Enforced hiatus

After saying I would get back to posting regularly, once again, a long break, but it's not my fault, I've been a guest of the NHS.

My appendix went, bloody painful it was too. I was lucky enough to have a private room for my stay, and through all the horror stories of the NHS, I have nothing but praise for the level of care I received. The only downside was that the food was minging, but as I was on nil by mouth for a fair while, it was no great hardship.

I've never had a general anasaetic before, and I'll be in no great hurry for another, that and the morphine afterwards made me feel like shit. I couldn't have keyhole surgery as the appendix was behind my bowel, so I've ended up with a whacking great scar, but fair do's to the surgeon, it's very neat.

So, now I'm recovering at home, can't drive, can't do sodding anything, and I am bored shitless.

Checking in

I'm alive.

Very much so.

Made mental note to self, must start blogging again.

The puppy in the photo is now just gone one, and stark raving bonkers, but adorable. Her energy levels are remarkable, so she gets loads of walks and also goes running with A a few times a week. Seems to do the trick as she spends most of the evening passed out in front of the fire. The ginger boy remains hugely uninpressed as does his partner in purrs.

Had a pretty good summer. We had a good week in a very rural and untouristy part of northern Portugal. Big quiet beaches and great swimming. Due to the rest of the summer weather being shite, apart from our weekend at The Big Chill, we decided we needed more sun, so spent the half term just gone in a quaint farmhouse on the island of Gozo. A bit pricey, but great to get some sun and sea swimming when it's constantly pissing down here.

My work life couldn't be better. Just had my best year since starting, and hopefully moving to new premises.

We're still going through the arse achingly wanky business of trying to sell our house. It does somewhat bring you to the conclusion that there's a fair few people who are in general, rather cunty. We've now lost two houses that we wanted to buy through not having sold ours. It's difficult because our criteria limits us, we want to stay in the village we live in, in a bigger house. Lots of reasons, the main one being we're all happy there which I think is a biggy.

Boy number 1 continues to shine. House captain and school prefect. Don't know where those genes came from. Neither his mother nor I were ever considered remotely responsible enough for such lofty positions. Boy 2 is still gorgeous, and still doing his best to give the local teaching profession collective nervous breakdowns. More of that at another time.

I might even see if I can get back to a few posts a week.

Blimey.

This gorgeous woofa is the latest addition to the Gumpher household. She's been here since November. Officially she's a Sprocker, although I prefer Cockspring.

The ginger chap, as you may tell from his expression, remains mightily unimpressed.

And as the six nations starts this weekend, Wales, by feckin loads, hear me now .

My youngest son takes on an almost zen like state when he's flying a kite, and being a five year old, can say things that make life seem so much better.

'Y,know Dad, this is the life, just you and me, flying a kite on Bredon hill'.

I'll be away from here for a bit. I've been dipping in and out, which is not how I want to blog.

Lots on the mind.When I start blogging again, I'll be clear.

'Sup, as the kids said. Years ago.

What to blog and when to blog it. I have lots to express ( none of it breast milk) but at the moment this is not the place to let it out, for my own foolishness.

Ahem.

Life is odd, and I'm not in the best place. I've cocked my frontal quad again, which means no sport, and that gets me arsey, a kind of locked up feeling.

I have a work problem. A few years ago ( look at the archives, if you truly can be arsed) I sold a business which I'd had in partnership with another chap for a few years. I made a few key mistakes.

We sold the premises. Pure twatishness. New business park, designed by me ,next to the M5. Oh, the joys of hindsight. But , we both felt the need for the clean break, and taking the money.

Then, I took a long time off. Mortgage, family, a few expensive holidays, as our colonial cousins say, you do the math. Chuck a couple of nice cars in, and some work to the house, and, adios. You forgot the tax bill, you fucking retard.

New business, one fantastic client. One, I hear you cry, nope, they rely on me as much as I do on them. But a few years in, it's all odd. They're an oil company, the place to be in these times.

I wanted to be at home more, with A and the boys, pulling reasonable money. But now I'm pulling more than reasonable money, but struggling. Working too hard, getting as stressed as I was before.

What a fucking whinge.

But so ?

I can make choices, and I'm not sure that I make the right ones sometimes.

I'm not that happy, although I should be, and I don't know the reason for this.

I'm usually very positive, and very in control, but my mind is partial to distractions that probably are not that good for me at this time

I have just had an absolute dog's arsehole of a day.

The situation with boy 2 and school has escalated to a totally unacceptable level ,and A and I are angry and upset. Boy 2 is confused, and unusually unsure. I may blog more when I have collected my thoughts, I might post the letter I've written to the head.

Then my car car broke down, and the hire company have given me a hideously shite and uncomfortable Mundano which I might have to drive to Wigan, Newbury and Stoke.

My fucking Blackberry has just dinged three times on the email bleep, and I really can't be arsed to look.

I've just finished story time with the boys, and am sat here on my jack, as A has gone to the cinema with chums.

To cheer myself up, I'm going to do something spiffy with scallops and chorizo and swill it down with a Chilean Sauvignon.

To get some perspective back, one of my closest pals mum has finally succeeded in drinking herself to death at the age of 57.

Happy days.

Yay, we've finally got a date sorted out for a holiday. Back to Portugal this year, the wallet won't take another trip to Thailand.

We're going to try the Silver Coast, just above Lisbon for a change. Found a tidy looking villa with a big pool in a small town about ten minutes from the coast. Should be off mid August. hopefully we'll be able to manage a few days in Italy as well. I love the lakes, stunning scenery, and swimming in Lake Como is bliss.

Two more days in Peterborough and then it's finished. Final fit out tomorrow, and then meet the client on Monday for the handover. No more up and down the A14. Delivered bang on time, and sort of on budget . Will now be swapping A14 for M5, as we started a six week project in Cornwall.

Fucking Cornwall, in July and August. I may get stuck in the odd jam. Much as I am fortunate to have such a fantastic client, I wish they'd buy a company closer to home, just once. It's Wigan next. Now that is some kind of shit hole. Sorry if anyone's from Wigan, but Paris in the spring it ain't

School report day.

I am not happy.

Boy 1. Proud as a Dad could be. He tries hard and gets his just rewards. But, he has to put in the e effort, it doesn't really come naturally, apart from his imagination, which is wonderful. Well done C.

Boy 2.

A class of 13, with a teacher and an assistant. We told them. Devil, idle hands etc.

We don't tolerate it when he misbehaves, but they do. It's pathetic, when she speaks, the kids can't hear, but dogs go mental.

I am sick of telling him off, of depriving the things he likes, not getting his £1.50 a week pocket money because he's not got enough ticks for the week.

HE'S FIVE YEARS FUCKING OLD, AND HE HAS A BRAIN THE SIZE OF SATURN.

I know this, because I'm his father, and also I'm not stupid, and I can see the pros and cons in my boys without being introspective.

I am fucking pissed off.

We're good people.

We've got good kids.

We recognise their failings, and address them.

Sorry.

Angry.

My boys are not perfect, but they are damn fine individuals, because that is the way they were raised, and I am proud to be their Father.

Not sure this gets across what I feel, but, my word I love them.

Knife crime

The stats for knife crime in London this year are astonishing.

Back in more simple times, I carried a knife, as did most of my friends. It was a beauty. A four inch sheath knife with a smooth wooden handle. I bought it from the tackle shop in the small seaside town I grew up in. I saved up my pocket money for ages, and would regularly check the shop window to make sure that it remained unsold. When I finally had the money, I strolled contentedly out of the shop, with the sheath attached to my belt. It's uses ? Gutting fish I'd caught whilst mucking around in boats on the estuary, random whittling, and a rather daft game called the splits.

I was ten years old when I bought it, and it's still knocking around the bottom of my tool kit.

I know it sounds a bit extreme, but I am glad that we're not bringing up our kids in a large city. Some of the acts of violence seem quite random, and that I find frightening. On the other hand, the boys are growing up leading an existence that is so far removed from city life, and that too has its dangers. We live in a prosperous village, all the kids at school are 'nice' kids from 'nice' families. It's an idyllic childhood, but a sheltered one, and one that I am not sure prepares them for what can be out there in the wider world. We try to make them aware that life generally is not as easy as the one they currently have, but I'm not that sure that it gets through, they're only eight and five. I suppose it's about finding the right balance.

How on earth do you cope with a police officer knocking on the door to tell you that the child you have adored from the moment they were born has been stabbed to death ? I cannot imagine how the parents of these children have dealt with the meaningless end to their child's life.

Listening to London teenagers on 5 Live's phone in on knife crime this morning was depressing. It left me with the feeling that I'm living on a different planet to them, not merely a two hour drive away.

RIP Harry

We're all a bit sad in the Gumpher house this morning.

Our eldest cat Harry, the tabby in the picture died yesterday.

He was seventeen, and had a good life, full of love. He was also a bit thick, which made him all the more endearing.

I've been poo at blogging. Brennig popped in to give me a gee up, and when I checked his blog he has turned into a sex blogger ! Naughty chap. Please, fight the urge to post pictures !

I've been doing 'stuff'.

Had a great back to the wilds camping trip with the boys. Dads and kids only. No chicks. One field, one big wood, one tap, two holes in the ground, one firepit. Excellent. The kids found out that life was quite easy to cope with without computers and television, the dad's drank plenty zider and cooked red meat on an open fire. Hear me roar. We were all thrown into the bathroom as soon as we walked through the front door being told that 'You all fucking stink' (out of earshot of the hooligans) Boy 2 was carrying an extra stone as he had refused to crap down the hole for fear of falling in, and sat on the pan making vile noises for some time.

I am still trawling the English countryside spending ever more on fuel. Latest addition to current projects, Wigan. Don't go, or rather, do go, as it will make you feel better about where you live. And as far those tanker drivers holding out for 13% in the current climate, fuck off back to work you work shy slackers. I 'm not that big a fan of generalising comparisons, but I can break the rules if I choose. I don't see that many nurses earning in excess of 30k and turning down 7 %.

My communications are up shit creek. I have a new Blackberry which works as well as a Zimbabwean polling station. Orange have been very helpful, and a replacement is being sent out tomorrow. Thank you for the excellent service. The same cannot be said of talktalk. The broadband has been down at home for six days, and they have overtaken n power as the most useless bunch of cunts I have ever dealt with. If you're going to outsource to a foreign country, at least make sure that your staff have a basic understanding of the language they will be required to operate with. Current situation, in excess of two hours spent on phone calls, no broadband. Fucking chimps.

Although the mighty Welsh got done good and proper by the Saffas, watching Ickle Shane run with ball in hand is a thing of beauty.

Still cycling, playing squash twice a week, but all good work very much negated by too much wine an too many 'occaisional' fags. Jeez, this smoking thing is a bag of old arse

I'm still here, honest

It has been a busy time at Gumpher Towers of late.

I've been checking my regular reads, and leaving the odd comment, but have had little time to get something down myself.

I'm currently running projects in Peterborough, Totnes, and Launceston, and unsurprisingly, my arse has spent an awfully long time stuck to the seat of my car as I traverse the wonders of our nations motorway network. I've still managed squash twice a week, and at least one big big ride in the longer evenings, and this combined with a few weeks on the wagon has me looking fairly trim, verging on the buff even (lets not get carried away here).

The boys have had a good few weeks. Boy 2 continues to both stretch the boundaries beyond their limits on an almost daily basis whilst looking like butter wouldn't melt. He's been a star at rugby, and starts cricket this week.

Boy 1 has been a bit of a grump of late, he's struggling to get off to sleep with the light evenings,
(they both go to bed fairly early on school nights, 7 for 2, 7.30 for 1), and this morning I had to virtually boot him downstairs for breakfast at 8. He had a great rugby club dinner on Friday. 240 kids from 6 to 17 crammed in, spruced up in collar and tie, noisy doesn't do it justice. Fantastic surprise for everyone when it came to the prizes. The Volcano, Lesley Vainikolo (Gloucester and England for the non rugby types) turned out to present them. The kids all went ballistic when he came out onto the stage. Fair goes to the bloke, he stayed until late, and considering he had a massive game against the Unmentionables the following day, it was bloody decent of him.

My 40th passed with no major trauma. We had a groovy time with friends in Cardiff Bay. The St.Davids was impressive, but not really our kind of place. Visually very cool, but A and I prefer our hotels more intimate, and a little less flash. Still, drank vast amounts of the fizzy stuff, ate well and enjoyed it.

A managed to complete the Tewkesbury half marathon yesterday, but was very disappointed with her time. When we saw the weather forecast I told her to forget about the time, just get round it. She was hoping to crack two hours, but sods law, it was the hottest day of the year, and all the runners struggled. She managed 2.10, which is a hell of an achievement for someone who only started running eight months ago, and I' m very proud of her. Afterwards, we grabbed some lunch and spent the afternoon with the boys and a group of friends, sinking a few cold ones on the bank of the river at the sailing club. Bliss.

All is well as long as I don't look at the news. Same old.

Cash

Am I being tight ? We rarely use public transport, but today my wife took a bus from the nearest town back to the village. She'd been to a pilates class and her friend who had driven, had forgotton about a dental appointment and had to shoot off, hence the bus.

Now, am I totally removed from reality ? The journey is a shade over three miles.

£1.75, fuck me, she could have got a cab out here in the sticks for that. Now I look at it, I appear a bit daft, bitching about a couple of quid., I mean £1.75 is nothing, but it seems a bit much to me for a three mile bus journey.

More money whinge. I've just paid sixty quid to fill my car with diesel.

I've had to add Yvette Cooper to my list of 'What the flying fuck made you think that you were cut out for a career as a politician ?' after her hilariously inept performance on Newsnight last night.
The other two weren't much better. George Osbourne is an oily little tick, and Vince Cable looks like the uncle that starts the conga at a wedding after two halves of mild. Bless him. All treasury spokepersons for their parties. Be afraid, be very afraid.

And

Sitting here, quaffing a wonderful glass of Sauvignon Blanc, I am looking forward to a weekend with my wonderful wife at The St.David's in Cardiff Bay, dropping the boys off at my Mums in Abergavenny on the way down.

It's not so bad.

I could be English and forty.

So

Forty.

Still the same, or as my Father's wonderful card said, 'You're not forty, you're twenty one with nineteen years of experience'.

The funeral, as ever was grim. The point when the curtains came around the coffin was particularly sad. My nephews, who are the same age as my boys, had been stoic in their approach to the event, but collapsed, crying, into their parents arms as they said goodbye to their Grandfather. My brother in law , their father, was remarkably strong through the whole service, but you could see he was struggling, but held it together for his boys.

Thankfully, the other parts of today were more jolly. I lucked in on some good pressies. A voucher for The Harbourmaster in Aberaeron from my Mum and Sis, which is a wonderful little hotel in West Wales, some rather natty shirts from Boy 1, a deliciously whiffy leather pocket wallet from Boy 2, and the manbag to end all man bags from A. I usually carry a laptop bag and a briefcase for files to meetings, but this baby takes the lot. And it's in a rather fetching duck egg blue and light brown leather. I am now a fully fledged, paid up, great big gayer.

Listening to Colin Hay singing 'Overkill' acoustically, which always makes me joyful.Toooooooooooooooooooo deep.

My life, I have decided, is a bit of a good one, and I'm rather thankful for that.

Okey doke.

Up to my neck in it

Quite literally.

Decided to go for a ride with the boys after lunch, and as I was getting the bikes out of the shed, noticed a fairly unpleasant smell and a strange ooze seeping from underneath the patio.

I lifted the inspection cover to be greeted by the sight and smell of rather a lot of shit.

Blocked drains. Cosmic.

Im fairness to dyno whoever, they were round in an hour, but at 80 quid per half hour, so they should be. Our drainage is odd. it goes across our back garden, under the wall, another inspection cover in our neighbours back garden, and then an interceptor in her front garden. All three blocked.

I explained the problem to our neighbour, and asked if we could have access to jet it all out. She was fine, but a bit concerned that the drain man would damage her plants. Now, given the choice of a few squished petunias or a garden overrunning with eight years worth of the family Gumphers waste matter, I know which I'd opt for.

He set too, and the sights and smells were fairly grim. I went back into our garden to check if everthing was flowing . As I leant over the open sewer, the nozzle of the jetter appeared, and before I could leap out of the way, the fucking thing was turned on, and I was covered head to toe in piss and shit.

The boys were playing in the conservatory, and had a ringside view of the afternoons entertainment. They both agreed that it was their comedy highlight of the year, but even today I am yet to be amused.

A group of friends went camping in the Forest of Dean at the weekend. A had politely declined an invitation to join the happy throng ('Are they fucking mental, have you seen the forecast?'). And thoroughly soaked they all got, but bravely stuck it out for the whole weekend.

Iwas discussing said trip with my chum bokkie after squash on Thursday. His wife had lumbered him with the trip, and he was moaning like hell. Not that he doesn't like camping, he just likes his camping to be rustic, as befits a man of the veldt. 'Its got a fucking pool man, and a bar'. His disgust new no boundaries.

We're planning a dads and kids camping weekend at the end of May, and Bokkie is doing his level best to find the most basic site in the British Isles. I had a email from him on Friday with a link attached and a rather excited message. 'Check this out, there's no caravans, you can have open fires, no showers, and you have to shit in a hole in the ground!' There's a great marketing line for prospective campsite owners, guaranteed to have weirdo Boers flocking in .

I'd sent him details of a site I'd found, but as it has two rather basic showers, I'm sure it'll be rejected out of hand as having showers is only one step away from Brokeback Mountain in his mind.

40 tomorrow. Supersonic. I'll be spending the morning at a funeral. That'll cheer me up.

I am less grumpy of late. I am sitting here, slightly warm of tongue, having just consumed a rather yummy Thai fish salad ( I think I overdid the chilli, which should make for a stinky night for Mrs. Gumph) The lateness of consumption is down to a game of squash in which I, lost rather badly to a chap I mullered last week. I only lost my temper with myself twice, shows my laidbackedness. (New word, quite like it).

Owing to my reluctance to celebrate my forthcoming of oldness, we had a spanking party for A's 37th on Friday. We had sixteen friends for a party and after an evening of stonking hilarity and drunkeness finally hit the sack at 4 ish. As the boys were at Grandma's for the evening, I had the luxury of stumbling out of my pit in the early afternoon. Glorious.

This Friday should be interesting. Boy 1's school have decided to enter years 3 & 4 into a tag rugby tournament . They suddenly realised that of the 28 children, only 4 boys actually play rugby, and whilst the class teacher, although a nice lady, clocks in at around 20 stone, and would be about as much use on a rugby pitch as tits on a bull. Cue a phone call seeing if I could possibly take the day off on Friday. I'm looking forward to it. I suspect it may be slightly different from coaching C and his ruffian chums at the rugby club.

Ho hum

I am bereft of blogging inspiration at the moment, but then I am generally uninspired.

I'm in a slump.

I need to jump on a plane, with A and the boys, and head off to somewhere with clear blue skies and gently lapping shores.

I need to not see the pointlessness of the Olympics, the loss of what was the Corinthian Spirit, the inevitable involvement of politics in sport ( but accepting that it's ok really because coca cola and mastercard get to show their logos to the world).

I need to stop thinking of the futile existence of those involved in the whole sad Shannon Matthews affair, and thank goodness that it's not me in that stinking estate, shagging near members of my family, but then wondering , ' Am I where I am through choice, or
circumstance ?

I need to stop loathing the bloated excess of football in this country ( a tough one)

I need to stop hating the pseudo socialist labour party as much as I do.

I need to stop despising the international community for ignoring Zimbabwe whilst they dither pathetically across the middle east.

I need to chill out.

A lot.

The age of doom

I'm forty in a few weeks time, and I'm really not looking forward to it. I've banned parties, as I don't feel the need to 'celebrate', plus I've had a gutsful of other people's fortieth parties over the last few months.

Is forty old ? It's older than thirty nine for sure, but is it really old ? Odds are that I'm over halfway to pushing up daisies, which is a tad fatalistic, but probably right. I just don't feel forty, whatever feeling forty is, but I'm fairly sure I don't want to feel it anyway.

What have I achieved in forty years ? I've managed to be fortunate enough to have a happy relationship with a woman I love very much, and have two children from our marriage that I am proud of and adore, but that's not really an achievement as such is it ? I am fairly successful if life achievement can be judged in monetary terms, which more importantly means I more than provide for my family. I have managed to have career happiness, but that sure took its fucking time, and I sure as hell made some gargantuan fuck ups on the way. I have travelled extensively and was fortunate to spend quite a bit of my childhood living in different countries. But again, are this things I've achieved, or simply things that have happened to me ?

This is not a post I've enjoyed reading back, it's whiny, and I'm not generally whiny, but I'm just not looking forward to being in my forties. A is sensible enough, and knows me well enough ( I hope) not to bollocks around with surprise parties. In the event that she is foolish enough to do so, I will invite the assembled throng to politely fuck off, and go and drown myself in a vat of red wine.

Typical

As the clock winds down to the start of the bank holiday, the inevitable happens.

It starts to sodding rain.

Four days off work, and it's going to piss down. 'Triffic.