So after a long day out, lovely drives and walks in the country we end up back at his. Me sitting in the sun lounger that sits in front of his laptop, him behind me, his legs wrapped round my waist.

He leans forward and blows down my neck, nibbles the hairs there and whispers “Now we’re sitting like this….?”

“Mmmm-hmmm?”

“You could help me….?”

“Mmmmm-hmmm?”

“With the macros for my Access database?”

God sake, pass me a Rohypnol, somebody, it’s data rape!

Right, I’m learning. I moved to Blogger from Livejournal because I wanted more creative freedom, but was too much of an asshat (Asshat! Spong!) to ask the blogging community at large what I should do, which is why I’m now not using Typepad or whatever the fuck it’s called or Movable Type or all of those things which the proper scary real blogging people use.

So! This is where, you, my loving readership (yes, both of you, one of whom is my parents, who I guess count for two people, being, as they are, seperate beings, yet of one entity known as “parents”) come in. I want photo hosting somewhere, now, i could just whack lots of images up onto my webspace, but I get the feeling that there are lovely online services that will let me to nice slideshows and thumbnails and everything very much easier than I could code them.

So c’mon folks, guide me into the maelstrom of photoblogging, I have pictures to share:

The one of my neice and nephew where the light’s hit her so she looks like she’s been slapped, he has his fingers up his nose and she’s holding him so he looks like a prize trout.

The one where people go “Fucking hell, your dad has the most amazing blue eyes”

The one of Giles’ red pubes.

Wire in, people, you know you can’t live without seeing these.

If one more person comes into the library and says either “Oooh, it’s cold in here” or “Are the automatic doors *still* broken?” I’m going to thump them.

Because I had no idea about either of these things, why would I? You’re only commenting on the environment I spend 40 hours a week in.

I’m waiting for someone to come in and go “Bugger me, look at all the books!”

He comes to my workmates leaving do, where he knows no-one.

He takes me to his parents’ anniversary party, introduces me to the members of the family he knows I’ll like and leaves me to get on with them, hovering on the sidelines, occasionally dropping back into the chat to have me meet someone new.

He looks amazing in a kilt.

He buys me greasy breakfast sandwiches, rides the bus into town with me and collects me from the Dungeon at the end of the day.

He cleans: my dishes, my microwave and my kitchen floor.

He doesn’t even complain when I find a mug in my room that’s developed a personality, taking it from me wordlessly and scrubbing it clean.

He’s quiet when we’re ‘having a splendid time’ because of my whiny neighbour. (Has to be said, since I can hear *her* moving around her house, I’m confident she might be a nicer person if she was getting some.)

He worries about the sweetest things, he worries about telling me them and works so hard at keeping them all bottled up. Then blows his secrecy by darting his eyes sideways when he says he’s thinking about “nothing”.

He’s him…and I wouldn’t have him any other way.

That a standard working environment, wherein the work isn’t intensely physical, should be no lower than 16 degrees.

The library is at 16.1.

Case. Rested.

My letting agency is visiting today, to ensure we’re not selling the floorboards or similar, so the flat is *clean*. Really, really, really CLEAN. And I’m enjoying it and will work to ensure it stays that way.

I have planned my evening meal, and it won’t be instant noodles or anything else pish. It will be proper, grownup food, food that is eaten by proper grownup people who don’t need the potential threat of being evicted to clean their house.

I will go home at 4pm, whack some wedges in the oven, nip down to my chiropractor (oh, having your chiro’s office at the bottom of the stairs is FABULOUS!), nip back up, sprinkle the delightfully perfectly cooked wedges onto a plate, munch on them with a little ham salad and a cup of tea.

I shall wash the dishes, because there will be only a few, because they were all done last night.

I shall pop downstairs and clean and oil the bike’s chain, I shall pump up the tyres and airhorn, adjust the seat and tighten the brakes.

And then I shall cycle up the hill into town again (full of energy, devoid of fat, thanks to the lovely healthy ham salad) and help my delightful first aidy friend teach other delightful first aidy friends CPR and defibrillation.

And I shall smile.

Then! I shall go home and drink tea and watch ER and scratch my balls.

Because I’m a grown up.

Friend appears in office, starts making random comments about blue body paint and hotpants, she’s going to a Superhero party as some woman from X-men. We’re confused, can’t see why she’s telling us.

“Wait, wait, where are you going with this?”

*beat*

“Dundee”

Mad props go to Mindy’s middle’un, Dylan for doing this to her, after she dragged him round supermarkets. Good lad, urinary revenge is sweet!

It reminds me of a lovely story I was privvy to some time ago, in a previous job I had access to a lady’s medical files (we’ll draw a veil over why and a fucking great hessian sack over why I’m now posting their details to the public domain), including a diary the staff at her nursing home had kept about her actions.

To begin with, all was well, the little old lady was suffering from severe dementia and was doubly incontinent, the notes suggested that she barely knew who she was, let alone where or when.

She then stopped being incontinent and started defecating in her bathtub. Later still she was found to be defecating in other peoples’ bathtubs and also to be taking part in vicious and vocal arguments with other residents.

And then the correlation appears, because there was a direct link between the people she’d argued with and the baths she’d made a mess of.

“Who? Me? Oh I’m just a crazy old lady, I don’t know *what’s* going on. But cross me and I’ll shit in your en-suite.”

I want to be *that* kind of old person!

Just a quick “?”, I’ve been reviewing some of the stuff on here and am concerned that it’s all a bit wordy. My average post length is between 500 and 700 words, it’s also ALL white text on black background.

So, my question is, do you guys find this stuff accessible, or should I be making more of an effort to dress the place up, post more photos and make my posts shorter and punchier?

Help! Let me know if you’re enjoying what you read here, or if it’s all me going [insert sound of Charlie Brown’s teacher]

I’ve always wondered when you become ‘grown up’. 18? 21? Surely not, as I’ve passed both of those some time ago and still feel like a kid. I used to think there were stages that you, or your friends, would pass where you’d ‘grow up’. Marriages, births, deaths, that sort of thing, yet I’ve experienced almost all of these already and still don’t feel like my stabilisers have been taken off.

One friend of mine was married at 17 and is going through his divorce now, another is married with a *kid*. They’re both younger than me, so surely, surely I must be a grown up?

I used to think that the various kids I knew thought of me as a grown up, until Mark, at the tender age of 9, told me “Dad says I can’t go swimming without an adult” then looked at me hopefully and replied “But someone over 18 would do.”

Having picked myself up off the floor, I demanded to know what he meant, was I not an adult?

“Well, no, I mean, you’re more of an adult than you were when you lived with Grandma and Grandad, but you’re still young.”

“So how old do I have to be to be a grownup?”

“Well, you have to be married, with kids and stuff, you don’t have any of those things.”

Shot. Down. In. Flames.

We always laughed in school about how weird it would be when we had kids, wondered if we’d be the same people, just with offspring. Kiri’s visit with her firstborn, Janna, made it all come clear. The fact is, we’re the same people, only more so, but with differences (and the prize for the most ambiguous statement of the year goes to….)

She spent 4 days with us all after Hogmanay and we all had a great time lounging around and making “ooooh” noises over her little bundle of incontinence. We went shopping, out for coffee and had lunch, we did all the things we used to do as school friends, but with an omnipresent caveat of “watchthebaby,where’sthebaby?Isthebabyok?”

Janna flirted with young women (dull), old women (irritating) and attractive young guys (convenient, and fun!) at every possible moment. Smiling and blowing spit bubbles, she charmed all and sundry, then screamed like a banshee (as is her perogative, I guess).

What was, perhaps, the most entertaining aspect of her visit, was realising that not only did she enjoy being sang to, but that it didn’t matter *what* we were singing. Which is how, dear friends, we come to the scene of a 6′2″, 220lbs gay bloke, rocking a baby to sleep while singing:

Country Death Song - Violent Femmes (subject: overpopulation, infanticide, suicide)

Ballad of Chasey Lane - Bloodhound Gang (subject: ass, dick, titties)

Lithium - Nirvana. (subject: drugs, depresseion, psychological fuckuppery)

Not to mention our realisation that she was all about the Twelve Days of Christmas. Good lord, that tune is smack for babies, speedballed into their dribbly little veins.

But it’s very boring, so we composed the Schemie Twelve Days of Christmas, which I now present to you:

This is specially for Zeno, btw, as he seems to be missing his roots.

“On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.

12 Inbred Chavers

11 Switchblades gleaming

10 Stolen stereos

9 Used Condoms

8 Forged giros

7 Mummys milking

6 Bottles of Bucky

5 Sovvie Rings

4 Neds a-stealing

3 Bearded Jakeys

2 Babies Crying

And mah bird, wouldnae gimme ma hoooooole.