So there I was at the kids school on Saturday. The Summer Fun Day providing another excuse for Master C to empty my pockets of change. In walks a former work colleague of mine. A guy who I knew pretty well when we worked together, he and his then girlfriend acted as witnesses at my wedding, we went to their wedding. We lost touch after he moved to London to work, but bumped into one another on the train a while back. He’d moved back up here to bring his kid up in Scotland. He and his missus had moved into the same town as us, and his kid is at the same school as ours. So far so good. Anyway, to Saturday, and another woman walks in behind him. She is introduced as his girlfriend and the conents of he pram she pushes, as his son.
I’m no prude, despite the fact that he was one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met and probably would’ve been the last person I’d imagine in this situation, he’s there. What went on in his marriage, I neither know, nor indeed care about. What it got me thinking about was whether or not I’m a curse.
I’ve been to a fair number of weddings in my time, particlarly in the period since I got married. The number of those marriages that are sill marriages is significantly lower. I counted four that are still existant, and two of those are less than two years old.
Now, my marriage is far from perfect. We have many issues to overome, and not so long ago, it wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch to see us split up. We certainly don’t stay together for the tax breaks, but neither do I judge those who can’t make it work. I just wonder, are we strange that we’ve managed to last almost 17 years? Do we doom our friends to divorce by accepting their wedding invite?
Life eh? What a tangled web it is….
You may have noticed the World Cup is about to start. I’m already getting world cup fatigue. It’s a peculiarly British thing, and comes from the strange conflict between nation and union. I use to be very much of the “Anyone But England” camp, but I like to think I’ve matured over the years, and from a strictly sports point of view, I reckon the whole of the UK could benefit from England winning the Cup and more especially the bid for hosting of 2018.
Where I still fall down is with all the attendant hoopla, hype and general ill informed forgetful punditry. Quotes like “The entire nation”, profligate use of “we”, the interminable corporate tie ins…..it goes on and on. These are the reasons we non-English in Britain like to see it all go breasts skyward. The shocked faces of the punditry teams, the near tearful voices of the commentators and of course all those hopelessly optimistic but now just funny confectionary wrappers. It’s just reward for confusing England with Britain.
I’m boycotting Mars, Kellogs, Tesco and especially Carlsberg. The last of these really should have more self respect, I mean, they’re Danish ffs, and Denmark are actually in the tournament!
I’m conflicted. Earlier this year I took the decision to stop playing cricket. The club needs a scorer, i quite enjoy doing it and thought it would be the ideal means to scratch the cricket itch without putting my aging, overweight frame through the rigours of playing and training..
Due to circumstances I’ve not been anywhere near the club yet this season. But, I’m home now, so that’s about to change. The problem I have is that given the number of player losses over the winter, the club finds it’s playing resources stretched. Our first team has lost 4 in a row, the seconds aren’t doing too well and the thirds, the time I was so recently a part of, have lost all 5 they’ve played so far. Relegation is not an option, and I find it hard to resist the thought of “riding to the rescue”….until the rational brain kicks in. I haven’t trained, I feel heavier than I did at seasons end last year, and to be brutally honest. Bowling doesn’t look like the week link on the team. They’ve held teams to decent totals and bowled sides out. Run scoring seems to be the issue, and for me, a bat is for leaning on. No, I should resist, I want to resist, I must resist…it’s the scorers hutch for me.