notes from
the MUCK . . .

How does your garden grow? With muck, muck and more muck! I spent much of today finishing the final muck box and then shifting muck from one box to the next. The first box, which the Big Lad is enthusiastically pointing out, has been rotting down for two years now and once we’d removed the top quarter of unrotted material, we found we’d hit the pay dirt.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Singing for England




Since leaving Charlottesville this past Summer I have not played a game of poker. This has come as quite a blow to my sense of being as, for a long time, it was a lot of things to me;the one time in the week when I knew I would go out socially, the one time i knew I would have a little drinky poos (Champaigne of beers all the way)...and of course the one time i got to play poker. Ok, only 3 things, but they meant a lot. It was with a heavy heart I left the selected venue, knowing that a week would pass before I was sitting down trying to contain my glee at getting dealt a Jack 6 before having said glee quashed by people who actually had something and resolving to be cautious from now on in, until I get dealt pocket 6s. a one way ticket from joy to the dull throbbing reality that it is my poker game. Repeat for around 5 hours, mingle with fine conversation, beer, cigars and alter egos and you have yourself a friday night.

In the meantime I have football; a sport which made me cry when Diego Maradona handballed the ball into the back of the England net...see above and right. We lost the game, and I cried. Some days later I saw a picture much like the one above (I really hope it came out) clearly showing Maradona handling it. "Great" I thought, this will mean the game will be replayed, we'll learn from our mistakes and win. Or, even better, as Argentina went onto win the tournament we would just be given the World Cup. If you've never seen the trophy, it is beautiful.


Again, I hope it appears here...this is my first time doing a blog post...Note the hands clamouring to touch it...these are professionals who have lived most of their lives winning games, and being the best players. They don't know what it is like to be the person out of breath 3 minutes into a game looking to get substituted because their ankle slightly hurts and their thighs are chaffing. They take victory in their stride, they have had numerous ticker tape parades in their honour, had trophies named after them, always been the cool kid who got the girl/boy they wanted, been given the key to several cities (good ones at that), and some are voted to be president of their country after they hang up their boots. This type of life is normal to these people; they view being carried of the field in a sea of adoring fans, jumping into a bath full of supermodels,attracting more crowds than any dictator history cares to conjour up the same way you or I treat eating toast in the morning. And here they are, fighting just to touch this trophy. THAT'S why I cried. Incidentally, more people now associate Argentina with this game, or more importantly, that goal than they do the Falklands War. We also begrudge Germans more for beating us in numerous tournaments than for various wrong doings in not one but TWO wars.

And so I return to football...we are awkward around each other, glad to see each other but i miss my poker, and I know football looks down on me for abandoning it for so long.

Well, I have digressed too much. Incidentally I saw someone pusing their kids in a pram which was built for two, no suprise there, usually the two kids are side by side, but not here. One was in front of and on top of the other, so one kid got to look out on the world passing by while the other was staring up at the back of his (or her, I din't get a good look) seat. Way to make your child feel unwanted number one i think.