I Saw You Coming

Mrs Hora and Jose recently decided that the store Dr China in Hounslow’s ‘Treaty Centre’ would potentially be the perfect treat for me, or perhaps that should be perfect treatment for my depression.

I believe in God, I go to church most weeks, I have my beliefs, loads of them: Ipswich are better than Norwich, Spearmint are the best band in the world, the best films come out of France, being a board-game collector doesn’t mean you have to play everything in your collection, ‘Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others’, all of those and more. As I have become educated about my illness, and have researched it more and more, I have realised how little is certain. Prescribed medication is a huge game of trial and error and I don’t think you will ever discover the optimum meds. For starters, what state of mind are you willing to accept? 

That non-depressives do not comprehend the illness is all too obvious - sorry for the sweeping generalisation. Had the situation been different I would definitely found it difficult to empathise sufficiently with sufferers. My expectations of others are therefore laid back. I have lost some friends, and gained some new ones. That would have happened anyway I guess.

It’s much more complex with the family though. They have to live with you, in a changed state, and almost six years on from my ‘episode’, I’m not convinced they believe I will remain unwell for the foreseeable future. My belief is that they expect me to wake up one morning and be fine again, whatever that might mean. It’s tough to dent their hopes.

But. Dr China. Seriously? 

Yes.

  Very. 

Bloody Hell!

In we go and Mrs Hora relates some facts about my illness. The two Chinese ladies ask all the usual questions and I answer them. They decide that fixing my depression is the first course of action. Then we can deal with my obesity. Like all good sales staff they mention the 20% discounts available and start with the most expensive treatments. Acupuncture. Mrs Hora’s father stopped smoking after acupuncture. He was much more malleable to different cures than I will ever be. My cynicism and sarcasm are raring to explode inside the shop. 

Apparently, I will need a course of twelve acupuncture sessions, twice or once weekly depending on which of the two ladies answer my wife’s question. The cost is huge in my opinion. Imagine the amount of food and alcohol that would buy. Imagine how many new CDs I could get, DVDs, etc. And that materialism becomes lodged inside my already tormented brain. Off it goes again..

For today I have a session of Acu-massage provided for me. I am laid on a typical doctor’s bed facing the wall. My feet and back are the areas that take the grinding, the poking, the bruising performance of my host. More questions come thick and fast, more thick the cynical me decides. 

‘Are your ankles swollen?’ I’ve just told her I weigh twenty-three stones, every single bit of me is swollen - barring that special little place, naturellement. Talking French reminds me that the closer to my shoulders she works the stronger the eau de garlic is. And despite me lying there as still as I can, with my eyes closed in resigned relaxed mode, she’s suddenly got her breasts in my face. I dare not open my eyes and the natural stirrings one might expect do not follow. Since taking the medication I am an asexual being; can you imagine?

        Never mind. Losing track of time, or being mind-numbed maybe, the session eventually ends. Returned to the shop front and the largest chairs I’ve sat in we complete a form while lady number two puts together a concoction of twelve different parcels of dust that I must consume twice daily ahead of next Thursday’s first acupuncture therapy. No details provided about the contents but at a further £39 - less the 20% discount - it’s going to taste supreme, I know it!

Essen: Kids in Sweet Shops

Essen, my favourite German city. But of course, saying that, I've not seen too much of it. A couple of venues, the Bahnhof briefly. Spent quite a bit of time on the motorways driving past it / through it. And then I've spent hours and hours and hours in the exhibition halls of the Messe. They're huge, deliciously huge, indeed with some delicious food too. But best of all, they've always been jammed packed with board games. Hundreds of brand new games being launched into the world. Last year there were over 1,000 new games on show, likely to be similar this year it would appear, but probably, just probably, enough.

Last year I spent a day working on one of the stands, it was great fun teaching The Castles of Mad King Ludwig to punters from all over Europe. Thankfully, it's a cracking game and I only messed up one rule so not too bad. Can't quite time my arrival this year to do the same again although one of the three chaps I'm going with will be working for the Netherlands own Martyn F. 

My anticipation has been growing for a good two months now. The exhilaration of learning which new games will be launched by which of my favourite designers. The wading through smaller publishers and seeing what they've come up with. The pictures of prototypes, the little disappointments that some game launches have to be postponed. The realisation of how much time I'm spending researching rather than playing but consoling myself with 'but I'm a collector first'. This time tomorrow I'll be on a ferry departing Dover, playing something like Too Many Cinderellas with three great buddies. I've even baked cake for the crossing! Banana, oatmeal and chocolate..

This is an additional hall for 2015 such is the demand from publishers, retailers and distributors. In the photo below you see Hall 3, it's monitors in size and takes a good long walk to get from one end to the top.

My budget this year is more than a little contained although I have sold a few games in an auction to boost spending money. Similarly, the new Horacar is nowhere near as big as the Scenic so we're hoping for vehicular assistance with game-muling from friends.

Anyway, the cliche 'kid in a sweet shop' doesn't cover it. It'd be like Willy Wonka's parked next to Ben & Jerry's, which has as neighbours the kitchens of Two Hairy Bikers, Two Fat Italians, and a heavenly host of Roux, Blanc, Lawson and Stein. Oh, and on the front lawn there's always the Bake Off tent. 

I Can Lock All My Doors

Two weeks with no vehicle has been an interesting time. Public transport for shopping, for work and pleasure. My preferences for the bus have meant lengthy journey times and much walking. Or just staying in. Delaying plans for hall furniture has been a pain, the contents of the pre-decorated hall are encamped in the half-decorated lounge and our box/drying room. Not that it will all go back anyway. But we have to make those decisions with new furniture, naturally.

Online grocery shopping, for the first time in a very long time. But the thought of dragging more shopping back from wherever was too much. I watched the algorithm documentary over the weekend and so impressed was I by Ocado's warehouse that I just had to test it out. A friend is writing a novel about algorithms, from their point-of-view. Genius.

Wednesday I'll be up much earlier than normal. It takes four trains to get to Gloucester, wow. But the brilliant people at Skoda are collecting me and taking me to our new car, hurrah! And then a gentle journey home, take the family out for a spin and off to games, all under my own steam, result.

This week's music has been Everything But The Girl. Having loved the early Tracey Thorn, Ben Watts, Marine Girls on Cherry Red it took me until Walking Wounded and Temperamental to get into EBTG, odd that. Bought the enhanced versions of both recently and have loved hearing them and all the remixes over and over. The only other noticeable music thang was Gary Numan selling tickets for fans to go along to his tour rehearsals. I like that idea, why not? Good man.

Time for me to ask you to click on 'my poetry' under 'outpourings' from the left hand side menu. Only three page views - and I've looked at them four times - to date. Poetry's worth a brief look, even I'd argue for that.

Decor

It was 20 years ago this week that Cheryl and I moved into our house, a typical 1930s semi. Last week we had new wooden flooring in the hall and carpeted the stairs and landing. After 20 years we have decorated this house in its entirety. A few rooms have had several remakes but we'd never been able to strip off however many layers of gloss from the stairs and so never decorated the hall, landing, stairs. Well chuffed is what we are, that and bouncing up the stairs on our super new carpet!

In other news the inaugural meeting of a new writing group took place at the Orange Tree in Richmond last Tuesday evening. There were nine of us, quite an amazing number for a group I think. Plus two who weren't able to make it are very likely to join us. And the best part of it is, without exception, there is such a wealth of talent, such a refreshing amount of honesty in the feedback, that we can only continue to learn our craft together in sweet harmony as jonny b. love once sang. Very exciting!

Last, but by no means least, my friend Philip came out of hospital this week. Philip is a gaming buddy and unfortunately is bi-polar. He's had ten good years but in April suffered a huge set-back - brought on by Mr Cameron unsurprisingly - and has been in hospital for two lengthy spells. We played a close game of Bruges, close by my standards anyway as I only lost by about ten points, and it remains a huge favourite of mine. But more importantly it was good to have a chat with Philip in his own flat, and despite him being on his own quite a lot at the present time, I hope he continues his recovery at his own pace. He's an exceedingly bright fellow and I find him most agreeable!

That's my exclamation mark paragraph endings done, another poem's been loaded up. Take care all..

I am troubled by the space between sea and food, I'm sorry!

Poetry

Right. Have added a page to this blog. It's called 'my poetry' under the Outpourings Section. There'll be a poem added every Monday that I remember to do so.

This is me being less than precious about my poems. And having had enough rejection to last a lifetime. To think I might have gotten published in a poetry magazine read by who knows what number of people, darn it!!

Here's a snap from the weekend before last. It's of the Ocean Rooms in Gorleston which was mentioned in my poem 'Bickering in a Caravan'. I couldn't believe it still has the same name some 30 years on from when I last went there..

Carshalton-on-Sea Prep

In the build up to this weekend's poetry reading I was our with Cheryl and Josie visiting Osterley Gardens trying to learn my Suffolk poems by heart. They're not very long and have an easy structure to memorise so it wasn't too bad. We spent quite some time in the scented garden where our next door neighbour works as a volunteer. It was delicious!

Later, as I was finishing off Lowestoft Fish Market for the third time, we neared the Garden House where John Grant, Poet in Residence was seated. He passed us a poetry book and we each opened a page and selected a line for him. Mine came from Matthew Arnold, all three lines were appropriate. He was compiling a line from each visitor and then creating a poem for the day. He had done the same the previous day too.

He was also supposed to be giving a ten minute reading at noon, 2pm and 4pm. Unfortunately, no-one had been around at noon so he had read to himself. He had kept himself busy since being allocated Osterley House as part of the Open House weekend. He had never been before so had throughly enjoyed taking it all in, visiting ahead of the weekend and writing four new poems based on his findings. One of these was all about some of the 250 volunteers who keep the house and gardens in immaculate condition.

Spending a little time online I found that John is part of the Poetry Society's 'Campus' where poets share their work and thoughts. It looks a good site to be part of with a number of different 'groups' you can join to help spread your poetry. In the latest restructuring of my time I have decided to dedicate Wednesday's creative time to poetry and perhaps I will join Campus and see where that may lead.

Now, where was I? Oh yes.. Lowstoff Fesh Marke'.

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

That's the sort of title I like. A good old fashioned saying with a strong image attached to it. It's also the title of a card game that's attempting to get crowdfunding for publication. It's a particularly English game from the Ragnar Brothers who have a good tradition in quirkiness. Have a quick look here: Barking! if you have some time, you'll enjoy the video description of the game if nothing else!

I mentioned yesterday the forthcoming poetry reading I shall be taking part in and thought I should actually give you a little insight into the world of Ivan Shrimpton. He's my fictional character that pens all these Suffolk poems on my behalf. He's probably mid 60s and has managed his life within a small radius of North Suffolk/South Norfolk. He has insights into local events and places as well as trying to keep up with the pace of technology in the 21st Century. He first came to life with this poem:

In The Village That I Live

In the village that I live 

I keep myself to myself,

there’s too many rum old 

busy-bodies already see,

and barely a soul to speak with,

Mrs V who run the store, 

but I don’t like to ask o’ her,

and the vicar, well, 

he’s too like a milkman now,

doing his round all odd days.

In the village that I live 

I keeps good care o’ hedges

do some grass cutting too, 

still grow all me own veg,

’at’s fruit I struggle at, 

have to get it online I do,

bit of a muddle, bit of a mess, 

but I’m getting through

the fifteen nets o’ oranges 

I ordered by mistook.

In the village that I live

’at’s better just me and Fordie,

my West Highland Terror 

as I call the scruffy fellah,

when he gets a going after 

them rabbits and hares

there ain’t no stopping him, 

nor catching him neither!

Mind he can take some persuading 

to shift his arse of an afternoon.

In the village that I live 

there’s no young folk any more,

they up and go, just like that 

once they get the urge,

we us’d to play amongst 

the bales, go beating

and trapping the game, 

but the farms is all different now

all mechanicalised it is, 

I can still drive a tractor though.

That's the standard language version that I read from, using my local knowledge of the accent he'd be talking in. My dissertation covered off my doubts of trying to read dialect for my prospective audience - you, yes you, don't cower away! So, just for comparison's sake, here's the first verse in dialect.

En the Vellege that Oi Lev

En the vellege that oi lev

oi keep mesel’ to mesel’,

there’s too meny rum ol’

busy-bodies already see,

an’ barely a soul ’o speak wev,

Mrs V who run the store,

but oi dun’t loik to ask o’ her,

and the vecar, well,

he’s too loik a melkman now,

doen hes round all odd days.

That's your lot for today.. if Ivan's piqued your interest it's Saturday week, see below for the poster from yesterday.