Monday, cloudy Monday, and the temperature has fallen through the floor. The first day of being promoted to full cheffery. That's right, Jen's passing on the mantle of head chef to me, as she'll start working evenings from today. Cripes! Eee gad! Other traditional signs of shock and surprise that I can't think of right now! I have to learn to cook! For years I have subsisted on preparation, but now I have to actually make stuff from base ingredients. Not that I'm particularly sexist about this, forcing Jen for all this time to be the one who made meals, it's just that she's a lot better at these things than I am. She's a natural. I'm not. So we came to an agreement that I would do the easy bits, she would do all the stuff that required some level of intuition and technical ability. Now that's all gone belly up with the job thing happening. Burns unit here we come...

The more I think about it, the more I come to the realisation that I simply don't like blogs that make any kind of statement. Mine included...

It's all out of shape, and I don't understand why. The music was right this morning, but that has to have been a fluke, I think. Everything else feels odd and wrong, and not right. I feel as though the bottom has fallen out of things, especially my stomach, but I don't know why. I need kind words from one who isn't a stranger at all, and I sit waiting for them to come, spiralling downwards into introspective hell. Maybe I should have another blog, one where my thoughts are tangential, and it doesn't really matter what they say as long as it sounds cool.
And as I write, as though telepathy had forced her hand, the kind words come. I am happy, I am resolved. I am in serious need of a decent meal, because it's been more than 12 hours since I ate most of a huge plate of food. I need to learn to eat, lots. I wouldn't want to say I was clinically underweight, but, well, I am.
I need artwork, too, the kind that is permanent and means something. It's a matter of getting it done, but I haven't. I need to ring people, but I can't. Maybe next week. Like everything else in my life.

So I went to Australia and became Uncle Tom, climbed the Harbour Bridge, watched it get blown up at midnight on NYE (the only TLA I really find useful), and found a baseball cap I can live with at the zoo. It's mostly plastic. Jen was there too, lucky me, because she's the sheild I put between the world and me. I missed Christmas with my family, they missed Christmas with me, and we won't be doing that again in a hurry. Well, not for at least another 23 months. I shall gain new glasses soon, and since the insurance company were kind enough to honour my claim, I'll also gain all the camera equipment back that was stolen. I shall honour you all with a new picture. Though maybe not of the glasses, they aren't that interesting. The cat came back, though I think a little miffed, as she immediately punished me by going AWOL for a few days, scaring the wotsit out of me, if I'm brutally honest. She's happy again now, though. I think. The fish were in their own little private world of golfishiness, behind a screen of algae so thick I thought someone had painted the tank. They hadn't. The fish can see again now. Wrinkly fingers. Have dinosaurs, too. 48 of them, 24 individual designs, each repeated. The top of my monitor is like Jurassic Park or something. Not strictly to scale, or in keeping with the actual periods, but who cares? So close to that tattoo, that one I've been thinking about for ages. The one that really, genuinely, honestly means something important to me. Need to do some work, some designing. But first I have to write weird things on thin strips of card. Take care of yourselves, and each other.

I was going to explain my absence, but what would that achieve? So instead I'll tell you random things and maybe you can join that together into some kind of sensible story. I managed to find the right kind of notepad. Thanks Jen, wouldn't have been able to do that without you. It makes all the difference to have the right one. I know I have a million and one places to write stuff down, but not all of them are the right place. I really need to organise all the notebooks and stories I have dotted about the place. Maybe next year. Anyway, the new book is perfect, and already filling up with the great story about Lowell and York, and a few other people. You'll like this one, I can tell. In other news, I still haven't worked out how to get a return in this edit pane without sending the blog, so you'll be reading a really huge paragraph. My Burton snowboarding catalogue turned up, about four million years after I asked for it. I had horrible thoughts about what fate might have befallen it, but no, it was fine. Just very, very late. None of my friends actually read this blog, so I can safely say that my bananas are going to have eyes. Once again, thanks have to go to Jen for the idea. Genius. And the vines are going to look so cool, it's a shame most of the world won't see them. Still, those who care, the cult of the monkey, will see, understand and appreciate. And I think the parrot will like it. He's been a bit bored and lonely on top of the palm tree for a while now, and even though we draped a bit of black fabric over his head recently, I think he still craves attention. Bit of new scenery should make him happier. Of course, the question that must be on none of your lips is "what about the alpine scenery?". And my answer to that is, well, I don't really have an answer. I'm asking everyone to perhaps imagine we're in a jungle near the alps. Could happen, you never know what surprises global climate change will throw up next. So I think that's all I wanted to say right now. Actually, I didn't want to say anything, but there's this little nagging voice in the back of my head that says I shouldn't be so bloody lazy about everything. Time to buck up, kiddo.
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O, so that really didn't work, did it? Failed to send the links with the text, and failed to send any apostrophes either. Oh well. The links are as follows: tree disussion can be found at http://www.webmesh.co.uk/nativetrees.htm, and picture can be found at http://fantasies-end.com/ff/xii/images/art/art-02.jpg. Sorry, you'll have to do a bit of cutting and pasting since I appear to be rubbish at all things net related.
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As I was walking through the park this morning, it occurred to me quite how much I despise English cities. Although I went to school in what was technically a London borough, and one of the worst at that, I lived for the majority of my childhood in a village high on the North Downs. It was a great place to grow up, really, and one that instilled in me a love of the countryside. Trees and grass and animals are fantastic, and the park on the way in is a little haven in the concrete jungle that is Sheffield. Except that it�s not quite right. I can still hear all the traffic in the background, and when I close my eyes and put on my mp3 player, the grass doesn�t feel right beneath my feet. I can�t put my finger on exactly why, but it all feels wrong. Perhaps some prehistoric sixth sense can feel the vibrations from the traffic, or perhaps it�s just that the turf I�m walking across is so overworked, and the grass an imported variety. Why import grass? The stuff we have here is bloody good stuff. Why else would we be so good at livestock?
And when you emerge from the park, it just gets worse. Here and there are valiant attempts at greenery, but all fall short of the mark. Yesterday, as I walked past a caf� that is having a patch of earth which skirts around its front �landscaped�, I saw that an acer had been planted. Acers are commonly known as Japanese maple, and really are fantastic looking trees. But not a native variety. Surely it would have been more productive to plant a tree that is proven to do well in our environment, than one that will need nurturing until it has grown strong enough to survive on its own, in ten years� time. I suppose I just don�t understand the point of a garden unless it�s as natural as it is possible to be. A garden should be a reflection of the countryside, constantly on the verge of being as wild as the environment it has replaced. But city gardens are, typically, anything but. I�m of the opinion that a city garden should be even closer to nature than its counterpart in the countryside, just because that sense of wilderness is so far detached when you live in the city.
Now, I�m aware that all this is slightly flawed as a concept. In theory (and in fact) most of the English countryside is an import if you delve far enough into the past. It would be reasonable to argue that the introduction of foreign planting has led to the countryside we have today. Reasonable, but rather pointless, I think. It�s ok to deal in ideals all the time, if all you ever wants is dreams. But this is a reality, and the line has to be drawn somewhere. So, what counts as native? I would say anything that was here before 1000AD is a native species. There�s quite a good article here discussing native and non-native trees, and the list of true natives really comes up quite short. I wouldn�t be that harsh, but I like the way it�s been handled.
So I suppose I should sum this up and get to the point. Well, there isn�t much of a point, is there? It�s not as though we really have the opportunity to change anything, is it? I would love to see every possible square inch of London�s rooftops covered in the green stuff, with more spilling out of the sides of the buildings all the way down, but it�ll never happen, and I can sort of accept that. I love the imagery behind this artwork , and I suppose that one day I hope the world�s cities resemble it, but it�s fantasy. It�s from a game called Final Fantasy XII. So not reality, then, nor is it ever likely to be. I just wish our cities were a little more like that, and a little less like, well, cities.
That�s quite enough from me right now, I�m getting incoherent.

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Ok, one more, I couldn't resist...
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One last one: me and the cat, who, for some reason known only to her, loves to be draped across my shoulders
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A nice bridge with a canal boat next to it, somewhere near Oxford
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