New bicycle – sandy beach, new bicycle – sandy beach, are you getting the picture? I should have known, I’m a gadget boy, I hate sand & salt but the beach looked so exciting to the inner kid…
Boys don’t clean bikes.
Families are an endless source of wonder and this is at it’s best when the extended family is round the Sunday lunch table. Grandmas fulfilling their role as strict stereotypes to children who, having mastered their parents, humour them good naturedly half understanding that Grandma never managed to train their own children so what chance now? The wandering disgruntled ghost of the pointlessly bored teenage girl setting herself up as an easy target for a less that sympathetic younger brother. Round the table the slight mist of unspoken injustices and unsolvable conundrums add a marvellous edge. It was a great meal, it’s one of the few families that make me regret never having married!
The frowning ghost of Ninfield
“Religion grants its adherents malign, intoxicating and morally corrosive sensations. Destroying intellectual freedom is always evil, but only religion makes doing evil feel quite so good” – Philip Pullman
During a heated defence of cyclists a “friend” of mine called me a “sad old git” and that wanting to say “Morning” to people was, I think she was suggesting, a sign of loneliness. The trouble is, as with many of these things, there’s a hint of truth there and for a few days it spun me into a haze of despondency.
The nature of friendship is a complex thing and possibly borders on the spiritual for being something that defies description. The rub for me as far as friendship goes is that the bond that exists should not be too dependent on one side making emotional sacrifices to keep the relationship going (Hey, that’s what marriage is for!).
The difficulty I have with friendship is that my interests rarely coincide with the people I meet, especially in Hastings and the circle I found myself in when I came here. A good example is politics. Very few people seem to view the infinitely complex field of how people relate to one another and the ruling structures that emerge from this in anything other than a crass series of stereotypes where the massively simplified augments of others are taken on board then defended by manipulation of guilt; it was once said to me by a member of Transport 2000 that if I had no objection to 4×4s I must believe in killing children. Whatever the rights and wrongs of things the lazy refusal to engage with the vast subtleties of life with anything but moronic cyphers and blackmail does not just make conversation pointless but boring. Add to this the oozing self righteousness of the unsuccessful artist, of which this town is plentifully blessed, and you have a situation where one either has to nod in agreement while gagging or make excuses and leave.
Me, I like it when someone says “Good Morning” to me, it makes me feel good and I hope the same goes for the people I say “Good Morning” to, no big deal, no harm done…
Patrick plans his escape from the grasping hands of sponging artists.
A month ago on one of my pompous rants by a bar I talked myself into joint comparing a pub quiz. I had hoped Shelagh had forgotten but a couple of days ago I got the call, “are you ready?”. Bricks and sh**ing come to mind. I can occasionally talk a good talk but the walking has often eluded me. Tonight was the night so powered by a bag of chips & two pints of cider I “did my thing”.
For a guy who’s all mouth I have a real problem getting up in front of a group, but it seems to have gone well. I did a couple of rounds of questions (Science & Entertainment) and got a few laughs. My problem is that I have a tendency to ramble, big time, you can’t do that with and audience. But in the end a few people came up and said I’d done okay and before I could stop myself I was offering to do it again. Basically I’m a tart and the lure of babes & fame is too much.
One of those rides today when everything comes together, the sun shines, the engine thuds melodically, I sit there enjoying the big sky immersed in the passing scenery. Most days motorcycling is good, some days it can be just a transport chore but occasionally it’s a magic carpet ride through a glorious film set!
Nature contemplates my carbon footprint
I was never a good listener, too “me, me” for that, then a few years ago I found “listening as a weapon” was a great way to win arguments so I learnt to listen, not well, but enough for my purpose. As I get older I find I’m starting to develop a genuine interest in listening. This you think would be great, but no. What I’m interested in is what goes on in peoples heads; dreams, fears, failures, successes, motivations, this is all the stuff I like. It’s what makes people so special. This is dangerous territory. Today I met someone and just a few interested enquiries about their life led to tears. This was a real shock. I proffered a slightly embarrassed kind word and things moved back to small talk, which, it must be said, I’m crap at.
Every picture tells a story
Last Thursday I hit 15 stone, this was a real shock. Ever since France the diet has not got back on track, I’ve not fully lost the plot but it was creeping up again; 15 stone, or 96 bags of sugar as it’s properly known is a step too far.
One of the main barriers to loosing weight are friends and acquaintances (& Mothers!) saying “You don’t need to loose any more, that would be unhealthy”. What this translates to is “I’ve got too much fat around my own bones and if Steve Hardy becomes lighter and fitter than me I might have to be honest with myself”. Not one person who has said this to me has every looked into it scientifically, put simply the weight I would like to be, 11.5 stone is in the MID range of my optimum BMI (my height being 6.1), not the low end, the mid range. If you are a guy at around 6 foot and you are over 13 stone you are over-weight (I was 18 in January), you can kid your self all you want but you are lying, it’s as simple as that. If you want to live for ever, as I do, and not with your head strapped to a robot, you’ve got to stop carrying around all that excess.
The other thing is looking good naked, I don’t – as a few women can attest from their asylum rooms. And though I don’t really want to put another poor soul through that experience it would be nice to think I could; sadly vanity does not completely die with age!
Old guys giving exercise a bad name (with apologises to the “kid” in this group, Steve Smith)
It was warm, it was sunny and I vowed not to drive or fret about work (The downfall of Excel could be the end of my pocket money) so naturally it was three glasses of wine before lunch, not a great example to Kim “Special Brew” Thrower but the world had an almost hallucinogenic tinge by mid-day. Steve Smith and Patrick appeared and we became a gang of slovenly bicycling layabouts as we “tore” down the cycle lane to a coffee house. Patrick held forth with his familiar “the world going to hell in a hand cart and socialists are the Devils representatives on earth” speech, Steve countered with his famous to his family “kids should be put in cages till they learn their times table” monologue. I just drooled open mouthed at the elephants coming out of the paintwork.
The antithesis of wisdom
One thing that must be said for being a clown attracted to the unobtainable is that it’s safe for everyone especially me. Talking and listening to women can be one of life’s most rewarding experiences but dealing with a real relationship, whoa, terror territory. I suppose my reality is that I like angels but scared stiff of real women. Give me intellectual “stand up” before the the nightmare of emotional nakedness any time. Oh, of course, then there’s the appalling low libido!
Today I took 175 photos, the current “future Mrs Hardy” and her, grr, exceptionally nice husband were the only ones blurred, what are the odds…