Shopping for dummies

Found: Fishergate, Preston

Sleep apnoea

Spent this morning researching sleep apnoea for a short story. According to the The British Snoring & Sleep Apnoea Association, the condition is defined as the ‘cessation of airflow during sleep preventing air from entering the lungs caused by an obstruction’.  Research turned up a story about Philip Skeates, sleep apnoea sufferer (Guardian, A Breath of Fresh Air); a feature in the Independent entitled: Brahms made an awfully big noise in bed and a post about The hidden curse of sleep apnoea at metronapsuk. The real gold, however, was in the British Snoring and Sleep Apnoea forum; particularly the topic, Do I need to tell the DVLA? which has generated a lively discussion between (the brilliantly named) Tony the Bus Driver, ‘bus driver with sleep apnoea’, and fellow sufferers Dog Tired, Private Snorer and Silver Fox. Just off to read some more.

George

Discovered M has not one but two teddies, knitted by his auntie (c. 1987) to the original Teddies for Tragedies pattern. He calls this teddy George (after his history of art tutor). However, life in M’s briefcase proved hazardous and an attempt by a friend to drown George (the teddy, not the tutor) in a pint of beer (c. 1993) led to immediate exile from student life and incarceration in the glove compartment of 1968 Volvo Amazon. From 1996 onwards, having acquired the status of talisman, he inhabited the glove compartment of several vehicles; most notably a Citroen Visa (surviving brakes failure on A38 going south on downhill approach to main Derby/Birmingham roundabout) and a Vauxhall Astra (following theft of car, George was recovered and returned – along with a box of firelighters – to owner by police).

For the last 18 months he has resided in the comfort of a Brookes leather saddlebag and travelled at least 50 miles a week with his cyclist owner on the back of a Dawes Super Galaxy. Finally, after 21 years, he has retired to the bedroom where (hopefully) he will continue to protect his owners from random dangers, specifically those that issue from the 40 year old wiring.

George would be interested in hearing from other bears who have survived acts of mindless violence or neglect …

Noticeboard

Not updated as regularly as news sites or Google, but a social document all the same, this village noticeboard is updated every Sunday morning. Recent items have included a talking Quaker parrot (for sale), a stud (available for hire) in the form of an obliging terrier (no appointment required?) plus an invitation to knit a teddy (free wool and needles) for Teddies for Tragedies – an appeal to knitters with soft hearts …

A slice of lemon cheesecake …

Came back on Saturday with a camera full of photographs after a 12 hour round trip with friends and dog to Scotland. Stopped at Tebay services (M6) on the way up. Must be set in one of the best locations in the UK with a view of the Cumbrian hills and a large pond with ducks right outside the window. The coffee was good too.

Drove through floods and spent a sunny afternoon exploring New Galloway; a walk in the woods then a visit to a proper Scottish tea shop where I ate home-made peppery lentil soup with bread and butter, oh and a slice of lemon cheesecake which made me feel car sick all the way back. Didn’t lock the hens up until nine by which time it was dark and they’d put themselves to bed. Checked inside the coop with a torch and found all 6 plus the cockerel asleep together. Got home to find message from eldest son now safely back from Berlin (good) and discover youngest son has managed to cook Sunday lunch for all 11 of his housemates at university (impressed).

Watch where you’re walking

Found at bus stop.

Went to see a new exhibition, Revolver by artist David Newton, which includes a number of portraits, some recently exhibited at the Admiral Lord Rodney pub in Colne. The pub website states that Newton’s work is ‘concerned primarily with the associative nature of image and context’ and (it continues) the motto for his work and life is ‘watch where you’re walking’. An apposite sentiment, I thought, given the initiative (above) by the local council to remove chewing gum from the streets.

Stream of consciousness … (wpm?)

Thought I’d do some limbering up for nanowrimo (irritating acronym don’t you think?) … a literary workout. Used one of my shortlisted titles (previous post) as a prompt for a freewrite to see how much content it would generate. Managed to type 1223 words in 38 minutes. Worked out ’stream of consciousness’ peak flow at 31.57894736842 words per minute! As I copy type at 47 wpm I was quite cheered – thinking – maybe I can cope with a target of 2000 words a day.

Meanwhile on eve of gig in Berlin, eldest son posts message in German on my facebook wall, and as I don’t speak German I have no idea what it says. Cat flicked pile of red rubber bands up in the air. Next door neighbour informs me that shrimp harvesting in Morecambe Bay is declining as the seawater has become less salty because of the heavy rain. Suffer my own credit crunch as I unintentionally wash (my only) pound coin in the washing machine. It comes out slightly  battered, but at least it’s clean …

Masochist lured by nanowrimo

Up early … again (masochists never have a lie-in). So early that the hens haven’t got round to laying. Bring one egg home – instead of six. Fingers recovered from Writathon (Saturday) but mentally knackered. Managed 13 stories over 10 hours, but only 2000 words, the equivalent of walking a marathon. Broken three resolutions to myself (so far) today. The first – never even think about trying to write a novel; the second – never commit myself to something I might not realistically be able to achieve and the third? Promised myself I would never write about writing on this blog.

Oh well. Convinced myself I could write 2000 words a day for 30 days, then signed up to Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month). Persuaded (already over-committed) friend to do the same. Impetus to continue creative writing course I’ve signed up for immediately wanes. Spend afternoon googling prospective titles then dumping them. Add favourite authors to my ‘author’ profile: choose Haruki Murakami, Cesare Pavese, Heinrich Boll and Raymond Carver. Of course there are others but there’s not enough space to put them all.

Decide to ask children for advice. Flatter them that they are wise beyond their years (eldest says, ‘I really don’t think I’m very wise’). Could they advise their impetuous mother if she is really doing the right thing. Send them a bunch of titles to look at. Youngest says tonight he is going to a party followed by a ‘mighty boosh’. I ask what that is, and is Noel Fielding going? Emphasise I am only joking, but remain in the dark as to what he’s actually up to. Obviously he won’t be around to judge my titles. Eldest says he is ‘bound for Berlin’. As I thought he wasn’t going until Wednesday, ask if he is packed and ready to go. ‘No’, he says, ‘I must go and sort that out …’ Decide that I really am old enough to take responsibility for my own decisions; so I add a few ‘writing buddies’ to my profile, and get down to plotting my first novel. Well, at least I start thinking about it.