A stiff space-bar can take all the fun out of typing.

There are no take-aways in Bretherton, at least not that I can see, not even a chippy. So the people who live there have to plan their tea every day, or get in a car. That's a big responsibility to take on as a human being, to never be able to just 'not be arsed'. It's troubling.

My world is full of little nuggets like these, tit bits, if you will (should that be tid bits? tit bits sounds more fun). Little happenings or noticings that, while not being entirely uninteresting in themselves, are neither big nor developed enough to become a tale to tell. You can't entertain your mates or impress a girl by telling them that there are no take-aways in a village they've likely never heard of and that this makes you feel for the local residents. At very best it shows your compassionate side, at very least is tells them you're a fatty at heart, but whichever way, it's gonna have most people's eyes darting round the room looking for someone better to talk to.

For instance, just from today I could relate the tale of how the hesitations of a learner driver left me stranded at the lights and embarrassingly placed in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, or how I got replies to every text I'd sent during the day in the same 2 minute spell, whilst obviously I was driving. Or I could spin the saga of my seat-of-the-pants run to the loo roll shop and back that could have gone devastatingly wrong at any moment. This is all good solid stuff, for at least 2 sentences, but it's not going to win me a congratulatory pint or a journey to the centre of some knickers.

It's a shame.

I moved house recently, I guess that's probably the interesting thing I should talk about. I've moved house lots of times though, and as with most things in life, each repetition is less interesting than the last, less to learn, less surprises, pretty much just more humping stuff up and down stairs. I did rediscover my love for the feeling that physical labour gives you, and how much better that first pint at the end of the day feels when you've actually earned it, but that's really about as much blood as I can get from that particular stone.

What I have done is moved back in with myself, as opposed to sharing with a friend. Now it comes as no surprise that by-my-self is my natural state of living, as a great devotee of 'the easy life' it just seems the logical way to live. But I have to confess that it is taking a little getting used to this time round, and I'm very worried about my Pro Evo form suffering.


It's probably worth noting that while writing this I am also shouting at my TV screen. Grand Designs is the program, these people commissioned a beautiful layered wooden staircase that was built by an artist as a sculpture, took 4 months to build and cost £40,000. Then they painted it, matt white, the whole thing. If I'd been the artist I'd have torched it where it stood as soon as the first layer went on. Very annoying.

Somebody has painted the wooden beams in this flat too, the ones I continually bang my head against as I fail to get used to the fact that I now live in a slope-roofed loft conversion, that, whilst a very nice space to be in, can be hazardous for the tall and dim-witted. They've painted them a kind of stone colour though, so it's ok mostly, and the huge skylights that let me look at the moon, and anyone on the roof, more than make up for it. They've also left in a handy metal arch thing, should I ever feel the need to hang myself, which is nice.