‘There are thousands of lives in one single life.’

Swami Prajnanpad


The boss made a big song and dance about appropriate office cover before flouncing off on holiday. It’s a tad rich considering she is never in the office because of various meetings.

Lo and behold who is the only person in today while she is staggering around some eastern European fleshpot drunk on cheap lager and pork scratchings?

I can only hope a rhino escapes from the Zoo of Bratislavia and there is a terrible accident which leaves her in plaster for a few weeks. It will allow the rest of us to regain our sanity and pull back from bricking her up behind a wall.


Forget psychedelics. Just rack off a 100 mile plus bike ride in a day and your brain starts rambling off into Never-Never Land of its own accord.

I cycled from Norwich to London last week and twelve putty-legged hours later made the final stretch.

I knew the roads I was on but struggled to recognise any landmarks or shops including my own street. Strawberry Fields Forever Mac 10.

I assume it was fatigue but it was a surreal experience and one I haven’t felt since a long solo walk across India several years ago.

The difference then was things truly were bizarre and it was a case of going with the flow or losing your marbles.

Curious memories of that trip include being propositioned for sex on some back country road (I politely declined), narrowly avoiding stepping on a snake, being attacked by a monkey and having to burn a nice plump leech off my toe. A good trip.


An unholy cabal gathers in London as I speak comprising two disgruntled former employees who asked if I wanted to join them for a drink and bitchathon session about my boss.

It felt like being invited to a divorcee club. I declined because it would have just been an opportunity to gain some laughable blog material. Oh, to be a fly on a pint pot at that get together.

I must say the boss seems to be reaching new heights of dour irritability these days. What a joyless gulag our office is to work. I had to humour myself by circulating a picture of a mouse found mummified in a loaf of bread.

Puerile humour is our last best hope before the darkness sweeps in


Noisy neighbours are the one thing guaranteed to call me to arms. Our subterranean domestic is partial to turning on both stereos in his kitchen and living room.

Nine hours later and a seemingly endless play-list of blaring hair rock and ignored requests to turn it down and there is the inevitable Mexican stand-off.

He comes out with the usual crap about it not being too loud, he can do what he wants and isn’t on curfew and who do I think I am.

Patience goes out of the window as does any hope of Gandhian non-violence and goodwill. I boulder downstairs like some old elephant turning puse-coloured from enduring nine hours of 80s music.

“Turn your fucking music down, NOW!”

The sergeant major routine seems to work ..until tomorrow


“The greatest hazard of all….losing one’s self can occur very quietly in the world as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly. Any such loss – an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife etc – is sure to be noticed.”

Soren Kierkegaard


“We’re the middle children of history…no purpose or place. We have no great war, no Great Depression. Our war is a spiritual war.”

Jim Uhls


Some amusing newspaper mistakes and juxtapositions that have appeared in print:

·        We all know that aging is a fact of life but it doesn’t have to be a death sentence.

·        The former Labour minister leading the campaign compared the Chancellor to Mrs Rochester, the man woman in Charles Dickens’ novel Jane Eyre.

·        John Fielding was Henry Fielding’s blind half-brother, not half-blind brother as earlier stated (from a correction that was printed).

·        Chemise and matching French knockers.

·        He was hell-bent on becoming a priest.


I can talk some right old tosh in my cups but hope I don’t descend to the featureless plain of banality two work colleagues were trudging over today.

One was bemoaning the fact that he had left his egg sandwich in his bag all morning instead of the fridge (I bet they worry about that one in Baghdad every day). It went something like this (cue monotone voices):

Drone one: “I left me egg sandwich bag in my bag yesterday.

Drone two: “Oh no. Really?”

Drone one: “Yes, the egg went off. I ate it without realising and had a real stomach ache last night.”

Drone two: “Oh no.”

Drone one: “Yes, i won’t be doing that again.”

Drone two: (No response due to information overload).

Drone one: “See you later then.”

Drone two: “Yes, see you later.”

Ernest Hemingway would be turning in his grave.


The collective pallor of our workplace has taken on battleship grey as the first round of job cuts trundles over the horizon with its cleavers banging around in the back of the truck.

There is a listless air about the place like a ship caught in dead calm.

Biscuit consumption has risen, tempers are paper thin and there is some irritating person whose emigrating to Oz next week and delights in telling us how sorry she feels for us all.

Yup and I’ll be feeling sorry for her when that funnel-web spider bites her on the arse unless the box jellyfish or salt water crocodile gets in there first.

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