you, my fellow mourners, of this happy news. How did this joyous event take place? Well, it all started with a conversation with one Adriana Siddle². Knowing me as well as she does, dear reader, allowed her to ask of me question of such startling simplicity and breathtaking brilliance³ as to warrant an appreciative "ah" from you, the audience⁴. Whilst I was wallowing in some characteristic and well-deserved self pity, I was asked the following (and brace yourselves): "Have you ..... checked the pockets of all your jackets?". I had not done this. As a result of so doing, however, I have been united once again with my mittens of awesomeness +3.

Anyways, I was walking home on the night in question with a satisfied strut and a hankering for fish and chips. It was while I was closing in on the noble fried-fishmongers that a curious thing happened. I was bitterly disappointed whilst strutting across the zebra-crossing opposite to realise that the day was what can only be described as 'a monday'. This is important in as much as the fish and chips shop on Aro Street is closed on Monday. My mood rapidly improved, however, upon realising that the mitten-accentuating strut I adopt whilst sporting these lovelies had finally paid off. A driver who had stopped to let me pass casually leaned out the window so as to say (and this seemed to be the only possible explanation) something along the lines of "what fine mittens you have, sir! Wherever can such items of apparel be purchased (indeed, I had not thought such wonders possible in this world)?". Once again, however, I was both forced to taste bitter disappointment and consult this chart. I had mis attributed the cause for this arse's communication with me to be my mittens, when I should instead have linked it with that kind of second-long pause you only really get from realising that a fish and chips shop is closed. What he actually said was the following: "Hey, mate, if you're going to cross a road fucking cross it, alright? Don't fuck about". Such situations piss me off mightily. What the fuck is one to do? In the time it takes for you to even realise what has been said, the bastard is already a few hundred metres away from you and your response of "I know you are, but what am I?" can no longer avail you of anything. Curiously, but two nights before my office-mate had a cigarette stolen from his mouth in similar circumstances when an expert kick-boxer sucker-punched him in the face, took it and walked off. We have since concluded that the only adequate answer to such circumstances is to constantly carry a loaded gun⁵. Even Michael Moore could not possibly argue with this clear and present need.

In the mean-time I must satisfy myself with the knowledge that he caused himself more of a delay in yelling at me than I did. Just so you all know where I'm at. With my life.

¹I am now crossing the word 'giblet' off of my Stuff to use in a sentence - Urgent!! list.

²It needs to be pointed out for various reasons that myself and Adriana are at the moment officially together. I love her very much and she needs to stop being silly.

³Alliteration This is satisfying....

⁴ And, just quietly, my people are everywhere. Those of you who fail to do this will be crushed. As you were.

⁵"Oh, yeah?" bang "well, one of your tyres is flat, arsehole".... "An expert in kick boxing, is he?" bang " It didn't seem to help"......

In which I am in Mourning.

I have lost, dear reader, some very good friends of mine and wish to default to the (paraphrased) words of a soul greater than mine to express my resulting sorrow...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Behold my cold bare hands! Let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes drone up high at public cost
Scribbling on the sky the message They are Lost
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves¹.

They were my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought my gloves would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

A few days ago, dear читатель, when the weather had gotten sufficiently cold & windy, I sought out the welcoming warm embrace of some old friends. I have not until now felt strong enough to relay to you the following truth: Alas! Alack! Woe and despair, they were nowhere to be found! However shall I now survive the winter? Without them, I am not sure I want to....

¹Dual Fingerless gloves/mittens, of course. As a sign of respect.

A moment in the day in the life of Fitz

"Why" I found myself asking myself "does nobody ever take me seriously?". Shaking my fists at an uncaring universe for effect I asked once more "Why????"¹.

I then took a long hard look at the hands before me. "Ah", I said. "Perchance it's because I'm the kind of person who'd wear those."

On said hands were a pair of bright red (wind-proof) mittens. And not just any mittens, either. With these mittens, you can fold the portion covering your fingers back so as to render them into a set of fingerless gloves² with large flappy attachments on the back. Flappy attachments which ... and get this ... can be folded over to make you fingerless gloves into mittens!!! Picture the scene, if you will. It's cold and windy, and I find myself stopping off for a point of business in a corner store. I fumble clumsily for some change with my bright red mittens on, then in frustration make as though to take them off. "But sir!" the good store-keep exclaims. "Quite apart from the obvious chore involved in removing then replacing such lovely mittens over such a trifle, you run the risk of accidentally leaving them behind!!". I smile and offer a rejoinder "worry not, noble store-keep, and observe!" Then, to the wonderment of all in the store I simply fold the top mitten-portion back to reveal my naked ever-nimble fingers. I conclude my business and carry on outside, where an icy wind bites at my poor bare fingers - but do I care? No sir! with a simple flick of the flap, so to speak, my fingers return to toasty goodness.

An unfortunate side-effect, however, is that I look like a dork.

¹At this point the universe appeared to slow down so that, to my ears, the above exclamation sounded a little more like Whuuaaaayyyyy..........

²The kind you see on the hands of sad old drunks clutching a half-consumed bottle of cheap whisky in one hand with which to drown the reminiscences of broken dreams whilst singing, oh I don't know, Brother, can you spare a dime? and warming said hands over a fire in a 44-gallon drum.