Conversations With My Sister.

Sister: They're rubbish aren't they?

We are In The Pub. It is our second drink, the one that ensures that Everything Makes Sense. Unless you are drinking with my sister.

Me: What?

Sis: Blokes.

We have some chat as to whether or not this is a sweeping statement or a blanket statement. After some consultation (two drinks remember) we decide it is a Magic Carpet statement. Something about sweeping under carpets and something else. It made sense at the time. It always does.

Me: What do you mean?

Sis: Well. You know.

It occurs to me that as she is happy to have this tentative conversation with me, I must not qualify as a 'bloke'.
In my sister's eyes, I am 'non-male'.

I am unsure as to whether this is good or bad. My sister has lots of fit mates. Does she also tell them that I am non-male?

Sis: [Suddenly brandishing mobile phone] I just got a bit of wee on my leg when I went to the toilet.

Me: I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING SEE THAT! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Sis: Keep your voice down. I've got a picture of the bridesmaid's dress I have to wear next week on my phone. I wouldn't take a picture of wee on my leg. Well. I would. But I wouldn't show it to you. You spastic.

Me: You can't say 'spastic'. It isn't funny anymore.

Sis: Yes it is.

Me: You've got me there.

I look at the picture.

Me: You actually look like a woman in that.

Sis: [As astonished as me] I know!

Me: Anyway.

Sis: Aye. Men. They're rubbish.

I have no great arguement. I spend three whole seconds thinking about all the great things men do, but they all centre around discovering the world is not flat and stuff. Things that do not ring true when you are talking to a woman.

Me: Ok.

Sis: I need a new challenge. A new game.

Me: Other than Men?

Sis: Aye.

Me: Honestly. You're worn out with the whole Men thing? You've done the lot?

Sis: Yeah.

I believe her.

Sis: They're just- You know. [I don't] So Easy. It's dead obviouse. They're really simple and boring. I get bored and then I break them.

We retire for a cigarette and I re-consider my Sister as we smoke.

Sis: What should I do?

Me: Well. You've discounted the male of our own species. Have you considered rattlesnakes?

Sis: [Suddenly resembling shit comic strip character 'Nemi' from rubbish Metro newspaper] Oooh.

There is some thought and some drinking.

Sis: Maybe that's setting my sights too high.

Me: What do you mean? In the whole 'come to me pretty snake, let me make you mine like I do all the boys OUCH oh you've BIT me and now I will DIE' way?

Sis: Yeah. Like that.

Me: Right.

Sis: Actually.

Me: What?

Sis: I need a shit.

Conversations With My Daughter.

Favourite Daughter is five years old.

I know not to succumb to her every whim and hint of affection. Because it is too easy for fathers. Too easy to sickenly dote upon our daughters. We are faced with a miniture version of the woman we first fell in love with but who has no adult faults and is essentially perfect.

And it is too easy to fall head-over-heels in love with these beautiful small women. And no good will ever come of such a scenario.

I am lucky however.

Favourite Daughter: [I have been kissing her neck] Get OFF.

I get OFF.

FD: You're prickly.

It's the weekend. I have not shaved.

She suddenly grabs my face with both hands and stares at me with the completely unselfconscious manner that only children possess. And I know my heart will break the minute she loses this ability.

FD: Some of your prickles in your beard are black, but LOADS are yellow! But most are silver.

Me: Em.

She peers at me a little longer. And alters the angle of her head. Her eyes go wide.

FD: You've got a beard IN YOUR NOSE!

Me: Right.

She shakes her head in astonishment.

And without warning pulls my bottom lip down.

FD: DADDY! Your TEETH are yellow TOO! But only the bottom ones. You know. The ones that are all crossed-over.

Me: Right.

And we continue our day.

Problem.

I know some things about computers.

In much the same way that men who have the original manual for their vehicle know some things about cars.

Which is essentially fuck all.

Last week. I lose my internet connection.

Grr.

ipconfig. All as should be.

/release /renew.

No difference.

Re-install the drivers for the network card. No joy.

Re-set the router. (Should have done that first. It's always the obvious things.) No.

Change cable. No.

192.168.0.1.

All as should be.

Hmm.

Device Manager still not too happy with one of the cards even though it is not in use.

Do you know what? Fuck it.

Age-old pc technician technique for fixing everything. Delete the partition and do a clean install. You cannot fail.

I have two hard-drives. One for the operating system and fuck all else, one for all documents of any sort.

When I ran fdisk to delete the drive, guess which one I deleted.


6 years gone. Fuck the pictures of my children and newborn son, there were some quite good blog stories about confrontations with tramps that smelt of wee that were lost.

Suffice to say, we're all going to have to wait until something actually interesting (unlike this post) happens to me. Which is rarely. I have to save things up usually.

Unless I get permission for a very amusing incident involving a hospital and an American singer popular in the early eighties.