I blame the Magnolia Bakery

There is a sweet smell throughout the house. Every horizontal surface in the kitchen seems to be a little sticky. And there's enough white powder floating about the place to get the Colombian Army marching to the moon and back.

Katie's been baking again. She's agreed to produce cakes for our friends' wedding tomorrow. A few years ago this wouldn't have been a problem. You'd make a little cake, a medium cake, a large cake. And maybe a larger cake, if you wanted to go really wild. Icing, decoration, place them on top of each other like a sugary ziggurat, and Bob's your uncle.

But these days the individual cake is the fashion. Which is why I encountered the following when I opened the fridge this evening:


Yes, they're vanilla cupcakes with frosting. But there's something ever-so-slightly menacing about them, don't you think? Like a confectionery army.

I had to close the fridge door as I could feel myself contracting diabetes just by standing there.

Heavy duty

What we will, inevitably, refer to in the future as Boxgate started as I arrived home this evening.

"Oh," said Katie innocently, "I took a delivery at work today for something I'd ordered. It's in the boot of my car, could you nip out and bring it in for me?"

"OK," I replied, skipping lightly out to the driveway. But as I approached the car, I wondered to myself. What has she ordered this time? Why does she need me to come and get it. Should I be worried?

I approached the car, remote control alarm plipper thingy in hand. What was I expecting to see there? Something scary? A Great White Shark?

Don't be silly. How could you fit a fully grown Great White in the back of a Mini? Oh, of course. Put the back seats down.

Plip. Open the hatch. Oh my God.

It's OK, I thought, it's just a box. But quite a big one. In fact, it's fair to say, bloody huge. Essentially, it would seem, my darling wife had simply driven home on a large cardboard box, with the functional bits of a car wrapped tightly around it.

I tried lifting the box. After a few seconds, lights started to appear before my eyes and my breathing was getting laboured. I went back into the house.

"How did you get that into your car? Did you, perchance, get them to leave it in the car park at work, then reverse towards it at high speed with your boot open?"

A small voice. "I might have used a trolley."

Eventually, after having mined a whole new seam of swearing, I got the box into the house. "What, exactly, is it?" I gasped.

"It's a food mixer."

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. I must have been asleep at that meeting where we agreed we were going into the catering industry."

"Don't be a pillock. This is a Kenwood. I've wanted one of these for ages."

"That's lucky, because I wanted a double hernia, and lo and behold..."

You'd be amazed how sharp a dough-hook can be to the back of the head.

The rain god

In his book So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish, Douglas Adams briefly introduced us to a character called Rob McKenna. Known by his few friends as 'The Rain God,' McKenna, a lorry driver by trade, noticed that he was always being rained upon. The clouds seemed to love him, to want to be near him, to nurture and water him.

This made him quite a thoughtful fellow.

He kept a log of the perpetual downpour, listing all of the 231 different types of rain that he had encountered. He didn't like any of them. Eventually he made his fortune by hiring his services out to holiday resorts. He would charge them not to go there, thus keeping them rain-free.

I mention this because I think a little McKenna-ness has rubbed off on to me.

This afternoon I went out for a walk. It's something I've been doing more and more these days, as I attempt to get myself into shape. Or, rather, away from the shape I'm currently in. Circular is a shape, just not a particularly healthy one.

So I parked my car at the Heron's Nest, pulled on my walking boots and headed up the Grand Union Canal towpath in a vague northerly direction. The sun was out, the sky was blue. Narrowboats chugged along, families strolled past. And I was getting a few funny looks.

Everyone else was dressed for the weather. Shorts and t-shirts, floaty summer dresses for the ladies. There had been an outbreak of sandals. But I was wearing the Big Clumpy Boots. I had on my walking trousers and my special technical t-shirt designed to wick away moisture. (This latter item would later end up being ironic enough to qualify for an Alanis Morrissette lyric.) And I had a backpack.

At that point I must admit I looked a little out of place. And yet I strode on. Past the flight of locks at Knowle, ascending a gentle slope like a watery staircase. People smiled and said hello. Anglers sat at the bankside, carefully drowning worms. Things got a bit quieter until I was the only person around. I walked up to the Copt Heath Wharf, the M42 motorway above me a dull roar.

And then there was a little spot of moisture on my face. I walked on. Then another. And, quite soon, some more. The surface of the canal became a network of rapidly widening circles.

I was more than an hour from where I'd started, in open countryside. And it was raining. Bugger.

I slipped under a bridge and opened my backpack. All was not lost. I had a ham and mustard sandwich. But not only that! I also had a waterproof packaway jacket. I ate the former and put the latter on. It seemed the most logical approach to take.

I started back, swathed in Smug. The sandal-wearers were now struggling somewhat. They were scattering, running for what little cover they could find. I splashed through puddles, the raindrops bouncing off my jacket.

But then the rain got heavier. It was hooning down. It was like stair-rods. Even the ducks were getting a little tense about the whole situation. And there's nothing more depressing than a tense duck, let me tell you.

It was at this point that I realised that although my jacket was borderline waterproof, my trousers were not.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say that they were the very opposite of waterproof. My trousers were making me a current-day Rain God. I experienced all types of rain in that hour. The rain that gets in your eyes. That trickles down your back. That clings to the inside of your thighs. I was not having a high old time of it.

And then the thunder.

People who know about such things will tell you that you never hear the thunder before you're hit by lightning. Let me tell you, this is no help. This just means that the absence of thunder becomes very worrying. Particularly if you're the lone high-point in a particularly flat bit of landscape.

Eventually the rain lessened slightly, from Biblical to JustNotFunnyAnyMore. I squelched onwards. I came back to my car, now hemmed in by others, and played the 'Let's try not to get any moisture into the car' game. I failed miserably.

Sitting behind the wheel, I punched the button for the radio, only to hear a song by American band Puddle of Mudd. Ah ha bloody ha.

Oh, to be in England now that Spring is here.

To be a rock and not to roll

The admission I'm going to make may shock you. It might shake the very foundations of your belief in me as an intelligent, thoughtful person. It could indeed disturb you to the very core.

It's something I've kept from family, from friends. I've held it inside for so long that it's become a part of me. I can hold my tongue no longer. Here it comes. Don't judge me.

I don't agree with the opinion that says Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven is a great song.

There, I've said it. I hope we can still be friends despite my clearly aberrant views. I suspect I'll have to surrender my membership of the Child of the Seventies Club, however. I shall hand back my tanktop.

Don't get me wrong, I am a fan of the afore-mentioned Zeppelin and most of their works. It's just that 'Stairway', probably their best known track, is not, in my opinion, their greatest work. For me, it's not even the best track on the Led Zep 4 album.

To a lot of people, in the last couple of hundred words I've done the equivalent of shooting Bambi's mother. People have asked for this song to be played at their funerals. Many have had that poster on their university bedroom wall - the one with the weird druidic figure and the symbols. I've heard of people having the final verse tattooed across their backs. I don't expect them to agree with me.

It's not as if it's a bad song. It really isn't, although there's a little too much flute at the beginning and the lyrics tick both of the following boxes:

Hippy [ ]
Dippy [ ]

However, it was the early 70's and so we must be charitable.

No, what really grates with me about the song is the mythology that's built up around it. Apparently it's being played on a radio station somewhere in the world all the time. Hopefully not the same station. Before I started writing this I googled the phrase I used for the title - just one line of lyrics from the song. It featured on over 99million web pages globally. 99 million! Folks, please. Its. Just. A. Song.

The problem is, most well-established bands end up with a Stairway in their repertoire. The one song that even non-fans know. The ones that hang around despite their best efforts to do other, better things. The ones that people shout out for at concerts. The ones that I bloody hate. Let's have some examples:

• Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody. Good God, no.
  
• Black Sabbath - Paranoid. It's like a heavy metal novelty track. Make it stop, please.
• Deep Purple - Smoke on the Water. Gets you thrown out of a guitar shop in double-plus time.
• Lynryd Skynryd - Freebird. Essentially it's Stairway but with more Jack Daniels and a longer solo.
  
• The Who - Won't Get Fooled Again. Oh, actually I really like this one.

The thing is, I grew up listening to the bands above and still love, in a way that is rather scary, some 99% of their output. But they've all got a Stairway.

Right, I've opened up to you all. My undoubted heresy might be the undoing of me. If I actually had any readers left by now I would now be expecting a tirade in the comments. What can I say? It makes me wonder.

Pay Another Day

Bond strode purposefully towards the workshop, pausing only to cast his homburg at the hat stand in the corner with pin-point accuracy.

“Ah Commander Bond,” announced a voice from the doorway, irascible and hurried. “There you are at last. How good of you to grace us with your presence.”

Bond regarded the older man. “Good morning Q. What have you been working on for me this time?”

“Come on through to the Armoury, Bond, and we’ll see what’s what.”

Stepping through the threshold, Bond regarded the familiar low-ceilinged workshop. The white-coated assistants bustling around, weaponry clamped down for bench-testing, a low shape at the far end covered with a grey dustsheet.

“I see nothing much has changed, Q.”

“Don’t you believe it, 007.”

Bond raised a quizzical eyebrow as the Q continued.

“We’re operating in straightened circumstances, don’t you know.”

“Straightened circumstances?”

“Pay attention, Bond,” Q sounded exasperated. “Don’t you ever read the newspapers? There’s a financial crisis afoot. We can’t be seen to be spending willy-nilly, even at MI6. The papers would have a field day. Sometimes I wish the Cold War was still on.”

Bond wasn’t giving his Quartermaster the benefit of his full attention. Instead, he focused on a ballpoint pen held in a jeweller’s vice. “Hullo, what’s this?” he asked as he loosened the vice and held the instrument aloft.

“Hmmm? Oh, Bond. Please don’t touch that.”

“What have we here?” Bond waved away Q’s protests. “No, don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s a location finder. No, a laser device, perhaps. Or maybe some form of dart gun? What if I pull this switch on the barrel?”

“Then you will find that you’re writing with black ink instead of blue. Look, Bond, sometimes a pen is just a pen. Like I’ve been trying to tell you, times are hard.”

“Just a pen, eh? Well, I suppose it’s mightier than the sword,” Bond sniffed.

“We’re in a different world, Bond. You can’t act like you have in the past.”

“I suppose I can rely on my trusty firearm. My Walther PPK?”

“Sorry, Bond, that’s had to go. Do you know how pricey those things are? Here, you’ll have to use this instead,” he grunted as he heaved over a hessian sack.

“What’s in there?” asked an incredulous Bond.

“Honda 750 motorcycle chain. One of the most devastating close-combat weapons known to man. No, don’t interrupt me, Commander. Think yourself lucky. 006 has had to make do with a Super Soaker. 008 is getting a length of two-by-four next week. It’s the financially responsible way.”

Bond motioned towards the shape nestling under the dustsheet. “I see you’ve been working on some transport for me, though.”

“Ah, yes, we’re quite proud of that one. Stand on that side while I remove the covers.”
Bond allowed his eyes to rest on the bodywork. “What.....is that?”

“That, Commander, is a Ford Fiesta. A 2003 model. We got a very good deal.”

“But what about the Aston Martin?”

“Have you any concept of cost, Commander? To say nothing of the insurance. You lost your no-claims bonus years ago – you’re not exactly the safest of drivers, Bond. The depreciation alone made M weep.”

“But...”

“Now pay attention. The Fiesta gets good mileage, has plenty of room in the back and is actually quite nippy around town. Think of the Benefit In Kind tables.”

“But I can hardly pull up to the Ritz in Monaco in one of these, can I?”

“Ah, that’s the next bit of news,” said Q. “Overseas travel is a definite no-no at the moment, I’m afraid. Your next assignment is to Swindon.”

“Swindon? But I normally arrive at my jobs by seaplane or mountain pass. Tootling down the M4 just won’t be the same.”

“Bond, you’re going to have to face reality. Times are hard. We can hardly afford to have you swanning around the world, quaffing vodka martinis. We’ve had to make Miss Moneypenny redundant; her job’s now being performed by a Call Centre in Mumbai. If you don’t want to be next, you’re going to have to tighten your belt a bit.”

Bond’s steely eyes narrowed as he turned away. He was the best. In his time he’d faced down all enemies, from the Stasi to SMERSH, renegade nuclear scientists to megalomaniac media barons. But there was one thing he couldn’t beat. The Accounts Department. Were they trying to force him out? He turned back to Q.

“Do you expect me to walk?”

“No, Bond, I expect you to get receipts.”

On being grown up and responsible

Yesterday morning, at about 3:30am, my phone chirruped at me from the bedside table. Confused as only the suddenly-awake can be, I looked at the new message, put the phone back down and laid my head on the pillow.

But things had changed. The message was telling me that I had become an uncle. Well, if we're being accurate, it was actually informing me of the birth of brother number one's daughter, but you get the point. (On a related point, it is now technically impossible to buy anything coloured pink from shops in the Birmingham area. That'll be my mom's fault. Sorry about that).

So now what? I've never been an uncle before. What's the drill - do I have particular responsibilities to fulfil? And if I get my uncling wrong (that's the right term, isn't it?) do I get reported to OFUNC? Brother number two and I probably need to get our heads together on this one.

I'm tempted by the role of Fun Uncle. You know the deal - show up, get my niece all wound up, fill her with e-numbers and fizzy pop, then hand her back to her doting parents as they look daggers at me. I can be the one to tell her, when she's old enough to understand, about all the cringeworthy things her dad has done in the past. This may take some time.

At some point at a family event in the distant future, I will be required to dance really badly, mortally embarrassing the poor child. I think I've got this one covered.

The good thing is that I'll have an excuse to go and see kids' movies. It's considered bad form for grown adults to see Disney on their own. The bad news is that my niece may want taking to whatever is the equivalent of Hannah Montana in 14 years time. I know blood is thicker than water, but there are limits, you know.

Of course, there is a serious aspect to all of this. For instance, I'm reliably informed that uncles are supposed to be wise and fair. To provide advice and support to the child, to give moral guidance and help them navigate this difficult world.

Oh blimey. Pass the Pepsi.

A stain on my character

We like to put people into categories, don't we? Gender, religion, social class. These are all important. But when it comes down to it, there are fundamentally only two types of person on the planet.

Spiller. And non-spiller. I fall quite heavily into the first group.

However hard I try, whatever I eat will do its level best to decorate my clothing. Thick sauces are the worst. Like a salmon drawn to the river source, anything that started out on my food will find its way onto me. It's magnetic attraction.

You can, if you examine my wardrobe, quite easily map out my dietary history. There are some things that a warm wash cycle just won't shift. The period when we went all Italian? Look, here's evidence of balsamic vinegar on my polo shirt. That Thai phase? I swear I can detect red curry paste on that sleeve.

Other people seem to be perfectly capable of putting food and drink in their mouths. Oh, how I envy these paragons of gastronomy, their clothing untainted by custards, gravies or stews.

I try to argue that it's some form of diet - after all, if the calories don't make their way into my system, they're not going to hit my hips. This doesn't wash with Katie. If you'll pardon the pun.

It came to a head last night. We were at a Really Quite Posh event. I was tuxedo'd to the maximum. Bow tie, dress shirt, the full shebang. Here is photographic evidence:

This photo is officially referred to as BME. Or Before the Mustard Event.

Despite the surroundings, the event and the formality, I spilled. Despite the fact that I was sat next to my wife and opposite my mother, I spilled. Despite the fact that I was wearing a quite expensive Daniel Hechter dress shirt, I spilled.

English mustard is surprisingly yellow, isn't it?