The wife’s car got broken into during the night.

Somebody smashed the side window, emptied the glove box and had a good ol’ rummage amongst all the crap on the seats (Mrs M doesn’t keep the tidiest of vehicles - I often refer to her car as the new Vauxhall Corsa Landfill).

So, what did they get away with?

• The vehicle handbook and servicing manual
• A half empty tin of de-icer
• And a whole packet of Wrigley’s Extra Chewing Gum

The Police forensic man (CSI Luton) who turned up to try and solve the crime, said there was nothing he could do. He did, however, explain what the sods were looking for: Sat Nav.

Although Mrs M’s Sat Nav wasn’t in the car, she had left the window mount for it, still attached to the windscreen - indicating that she owned such a device.   So, there’s a warning for you all.

So, they get away with some chewing gum and de-icer, leaving us to have to fork out 75 quid (insurance excess) to get the window replaced.

Bastards!

My next door neighbour died this morning.

He’d been ill for a long time and over the past year, there has been a constant stream of carers - and every so often, an ambulance - parked outside the house.  This morning was no different, except that this time, rather than a wheelchair, he was stretchered out on a gurney with a sheet over him.  So sad.

We’d never socialised much, but whenever we did bump into each other and have a chat, I always found him to be nothing less than a thoroughly nice bloke.  Younger than me and with two children (thankfully, grown-up), he didn’t deserve this.

I truly hope his passing was a peaceful one.

I read this today and it got me thinking about how things have changed (advanced?) over the years in the world of photography.

I’ve been a keen photographer for many years - since I was a schoolkid actually - and I’ve owned a number of cameras… each purporting to be the latest and greatest in photographic technical innovation. I think it’s also safe to say that I’ve always been a bit of a gearhead: I like owning the kit just as much as using it.

My first camera - I think - was the ubiquitous Kodak Instamatic, which used 126 film. I think 126 was just 35mm film in a big easy to load cartridge and the pictures that came out of it were pretty good… considering.

I was then given a 110 camera for my birthday. It was a sexy beast: slim and flat and advancing the film by sliding the two halves of the camera together, made it feel like some sort of James Bond spy camera. Cool!  But the pictures that came out of it were a bit crap.

A Kodak Disc camera was then foistered upon me.  New and innovative, it promised wonderful snaps in a camera that could fit in your shirt pocket.  Fit in my shirt pocket, it did. Produce wonderful snaps, it didn’t. Worse than the 110.

Then I started work at the Telephone Exchange and suddenly had more money than I knew what to do with.  I went straight down to our local camera shops (for, in them days, unlike now, there were many in town) and I splashed out on a Canon AE-1 Program SLR.   The shopkeeper made me buy it, as a result, but wow,  what a gorgeous piece of kit!  And from that point on, huge sums of money were frittered away on lenses, filters, flashguns and every - and any - accessory I could lay my hands on.

Then the next latest innovation came along: autofocus.  “Ooh, I want one of those!”

A Canon EOS 650 was subsequently purchased and all my old kit was traded in, as it wasn’t compatible.

A couple of years later, I got interested in developing my own films and built a darkroom up in the loft. I tinkered with colour and slidefilm processing, but discovered a real affinity for black and white. So much so, that I went out and bought another camera body - a Canon 50e with gimmicky eye-controlled autofocus that I never used - just so I could have one camera body permanently loaded with colour and one with black and white film.  When we went away on holiday, my camera bag was huge and bloody heavy!

And then the new digital cameras came along. “Ooh, I want one of those.”

Once again, all my kit was swapped out and I opted for a Canon Eos 10D (you’ll have gathered by now that I’ve always been a Canon fan) as my first foray into the world of digital, but then I upgraded a while back (for no real reason other than I wanted to) to  a Canon 40D.

Newer, more advanced cameras now come on the market regularly, but at the moment, I’m quite happy with my lot.

But I daresay that in ten years time, holographic cameras will be the new in-thing. “Ooh, I’ll want one of those.”

Seated at my PC earlier, I noticed a letter in the waste paper basket next to the desk.

Crumpled up, even as it was, I saw that it was from the local council. And I could see that it was addressed to the current Mrs Masher. And I could also see the word ’sex’.

Intrigued, I fished it out of the basket and straightened it out.

“The introduction of a new category for the licencing of Sexual Entertainment Venues under the Local Government Act 1982 needs to be reflected and therefore a policy is being proposed to deal with all Sex Establishments.”  it said… amongst other things.

“Er, Mrs M”, I said, walking into the kitchen brandishing the letter aloft in a Chamberlain-esque fashion, “what’s this all about?”

“Oh, that”, she said, giving it a perfunctory glance and returning to her toast and coffee. “Not sure, really. I think it’s because I’m licensed to sell alcohol, so I get copied in on any updates to the local Licensing Policy.”

“Hold on… you’re licensed to sell alcohol? Since when?”

“Since about five years ago. I went on that course, for work, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. I remember now.  So, you’re not opening a sex shop then?”

“No dear.”

Somewhat deflated, I went back to my spreadsheets.

Driving home from work this morning, there was a pigeon in the road.

Normally, they fly off as you approach them. This one didn’t, so I slowed a little and veered slightly to the right in order to avoid it.

But I think this particular pigeon had suicidal tendancies: it walked straight under my wheel.

I wasn’t sure if I’d actually driven over it or not, at first: a 14 ounce pigeon doesn’t present much of a hindrance to a two-tonne Honda.

I looked in the rear-view mirror to see a cartoon-like flurry of feathers pop into the air, confirming the bird’s demise.

Pulling up outside my house, I went round the front of the car to check for any remnants stuck to the wheels. As I did so, I noticed three evil looking pigeons, sitting on the fence watching me.  I think they knew - through some sort of pigeon telepathy - what I’d done.

I fully expect to find my car completely splattered with pigeon poo when I go out later.

This kid rocks!

Take 4 minutes out of your day to watch this young fella in action.

Guaranteed to make you smile.

Clicky

It’s 2.30. In the morning.

I awoke an hour and a half ago to the sound of gentle sobbing coming from Harry’s bedroom. I went in and found he had fallen out of bed and was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. I lifted him back in to bed and pulled his covers over him.  He continued to cry. “It really hurts”  he said.

“What does?”

“My leg. I hurt it on the floor.”

“There, there” I said, rubbing his leg through the duvet. “Is that better?”

“zzzz….”

He was back to sleep in seconds.  I, however, went back to bed and just lay there. For ninety minutes, listening to the sounds of the night. Eventually I gave up and came downstairs.

Shortly before I went to bed, last night, though, I heard the pitter patter of tiny feet on the wooden floor of the hallway. My first thought was that it was Amelia: she often tip-toes down the stairs at night, complaining that she can’t sleep. However, I’d put her to bed only half an hour before and she’d been dog-tired, so I doubted she’d be up again. So, I quietly got up and tip-toed myself out into the darkness of the hall.

A luminescent pair of bright green eyes surveyed me from the bottom step of the stairs. It was a cat.  It peered at me for a second, then shot across the hall, over my feet, into the kitchen and out through the open back door (I often leave the kitchen door open on these warm summer nights). “Shoo!” I said, somewhat belatedly.

I didn’t think much of it: it’s not the first time we’ve had the neighbourhood moggies wandering in.

But then I got to thinking about that recent story of the two little girls who were attacked by a fox in their bedroom. I know we have at least one fox in the area as I’ve seen it a couple of times when I’ve left the house very late at night.

Perhaps the thought of that is what’s preventing me from getting back to sleep.

And perhaps I need to start shutting the kitchen door a bit earlier in the evenings.

Up and down the country, England flags are flying at half-mast - or being torn down in disgust - because our brave lads the bunch of useless, overpaid tossers that we call the England football team, have once again rolled over and died before our greatest footballing foe: Germany.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, had it been a close match, but Jerry spent more time charging at England’s goal, than they did attacking the English coastline 70 years ago. They were, by far, the better team. But then, the same can probably be said of every other team that England has played against in this tournament.

I watched the game round my brother-in-law’s house.  Now, you won’t get a bigger England football supporter than Mike, but when the scoreline hit 4-1 against us, he got up and walked out. “I’m gonna put the burgers on,” he said, “I ain’t watching this shit.”

And I think that pretty much summed it up for the nation.

Another thing that has come to annoy me over the past weeks, as regards staying in hotels, is that they never have a bog brush in the bathroom.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I make a mess, I like to clean up after myself. I know the chambermaid probably thinks nothing of it, but I really don’t think she should have to clean up any skid marks that I may have left down the loo. As such, following my morning ablutions, I often find myself pouring cups of hot water down the toilet in an effort to shift errant poo stains!

Why don’t they just leave a bog brush? It’d be so much easier.

It’s probably a Health and Safety thing: Joe Public, left in charge of a bog brush without having had the relevant training course, could quite easily take his own eye out. Or something. And then sue the hotel.

But maybe I’m getting in a fuss over nothing. Maybe I’m alone in this particular hang-up of mine and the  rest of the world have no embarrassment about this particular bodily function.

To me though, doing a poo is a personal thing (yeah, that’s why I’m writing about it on the internet for the whole world you both to read). It’s to be done in solitary. Preferrably with no-one in proximity close enough, that they can hear my… noises.

Or maybe it’s a man thing. Perhaps women are less embarrassed by such things. Certainly, the current Mrs Masher - and several earlier pretenders to that title - have had no qualms with plonking themselves on the crapper and plopping away whilst I’m having a shower or a shave.

But, either way, I think a simple bog brush in the hotel bathroom, wouldn’t half make laying-a-log a more stress-free experience.

I’ve never needed a great deal of sleep - unlike the current Mrs Masher, who, if she doesn’t get her full eighteen hours is scratchy for the rest of the day.

No, five or six hours is generally enough for me.

But, when I’m working nights, I tend to average only three to four hours as I find sleeping during the day very difficult.

And I cope OK with that, but it tends to catch up with me toward the end of the week and on a Friday night I’ll often do a full eight to ten hours.

I’m still working nights up in Glasgow at the moment and I went to bed this morning at about seven o’clock. And I slept soundly.

So much so, that when I woke up and picked up my watch from the bedside table and peered at it through bleary eyes, I was shocked and annoyed to see that it was ten minutes to six. I’d slept nearly eleven hours! Not only had I missed most of the day, but I only had ten minutes before dinner!

Arses!

I threw myself out of bed and jumped straight in the shower.

Ten seconds later, I jumped straight out of the shower and picked up my watch again.

Then I turned it over so that it was no longer upside down.

It was only twenty minutes past eleven.

In the morning.

Excellent!

I’m very tired: I’ve had two hours sleep, out of the last 36.

We had some problems at work, which meant I had to stay on a bit longer.  Luckily, we managed to get it sorted, but it made it too late to go back to my hotel and have a snooze and a shower before the flight home. I had just enough time to quickly throw all my stuff into my suitcase and laptop rucksack and check out of the hotel.

I dropped the hire car off and took a slow saunter over to the airport.  I arrived at the EasyJet check-in desk in good time and joined the queue.

Tired though I was, I felt relaxed as - unlike last week - I’d arrived at the airport with at least 15 minutes leeway.

As the queue slowly shuffled along, I watched a couple of people taking photographs of each other. As I did so, a thought popped into my head: “Where’s my camera?”  I thought about it for a minute. I’d packed hastily, but I didn’t remember putting the camera away in either bag.  It must be there.

Surely.

Unsure, I dropped out of the queue and plonked myself in a corner somewhere and proceeded to empty the contents of my bags.  There was no camera.

Arse.

The last place I remembered having it was in the car.

So, bags in tow, I briskly walked all the way back over to the Avis car drop off point. As I arrived I saw a chap driving my car round the back of the building.  I gave chase, as fast as I was able - laden as I was with all my luggage.  Luckily, I caught up with him and explained my situation. A quick search of the car revealed the errant camera hidden under the driver’s seat. Hurrah! I stowed it in my rucksack and headed back to the airport. No time for sauntering now though: time was getting on. I walked back as fast as a could, with my rucksack weighing a ton and my wheelie suitcase refusing to roll smoothly on the bricked pathway.  The sun beat down upon me and by the time I got back to the check-in desk, I was perspiring heavily.

Once I was through security and into the Departures Lounge, I sat down to relax and then I realised something: I stank!

I was still wearing the same clothes from the day before and I’d been sweating like a pig. I couldn’t sit in close proximity to people on a plane, smelling like this!

Aha! I spied a branch of Boots in the shopping mall. I’d be able to get a can of deodorant. That’d help with the pong.

Inside the store, they had many different cans of smellies. But all I could find were big ones and I just wanted a small size that I could put in my bag. Then I hit upon an idea: why buy it at all? A couple of surreptitious sprays onto the pits of my t-shirt was all I needed.

I crouched down, trying to look unsuspicious, as I looked at the many different cans on display. When no-one was about, I quickly grabbed the nearest can and gave two sharp squirts under my left armpit.

I wish I had put my glasses on first. The can I picked up wasn’t deodorant; it was bloody shaving gel.

I looked under my arm to see an unfeasably large amount of blue gel stuck to my t-shirt.  I tried to wipe it off with my hand, but that just seemed to spread it about… and start it lathering up. Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

I quickly made my way to the nearest toilet - bluey-white lather all over my shirt, hands and rucksack.  Paper towels just smeared it around. I found washing it with water was the only thing that would get it off.

As I emerged from the toilets, my flight was called and I had to go straight to the gate.

I sat on the plane for an hour, in a t-shirt that was wet all down one side.

I think I smelt quite nice though.

The maid who cleans my room is starting to annoy me now.

As I sleep in till quite late, sometimes my room doesn’t get serviced for several days.  As such, I make a special effort to keep the room tidy and clean… though I consider myself to be a fairly tidy person, anyway.

But over the last couple of days, the maid has been in - whilst I’ve been out - and done my room.  Now, I make my bed each day, but, not having breasts, I obviously don’t make it that well. So, the one thing I’d really like the maid to do is make the bed for me.

But she doesn’t.

What she does do is:

Empty the water out of the kettle and switch it off at the electric socket. I don’t want her to do that, as I shall be using it shortly to make my umpteenth cup of tea of the day.

Fold the end of the toilet roll into a V-shape. I don’t want her to do that… as it’s pointless.

Move the TV remote from the bedside table to behind the TV. I don’t want her to do that, as it’s bloody annoying to stretch out on the bed in readiness for a relaxing hour of watching some 80’s crap on ITV4, only to find I have to get up again to get the remote.

Replacing my towels with fresh ones.  This one is really annoying me. There is a sign in the bathroom saying how much kinder it is to the environment if we cut down on our laundry and that I can help by placing my towels back on the towel rail if I’m happy to use them again, but leave them in the bath if I want them replaced. So each day, I place my towels back on the rail.

And each day I return to find new, fresh ones have been laid out, nice and neat on the rail.

Maybe I should try putting my bedsheets in the bath.

I’m seated in the airport lounge, waiting for the board to change and show that we can make our way down to the gate. Sometimes I like to while away my time just by watching people.

The pretty girl with the improbably short skirt, seated opposite me, obviously catches my attention. But so do plenty of others.

A business man wearing the most garish tie I’ve seen this side of a BBC newsreader, sits at my table and starts to tap away importantly at his IBM Thinkpad. Every so often, he looks up and peers thoughtfully into the distance, as if trying to construct something in his head that he can convey effectively within the important document he is writing. Intrigued, I manage to sneak a look at his screen. I’m sure his Facebook friends will be most pleased to read that he is enjoying a large cappacino whilst he waits for his flight to Amsterdam.

There’s a thud as the girl on the adjacent table manages to knock over a glass. Thankfully it is empty, but as it falls, it catches the edge of her polystyrene lunch tray and sends five different types of sushi up into the air and then on to the floor. She tries to look nonchalant about it and kicks the lumps of fish under the table before grabbing her handbag and quickly walking away.

Three girls, wearing straw boaters, are seated at the bar. They’re very loud and seem to be getting quite drunk. Please don’t be on my plane… please don’t be on my plane…

Bing bong. My flight is called and I head in the direction of the gate. I’m pleased to see that the loud girls are still in their seats.

We are held at the gate for a long time, and then there is some excited chatter as Peter Andre is seen walking past with a film crew and boarding our flight.

Once he and his entourage are aboard, we are allowed on as well. He and his crew take the front two rows of seats (12) despite there only being nine of them. By some quirk of boarding fate, I find myself seated just a couple of rows behind him. Whilst I can feel others around me, trying to get a look at our resident celebrity, I’m really not interested and spend the flight listening to my PEG.

When we land as Glasgow airport, I expected him to be whisked away and gone, but I bumped into him several times as he kept stopping to sign autographs. As it was all being filmed, I daresay my ugly mug will be on telly at some point.

After a long wait at the car hire place, I find they’ve run out of the cheap runabouts and I’m given a free upgrade. Which was nice.

I’m back in the same hotel as last week, but in a different room, of course. Still has a crap view though.

It’s five in the morning as I type this and I’ve just returned from the first night’s work to see a woman in her nightie, running down the corridor from one room to another.

The mind boggles.

And I should know… I’ve followed a few.

Clicky

I was talking to a friend and ex work colleague on the phone today.I hadn’t spoken to him in quite some time.

“Oh, did you hear about Trevor?” he asked. When I replied in the negative, he  regaled me with a tale that left me almost speechless.

I’d worked with Trevor many times in the past on a couple of  projects within the company.  We’d sat down together at many a meeting table. And we’d taken tea together in the canteen, on several occasions.  And I’d never suspected that he was…

Well, you can read about it here.

This post wings it’s way to you all the way from bonnie Scotland. Although, there’s nothing bonnie about it as I type this. Looking out of my window of my room, in the Premier Inn at Glasgow Airport, all I can see is grey cloud and drizzly rain. And the concrete flyover for the M8.

Hopefully it’ll clear up later in the week and I’ll be able to do a bit of sightseeing. I believe Loch Lomond - which is supposed to be quite beautiful - isn’t too far away. Annoyingly though, I haven’t brought my camera: with a week’s worth of clothes, two laptops, some small handtools and some test equipment to carry, there was only so much I could take on the flight with me. I have my likkle camera though, so all is not lost.

I was amused, last night at dinner, when a party of six youngsters sat down at the table opposite me. There were two boys and four girls, all aged about 17, and they were obviously staying overnight in order to catch an early morning flight to their holiday destination.
Each wore a white t-shirt with their name on the front and “Magaluf 2010″ emblazoned on their backs. They were laughing and giggling and obviously up for a good time on this, the first night of what was probably their first holiday abroad together; their first holiday without parents to hold them back and regulate them. They were wild and they were free and they were ready to party in the way that only young people know how.

Two minutes later, the waitress returned with their drinks order: two cokes and four cans of Irn-Bru.

Watch out Magaluf, you won’t know what’s hit you.

I’ve taken a few days off work this week and, as the sun was shining brightly in the sky yesterday, we decided to spend a small fortune at Chessington - World of Adventure - it’s in a field, just outside Esher.

Having now experienced its delights, I really feel it should be renamed “Chessington - World of Queueing.

I’ve stated here before that I cannot be arsed to queue for an hour just to go on a ride that lasts five minutes or less. But when you have children, you don’t get much say in the matter. And it always falls to me to go on the rides, as the current Mrs Masher doesn’t do heights. Or speed. Or bumps. Or twisting and turning.

So, much of the day was spent in queues and, as such, I doubt we saw half of the park. But even so, we had a great time and the kids thoroughly enjoyed it.

We went on many of the kids’ rides and Mrs M persuaded me to have a go on Ramases Revenge - a huge ride that swung you backwards, forwards and upside down before soaking you in water and making you scream like a girl. Its stated queueing time was only 20-minutes, so I thought I’d give it a go. Fifty minutes it took! Fifty bloody minutes. The five-minute ride was fun though. And wet. And I screamed. Like a girl.

Some of the more popular rides had stated queueing times of 90-minutes. In reality, that must have been nearer three days, I reckon.

The kids got their faces painted - not something I particularly like, but they love it. And luckily, it wipes off the car seats fairly easily.

We left at 6-30, when they closed the park, and stopped off at an empty Pizza Hut in Woking for dinner. Being the only ones in there, we received a superlative service from the waitress and at the end of the night, I was annoyed and embarrassed to find that I only had one pound and forty pence left in my pocket to give her as a tip. She probably wasn’t overly impressed with it, either.

We got home late and fell exhausted into bed.

There was one ride left that I wanted a go on. But Mrs M said no.

My Virgin Media bill flopped onto the doormat this morning.

I casually ripped the envelope open and perused the three page statement inside. It’s normally about 55 to 60 quid. But I was a bit shocked to see this month’s bill was over 90 English pounds!

A quick check through the details showed that Harry was the culprit.

He’s discovered the red button on Cartoon Network, which allows him to play games using the TV remote control. I’ve seen him playing on it many times and it seems to keep him quiet and happy, so I’ve let him get on with it.

What I didn’t realise was, that some of these games cost 60p or more each time to play. Being only five, Harry didn’t know - or care - either. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d actually played the games properly, but, being a kid, he has jumped back and forth between them, probably only playing some of them for no more than a couple of minutes at a time.

Parental controls have now been well and truly invoked!

Well, summer now seems to be most definitely upon us.

I’m not a fan of the heat, but it’s certainly nice to be able to walk around in just a T-shirt and shorts… especially as I have such nice legs.

But, at the same time, I miss my big winter coat. Why? Because it has huge pockets, that’s why.

You see, I tend to carry stuff around with me. Almost everywhere I go, I take at least:
My mobile phone
A pair of spectacles
Palm Organiser
Wallet
Keys

And that’s a lot to try and squeeze into the pockets of my Kylie Minogue hotpants Bear Grylls Action Shorts.

Maybe I should get myself a manbag. Trouble is, I don’t like ‘em. They’re a bit, well… noncy, aren’t they?

OK, not EVERY MAN who carries one is a poofter, but to me it’s still a bit too close to having a handbag. And that’s definitely noncy. If you’re a bloke.

So, whilst I struggle with my inner-self, to see if I am comfortable enough with my own sexuality and have the confidence to carry a manbag, I have an alternative solution.

I was working in Salisbury yesterday and on the way back, found myself driving past a big pile of stones.
Now, I’ve never visited the henge before, so thought I’d take the opportunity to stop and imbibe some of its mystical power.

The place was crowded with lots of tourists: mainly Japanese, German and American, it seemed.

As I didn’t have much time on my hands - I was en-route to visit a friend - I didn’t want to pay the seven quid entrance fee, and chose instead to stand outside the perimeter. I took the above picture just by holding my camera up in the air, so it could see over the chain-link fencing.

As I stood there, a young American couple stopped just the other side of the fence. “Apparently”, the bespectacled fellow said, looking at a pamphlet he’d obviously received as part of his entrance fee, “Apparently, this place was built over 2000 years BC.”

“Wow”, said his girlfriend/wife, “That’s awesome.”

That kind of summed it up for me: it was indeed, awesome. For a pile of stones. I put my camera away and headed onto Andover, whereupon I paid a surprise visit on Linda: a good friend from work some years back, who opened a tack shop when she got made redundant.

I was pleased to see that several years later, she’s managed to weather the recession and is still doing OK.

There’s money in horses, it seems.

Stories like this are thankfully rare, but they never fail to sadden and shock me.

Sadly, such atrocities seem to be on the rise.  It seems that every couple of weeks, I read about just such a thing… or something in a similar vein.

Stories of children suffering were always upsetting, but they’ve never affected me like they do nowadays.

Having young children of my own now, means that horror stories such as this take on… more focus; not only do I feel for the stricken child, but I also relate to the anguish and the worry of the parents. Moreso than when I didn’t have kids.

And not only that, but I worry - as I’m sure most parents do - about my own children suffering similar fates.

But,  just as worrying, is the thought that should such a terrible thing happen, they don’t necessarily have to be on the receiving end of things - they could be the ones dishing it out. And that thought scares me just as much.

I continually endeavour to teach my children right from wrong, to instill in them a sense of what is good and what is not. But it only takes them to ‘fall in with the wrong crowd’ or even just befriend the wrong kid at school - a kid that perhaps hasn’t benefited from a loving parent’s tuition - and all that hard work can be lost.

Young children, nowadays, are exposed to a lot more adult-rated content in the media than we were when we were young and their childish innocence is lost so much earlier as a result.

I mean, ten-year old boys raping a girl? How crazy is that? When I was ten, I didn’t know what it was for - apart from peeing out of.

Don’t tell me that ten-year old boys have uncontrollable sexual urges. When we were ten, the only urges me and my mates had, was to get as wet and muddy as possible playing down by the stream at our local park. And girls? None were allowed, “because they smell”.  And that’s how it was, until puberty, when suddenly… well, suddenly they started to smell nice.

Maybe I’m looking back at our childhood through my rose-tinted, halcyon spectacles, but I really feel that things need to change soon, else we could end up more broken than we ever thought possible.

And whilst I don’t want us to have some sort of draconian Mary Whitehouse society, I do think that our new government needs to impose some stronger ruling, enforcing what information minors have access to on the TV and the Internet.

In fact, I feel a strongly worded letter coming on right now.

Dear Dave,

…

I was recently asked to take part in a long term study (20 years, I think it is) looking at the health effects of mobile phone use. The study is being conducted by Imperial College London and is backed by the Department of Health, so it’s obviously a serious piece of research.

I readily agreed to take part, as this is something that has concerned me for quite some time.

Modern mobile phones use frequencies that are not too far away from those used in microwave ovens - albeit with far, far less power. But then you have the thing stuck to your ear, with your brain just half an inch away, behind a piece of skull that presents little defence against radio waves.

Although there is yet to be any proof, one way or the other, that mobile phone radiation can cause damage, I always err on the side of caution: I keep my calls short and wherever possible use hands-free. And I will not wear one of those stupid Bluetooth things strapped to my ear, either.  a) it looks ridiculous and b) Bluetooth operates at similar frequencies, so it’s not necessarily any safer (assuming of course that there is a danger in the first place).

So, is there any danger? I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve noticed any ill-effects. However, on the odd occasion where I have had no choice but to take a prolonged call on my mobile phone - say an hour-long conference call - then I have often noticed a bit of a headache afterward. Whether this is a genuine effect or a psychosomatic one caused by my own concerns, I have no idea.  Maybe I’ll let you know in twenty years.

But it’s not just mobile phones that worry me. Looking around my little study right now, I’m aware that the cordless phone on the desk; the movement detector in the corner of the room and - my biggest concern - the WiFi router, are all subjecting my body to a constant bombardment of low-level radiation.

I just hope I don’t get bitten by a spider.

I took the kids into town on Saturday, to do a bit of shopping.

Because I’m a tight-arse who doesn’t like paying to park my car, I parked it - as I often do - in a side road behind the Police station. It’s only a 10-minute walk from there - even at Harry’s dawdling pace.

Once we’d finished scouring the town for children’s slippers - oh, how I miss Woolies - we made our way back to the car.  Our slipper search had taken us finally to a Matalan just outside of the town centre. From there, our quickest route back to the car was through the arse-end of town… a somewhat ‘rundown’ area.

Halfway back, we happened across a small children’s playground that looked to have been recently erected, with swings and slides and stuff. The kids, of course, wanted to go in and I agreed that we could. For ten minutes.

There was already about a dozen kids - boys and girls - playing in the area. Aged about 12 or 13, they were screaming and laughing and shouting as they threw water soaked sponges at each other, in the bright sunshine.

I couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying to each other, as they all spoke Polish. Or Romanian. Or Ukranian. Or something.

In fact, I think the only English speaking people there - apart from me and mine - were two down-and-outs, who were seated on a bench opposite me, drinking cans of Red Stripe.

The water fight between the East European kids gathered pace as more and more water got hurled about. They yelled incomprehensibly to each other and I wondered at the lack of English speaking skills from children of this age.

One of the (many) things that has annoyed me about immigration over the years, is the sheer number of immigrants that come to this country and don’t even bother to try and learn the language. To a degree, I can understand it with lazy adults, but when immersed in a new culture, children tend to pick it all up pretty fast - including the language.

But it seems my concerns were unfounded. One of the boys gave chase and managed to catch one of the girls.  He then proceeded to squeeze a copious amount of cold water down the back of her neck. She immediately froze, statue-like, her mouth wide open in a silent scream. Once she’d got her breath back, she shouted in very clear and perfect English: “You bastard! Look at me: I’m soaked! I’m fucking soaked! You cunt!”

I felt so much better.

Several hours ago, I turned 48. Cripes!

In truth, I’d forgotten it was my birthday today. Well, not so much forgotten, but I hadn’t really given it a thought, until my sister asked me about it the other day?

“What are you doing on Saturday, then?”

“Err, nothing much. Why?

“It’s your birthday.”

“Oh, er, is it? What, already?”

Blimey, but it comes round quick, nowadays.

The kids, bless ‘em, have been very excited about it (certainly, much more than me) and were up bright and early to ensure I didn’t sleep too much of my birthday away. At 6.30 they were jumping up and down on the bed, singing Happy Birthday and bedecking me with cards and presents.  And later - they tell me excitedly - we’ll be going to Pizza Hut for a “Birthday dinner”.

Yes, I may be a year older, but I’m just as wild as ever!

Living life in the bus lane, that’s me.

I took the kids to school on Monday morning. En-route I stopped to pick up Amelia’s best friend, Katie.

As we drove along the girls started singing a playground song:

“Alison and Thomas sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g”

They laughed and I laughed along with them.

“We know another song, Daddy” said Amelia. I asked them to sing it.

“Alison and Nathan sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g”.

Hmm, this Alison’s a bit of a strumpet, I thought, for a seven-year old.

The girls sang it again, but added a bit on.

“Alison and Nathan sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g
It begins with s and it ends in x,
Oh my God, I think it’s sex!”

At this point, if it hadn’t have been for their seatbelts, they’d have been on the floor in a fit of giggles.

“So,” I said, intrigued at what a seven-year old really knew about carnal pleasures, “What is sex then? Have they been teaching you about it at school?”

It went quiet for a moment and then Amelia said “We didn’t learn about it in school, but we know what it is.”

“And?” I prompted her. She looked at me worriedly, not sure whether she should say or not. “It’s OK,” I said, “I’m not going to tell you off or anything. I just want to know what you know about it.”

“Wellllllll,” she dragged it out, and then quickly said “It’s when a man and a woman rub themselves all over each other” and she burst into a fit of hysterical giggles. Katie and Harry joined in.

By the time we got to school we all had tears of infectious laughter rolling down our cheeks. We tumbled out of the car, still tittering.

“You lot look happy” said one of the mums walking past.

“Yes”, I said, “We’ve just been talking about sex”.

I think it might be for the best, if the wife takes the kids to school from now on.

Once again, my blog posting this week comes from the Yorkshire town of Leeds. Hopefully, this week will see this particular part of the project through to a conclusion. But I have an inkling there may be additional work later, so this may not be my last trip up here.

Me and Mick (the singing engineer) chose to stay in the same hotel as last week, as it’s close to the town centre, giving one something to do during the long, boring daylight hours that are the bane of the travelling nightworker.

Last week I had the last room in the whole building and it was great. Tucked right in the corner of the top floor, I heard virtually nothing of the other guests’ perambulations - another bane of the travelling nightworker.

This week, however, I am not so lucky. My room is in the middle of the middle of the hotel: rooms either side of me. And above. And below.

The bloke next door must be deaf, judging by how loud his telly is. And even though the hotel has a strict policy of not allowing animals in the rooms, the person above me has managed to smuggle in his pet baby elephant.

The restaurant that adjoins the hotel is a TGI Friday. The last time I ate in a branch of that particular chain was in New York, back in 2001.  Last week, Mick and I ate there three days in a row because we couldn’t be arsed to walk elsewhere.

This week is likely to be no different.

It’s been a quiet week here. Well, you could be forgiven for thinking so, based on the number of posts I’ve made lately: ie. zero.

But things have happened:

I’ve finished decorating the study. Almost. It’s just the little things that are outstanding: lampshades; pictures on the wall; books back on the shelves; four external hard drives and a printer that still need plumbing in.  I’ve also rewired the back of my desk as the original thirty mains sockets I had on there wasn’t enough.  I now have forty-six sockets fixed to the back of the desk (forty-two of them usable) and six more fixed to the front! That should see me into next year.

Mrs M and the kids are back from french France. Having not seen or heard the volcanic news for ten days, she was shocked at the amount of traffic when they arrived at the ferry terminal in Calais. Luckily they had no problem boarding as they had pre-booked.

Had a most pleasant Sunday lunch last weekend with my mate Graham and his wife. He’s just returned from a holiday in New York and brought me back some pants. That’s true friendship, that is.

I’m currently working back up in Leeds. I think it’s fair to say that things haven’t gone too well so far. But hopefully we are on top of things now. Tonight will tell.

So, what’s been happening this weekend in Chez Masher?

Decorating, mainly.

I have moved everything out of my small study room and placed it around the house. The computer desk and bookshelves are in the living room; there’s crap stuff under the stairs and in the kitchen, and the spare bedroom is chokka. I swear that study has TARDIS like qualities.  But basically, with everything spread about, the house looks a tip, so I need to press on and get it all back before the family return home next weekend.  Sounds easy: plenty of time. But I’m working away this coming week, so I need to get it done before I go.

I took a bit of time out yesterday to get my bike MOT’d. It needed two new tyres; new brake pads and a new battery.  That was an expensive visit to the bike shop!  The bloke at the shop warned me to take it easy as the new tyres need to ‘bed in’. I saw what he meant, when I had a serious wobble going round the first roundabout I came to and nearly lost it.

The lesbians at the bottom of our garden have knocked their conservatory down this weekend. Of course, by that, I don’t mean we have lesbians living in the shrubbery behind the shed, like elves or pixies, but rather the house that backs onto the bottom of our garden.  From Amelia’s bedroom, I can now see right into their living room. If I stand on a chair and hang out of the window. With a pair of binoculars.  But so far, it’s been pretty dull though: no sapphic action whatsoever.

They say that the sound of the first cuckoo denotes the arrival of Spring. Yesterday, I heard the sound of the first lawnmower… which pretty much signifies the same thing.  I also had to put down the first ant powder of the year; we had the first ice-cream van of the year driving up the street and yesterday evening I smelt the first barbeque of the year.

Yep, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that Spring has most definitely sprung.